Page 65 of Final Down

“I didn’t teach him that, though. He just knows to do it.”

Sometimes, I really wish there was a way for my father and Wyatt’s to meet. I wish I had known my late father-in-law. I would have thanked him for making such a great son.

We stand for the national anthem as a local Portland guitarist plays, and my gaze zeroes in on Wyatt’s profile—his helmet clutched behind his back, his broad shoulders, and theslight curl of his hairline along his neck. He hasn’t had a cut in a while. Superstitious things. He told me he’d cut it when the season ended.

As the anthem finishes, Wyatt turns, first reaching to his left to pound the fist of one of his receivers, then walking down the line of players to hug Whiskey before resting his helmet on his head and popping in his mouthguard. I should sit down so I’m out of sight, but something is pulling me to stay on my feet. I want him to know I’m here—now, before the reveal. I want him to go out there knowing he has me behind him, in person. I stay on my feet as his gaze scans the crowd. The closer he gets to our suite, the warmer my body becomes, until eventually our eyes lock.

“Did he literally spot you?” Tasha tugs my arm down to urge me to sit.

I giggle and hold up a hand.

“Yeah, he felt my presence, I guess.”

Tasha scoffs out a laugh, but she simply doesn’t get it. Wyatt and I are bound together with something so strong it can weave through thousands of people to connect us.

Wyatt shades his eyes from the lights as he holds up his hand in return, then flattens his palm on his chest. I do the same, then blow him a kiss that he catches.

We get the ball first, our return team setting Wyatt up with good field position at the thirty-seven-yard line. My man seems to have an extra hop in his step as he bounds out to the huddle, tossing his arms around his teammates next to him before clapping to break. That extra energy results in a twenty-yard pass to the sideline for a first down. The quick plays keep coming at a fierce pace, the Denver defense barely set by the time Wyatt has the next play running. It’s a great mix of running and passing, and Wyatt drives the team down the field for a touchdown in seven plays.

“Listen to this,” my dad says over my shoulder. I tilt my head for better hearing as my father cranks up the television in the suite so we can hear the commentary.

“Blake, I don’t know about you, but I don’t think I’ve seen a quarterback come out this hot for a preseason game, well, ever,” the announcer says.

“I agree, Tom. Wyatt Stone may have been an unknown a few months ago, but he’s someone people are watching now. And they’re paying attention. Credit goes out to minority owner, Jerry Caswell. I’ve known him for a long time, and he has a knack for finding diamonds in rough places. He may just have one with Wyatt Stone.”

“That’s our boy!” My dad turns the television down and moves toward me to hug me from behind. I grab his forearm around my neck as my body fills with butterflies.

Then the in-game hostess takes over the video screen with some familiar words.

“What a great Cyclones drive! What fans may not know is that quarterback Wyatt Stone is going to be a dad!”

The stadium erupts with cheers, and my cheeks burn hot. The camera is going to point to me, and I’m afraid I’m going to look like a weeping cherry. I cover my cheeks with my palms and bite my lower lip as my grandfather reaches to his right and pats my knee. I should have dressed better for this instead of the oversized Cyclones long-sleeve tee and leggings, but things are starting to fit weird. Maybe this moment should have been different, celebrated at home. I could have waited. Wyatt would have understood.

“Well, Wyatt. We have some news for you today.”

Oh, God. Here comes the camera.

My face is on the screen a second later, so there’s no going back now. I keep my palms over my mouth, partly to stave off the sudden desire to vomit. My gaze lands on Wyatt as he standswith his hands folded over his head, his helmet on the bench behind him, his body rocking side-to-side with obvious nerves.

The graphic video begins, and tears prick my eyes as a cartoonish baby football player starts running down field, carrying the ball to the end zone and spiking it before slowly pulling off its helmet. There’s either going to be a whole lot of hair, pink cheeks, and extra-long lashes to look like a girl, or a mini version of Wyatt staring at me.

“It’s a boy,” I whisper, knowing it in my gut. My words come out a half second before the reveal, and then I’m looking at the cartoon version of my son—ourson—on the video board as thousands of strangers cheer.

Wyatt’s hands fall to his chest as he slowly turns to face me, the camera back on my tear-stained face, my dad shaking my shoulders behind me, my mom clapping at his side. Tasha hugs me sideways before I lean to my left and kiss my grandfather’s cheek. Taking a deep breath, I wave to the camera and form a heart with my hands. The camera shifts to show Wyatt doing the same, and when I see the tears falling down his face, I know Denver is in for a rough day. Today, my baby daddy is going to be impossible to stop.

Chapter Twenty-Five

That may have been the game of my life, but it’s the last thing I want to talk about. I can’t get through press fast enough, and every question that comes to me about finding out I’m having a boy only makes me want to bust out of here faster to get to Peyton.

Thankfully, after twenty-five minutes of interrogation, our PR rep cuts me loose, and I tear out of the locker room to find my wife and her family waiting for me. I scoop her into my arms and kiss her within seconds of seeing her face.

“You’re going to make me dizzy.” She giggles as I spin her in circles.

I put her down on her feet but keep her face cupped in my hands so I can admire her smile, her eyes, the tears pooled at the corners, the dimple from her mouth pushing into her cheek, the faint line that creases her forehead when she grins.

“A boy.”

I shake my head, still in shock.

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