Page 6 of Final Down

It’s not justmylife, though, and that’s what’s got me stuck.

“You’re making eggs. You do that when you’re working out aggression.” Peyton’s bicep flexes as she whisks the seven yolks I watched her drop into the mixing bowl. I was planning on grabbing an apple on my way out this morning, but she was awake well before me and insisted on making breakfast.

She quirks a brow as she glances at me over her shoulder, arm still flexed, whisk . . .whisking.

“You know what gives me aggression?”

I shake my head, but I have a feeling it’s me. Right now. That’s what.

“People pointing out when I have aggression when all I’m doing is making some goddamn eggs.” Her slow, single blink is the cherry on top. Yeah. Zero aggression.

“Sorry,” I sigh, dropping my face into my palms and rubbing my tired eyes.

We talked through the scenarios for hours last night. I found out about Whiskey getting the shot on my way home from practice. Having my best friend with me nudges me in the direction of wanting to give this a try. I also have a lingering worry that Whiskey’s opportunity hinges on me to a certain degree. Like, if I don’t show up, his invite gets revoked. It feels arrogant to think that, but Peyton voiced the same worry last night.

“He’s going to want an answer today. You know that, right? If not a definitive one, at least a promising update so he knows you’re taking this seriously.” A plate slides in front of me as I uncover my eyes. I snag Peyton’s hand in mine before she flits back to the stove, where she is definitely not aggravated.

She drops her chin to her chest as her hand relaxes in my hold. I massage her fingers with both of my hands and hold her gaze hostage. It softens, probably because my eyes look something like those of a drowning puppy. I can feel how puffy and red they are without needing a mirror to confirm it.

“Babe, I told you I’m behind you, no matter what,” she says, sliding a hand through my hair, then down my jawline.

I close my eyes and shift my cheek against her palm until my lips find her wrist. I kiss it and let out the small bit of air left in my lungs.

“I don’t deserve you, you know that?”

She bends down as she tips my chin up and kisses me.

“Wyatt, you’re the only man who does. And that’s a fact.” She holds my stare for a beat, then squeezes my cheeks in her grip before leaving me to tend to the massive omelet she’s making.

The two of us eat in silence. Not a tense one, but a heavy one, regardless. There’s nothing more to say until I decide. We’d just be kicking around the same ideas, talking in circles, predicting and worrying, hoping and hedging.

Peyton said she supports me almost immediately when we started to talk last night. Still, it’s that flash that passed behind her eyes after Tasha called that sticks with me—the worry of what our lives would look like if I took this chance, and more pointedly, what it means for a future family.Ourfuture family.

I finish my breakfast and carry my dish to the sink, rinsing it off and smirking when I hear the little sigh Peyton lets out behind me about a second before she swoops in and shuts the water off.

“The point of the dishwasher is that it washes these for us. Don’t wash to wash.”

She’s already putting my plate and hers in the dishwasher before she’s done griping. She stands up, flipping her hair from her face and blowing up at the strands that sometimes stick to her cheeks in the morning, and I help her push them out of the way before holding her face in my hands. She catches my smirk and rolls her eyes.

“You do that just to watch me get all huffy, don’t you?”

I glance up and to the right, my mouth tugging up on one side.

“Maybe.”

She pushes my chest gently but easily gives in to the kiss I pull her in for.

“I’m off to pick your dad’s brain. He’s always in his office early. And I’m sure he already knows all about this.”

I’m a little surprised he hasn’t called, to be honest. But then again, if anyone understands the weight of this decision—whether to put my body through the grind or not—it’s Reed.

“You may as well plan to sit with Grampa for about an hour later, too. You know he has opinions.”

I meet her smirk and let out a soft laugh.

“First, that chat will be more than an hour, and somehow devolve into your grandmother pulling out the highlight DVDs from your dad’s high school days. Then I’ll be on the floor again, figuring out how to get the damn DVD player to connect to his television, and probably end up hurting myself, which . . . I guess . . . results in not having to make a choice.” I flash my hands in the air between us, like a headline. “Promising quarterback taken out of the game by ancient technology.”

Peyton laughs hard enough that her head kicks back, and for a moment, my lungs fill. I love that sound. Her eyes dazzle when she rights her head again and meets my gaze. And for a tiny moment, I believe everything she’s said since finding out—that no matter what, she and I? We’ll be all right.

---