Page 36 of Final Down

“Shouldn’t you be on the field or getting stretched or something?” I make eyes at my dad, both of us wearing nervous smiles.

“Yeah, I know. I’m about to get taped. I just wanted you guys to know before you get here . . . I’m getting the start.”

My dad slaps the top of his steering wheel while my palms cover my mouth.

“Atta boy!” my dad says, and I’m glad he can speak because I think I’m in shock. Wyatt’s the better quarterback, but Bryce warned me not to expect much right away. Chance is where the hype is.

“Baby . . .” I mutter, my eyes tearing up. My dad chuckles next to me and reaches across the console to hold my hand.

“Don’t put too much weight on it, guys. Apparently, Chance has some elbow tightness, so it’s more a precaution that they’re going with me instead, but still?—”

“But still . . . this is your time to show those assholes what a real quarterback looks like,” I blurt out. I cup my mouth and make wide eyes at my dad as both he and Wyatt laugh at my fighting words.

“Wy, it doesn’t matter how you get your shot. It’s all about what you do with it. So get your head on right, spend a little time with Whisk before the game, sit with yourself, and talk to your dad. We’ll be watching everything. We’ll be there with you.”

“Thank you, Reed.” I can hear the hitch in his voice, the little break that lets me know this moment means something to him. It meansa lot.

“I love you, baby. Give ’em hell.”

“I love you, Peyt,” he says before ending the call.

I break down into stupid pregnancy tears a half second later, and my dad keeps hold of my hand, vacillating between consoling my nerves and being amused at my emotional reaction. What he doesn’t know is that Mom was like this when he played, at least for the big games. She cried through the fourth quarter of his last Super Bowl.

My dad and I roll up to the stadium with an hour to spare. Of all the perks that come with being a hall-of-famer, my dad’s ability to park anywhere he wants at any football facility ranks near the top. He tosses his truck keys to the valet working theplayer’s garage, stopping to shake the kid’s hand. If it wouldn’t get the kid in trouble, my dad would offer to take a photo.

The second we enter the suite, I make a beeline for the restroom, proud of myself for holding it for the final miles through LA. Those miles can take hours, but my dad pulled off a few questionable traffic maneuvers that we both agree Mom doesn’t need to know about.

I wash up and step out of the restroom into the buzz of our family and friends, who just learned that Wyatt’s getting the ball tonight. Tasha hugs me first, then promptly switches into parent mode, filling her twins’ plates with crackers, cheese, fruit, and way too many cookies. I think she’s hoping for an early sugar crash. My mom’s eyes are glassy when I finally locate her, and we laugh quietly, an unspoken understanding of how we both likely reacted to the news. She squeezes my hand and kisses my cheek before sending me off to hug my aunt and uncle, and then Wyatt’s mom, Theresa, who is standing with his dad’s old fire captain, Jeff.

Jeff was a last-minute addition to the suite, and Wyatt doesn’t know he’s here. His mom asked for him to come, and I know how much Jeff was like a father to Wyatt, having worked alongside his dad for years. Jeff’s wife passed away three years ago, and he and Theresa have formed a tight friendship through shared grief.

He’s been hanging around a lot more often, and given he lives in the city—about ninety miles away from Theresa’s house—it definitely meanssomething. However, Wyatt would prefer to keep whatever is happening between them a mystery. I brought it up when we were at his mom’s New Year’s party, which Jeff attended. He told me there was nothing there, but his attention stayed on them for the rest of the night.

“Good news, huh?”

I turn from my conversation with Theresa and Jeff at the sound of Bryce’s voice. I give him a hug, squeezing a little tighter thanks to the adrenaline pouring through me. I step back and meet his gaze.

“A start’s a start, right?” I wear a toothy, nerve-wrecked smile.

“He’s going to crush it, Peyt. Relax,” he says, but I can’t help but notice his shoulders are still ratcheted up to his ears.

“I will when you do,” I challenge.

“Ha, okay. Maybe after a few of these,” he says, cracking the tab from a microbrew he pulled from the large ice bucket.

“Totally not fair,” I pout, twisting the cap off my water as Bryce chuckles.

“Hey, maybe I can represent the little guy one day,” he says with a wink before heading toward my dad to talk business and football for the rest of the night.

Little guy. One more vote on my side.

I make myself a plate of bland food, trying not to wake the stomach gremlin that hasn’t shown up as often as it did the first two months of my pregnancy. My insides are twisty enough on their own tonight; no need for me to fan the flames and tempt fate.

Wiggling into the seat next to Tasha, I squeeze her knee and the two of us kick our feet with our own private celebration.

“You can take the cheerleader off the field . . .” she begins.

“But you can’t take the cheer out of the leader,” I finish with her.

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