Page 43 of Final Down

“Okay, I’m calmer.”

“Oh, good,” he sighs.

“I didn’t say I was calm. I’m simply calmer. Wyatt, this is going to be a thing.”

“I know,” he admits.

I don’t have to say it. We both can read the tea leaves. There are a few people in the Coolidge Schools system who are rather . . . conservative. One of them happens to be the parent of one of my athletes, and she’s not my biggest fan. But frankly, her daughter is not very good. I kept her because, well, her mom scares the shit out of me. I’ve heard the woman take on the town council and the school board. I wanted to be under her radar, not square the fuck in it.

“I love you, Peyt. I’m really sorry.”

It breaks me to hear him sound sad. Especially about us.

“Wyatt, you weren’t alone in this. And you know what? We didn’t do anything wrong. We’re married! I’ve seen a lot of football players in Coolidge skate by with a lot worse on theInternet. Being appreciated by my husband should be pretty easy to explain away.”

I wish I believed everything I’m saying as much as it sounds like I do. I am rather angry about it. Well, pre-angry. But it’s only a matter of time before I will have to deal with Adrian Sommers, cheer mom with a vengeance.

“Okay, I’ll call you tonight. I’ve got film with Phillips all day. More teaching opportunities,” Wyatt says in a wry tone.

“Soak it up, baby.”

I blow a kiss into the phone and end the call.

“I know you’re worried about the school district, but Peyt . . . this is showing up on the teen socials. Which means . . .”

“Fuuuuuuck,” I groan.

This is going to impact Ellie. At the start of a school year. A ratherimportantyear. Eighth grade.

I give Tasha the keys to the Jeep, and she drives us home while I scour every app on my phone, taking stock of the chatter. It’s mostly harmless. Of course, there are a lot of “atta boys” slung in Wyatt’s direction. I’m sure this will be great for his reputation, which again, is bullshit. By the time we reach the driveway, I’ve culled dozens of copies of the image, and none of them appear altered to show something that isn’t there, and they all show Wyatt’s mouth on my stomach. You’d have to have joined us on the balcony to know where his hands were, and truthfully, it’s possible he was only kissing me at that time. I rather recognize the particular tilt of my head, though. But again, that’s personal.Mydetails.

I breathe in deeply and right my head. My mom is out in the pen with a client, so I can make my way to her before approaching my sister. My mom’s good with a PR crisis. She’s been through most of the obvious ones that come along with being a pro-athlete’s wife. The number of times people printedphotos of the two of them on vacation and claimed my mom was another woman could fill five years of calendar photos.

“You good?” Tasha says, handing me the keys as she pushes open the Jeep door.

I shrug and take them in my hand.

“Good . . .ish?”

She laughs, and I fake one. I hug her outside the Jeep, then head to the arena while my friend heads to her parents’ house to pick up her girls.

My mom spots me as I approach and says something to the father and son walking in slow circles with Torrid, one of our mini horses. They nod and wave to me, which fills me with relief. Not everyone spends their entire day looking at social media. I’m sure they haven’t seen the photo.

“Appointment go well?” my mom asks, moving right in for a hug.

I let out my breath during our embrace and adjust my hands along her back to hold on for a while.

“Something wrong?” Her worried tone spikes my pulse.

I shake my head along her shoulder.

“No, the appointment was great. Everything is perfect. Right on time. She thinks we can find out the gender soon.” My words are happy, but my expression is being pulled to the earth. My mom can’t see it, but I think she senses it, because she begins to rub circles on my back.

“I need some advice,” I begin, backing away enough to pull my phone from my purse. I show her the picture, and she spends a few long seconds swiping through the several screenshots I saved. Her face is devoid of judgment, and that’s probably the only reason I’m not crying.

“I mean, it only looks bad when someone writes a headline saying it’s something bad,” she says, handing my phone back to me.

My shoulders relax a little, but I can still feel my pulse in my belly.

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