Page 62 of Final Down

“I think you should tell Chance why it’s so important. Tell the team, maybe. If they knew the meaning behind it, maybe they wouldn’t be so intimidated by it.”

I chuckle at her choice of words.

“Peyt, I don’t think they’re intimidated. They’re just dickheads who like to bust balls and make fun of things.”

“Maybe,” she hums. “But at least one of them is intimidated.”

She means Chance.

I nod, then utter, “Yeah, maybe.”

He’s threatened, for sure; I can understand that. Hell, I’m threatened by him. I simply have the comfort of knowing I’m not the QB who is part of the team’s future. He is. Though, I am going to try like hell to change their minds. I suppose that’s intimidating.

“Who made you so smart?” I say, slowing as I approach the security gate by the team parking lot. I roll my window down, and Earl, our head of security, bumps my fist, then waves me through.

“Well, one of my parents got straight A’s. The other played football.”

Ouch!

“Ha, I’m not sure if that was a dig at me or your dad or all of us.”

She doesn’t answer, so I assume the latter is probably right.

“I love you,” I tell her as I pull into my spot.

“Love you. I’ll be cheering for you. Close your eyes and try to hear me.”

I promise to try, then end our call.

Whiskey pulls up next to me as I’m dragging my duffle bag across the back seat of my truck’s cab. He and Tasha have made this entire thing feel a little more normal, letting me join their family for dinner a few nights a week. Whiskey likes to joke about how I help even the score in his house, but he’s crazy to think I would ever vote against his wife in any situation. Tasha will always scare the shit out of me.

“You getting bigger, Wy? Or is that thing getting smaller?” He tugs at the center of my jersey, the slack a lot less than it was before I washed it.

“A little of both, I think.” I grab his hand and pull him in for a bro hug.

We make our way inside, the scent in the training room already strong with pre-wrap spray.

“Bro, I’ve missed this. It’s damn good to be back,” Whiskey says.

“No doubt,” I agree, dropping my stuff on the bench in front of my cubby. My chest tightens at the thought of not beinghere with him next season. It’s such a strange tug-of-war, being pulled between home with Peyt and the field with my best friend.

“Fuck, with this again?”

Chance’s remarks come out in a mumble, but it’s clear enough for me. It was meant for me in the first place. Unfortunately, his words reach Whiskey, too, and my friend slams down his pads to march toward the young hotshot. A few of the other guys get up, and I mentally play out the brawl that’s about to start.

Before I’m fully aware of what my body is doing, I find myself standing between Whiskey and Chance, my back to the quarterback and my hands on my friend’s chest.

I dip my chin to give him a hard stare that I hope calms him. The big guy’s nostrils are flaring.

“I got this.”

His eyes flinch.

“I’m sure,” I say.

He nods and takes a step back. I turn my attention to Chance, whose gaze is still fixed on Whiskey. I snap in his face, forcing his attention to me, because I’m a little irritable. When his friends flinch, though, I back off.

“Take a seat for a second.” I keep my expression composed, my eyes soft.

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