Page 70 of Final Down

We end our call and I slip back into the suite, where Wyatt’s mom and Jeff are still the only others in the suite. I rode with them, and Jeff regaled me with stories about young Wyatt. Hebrought up his dad a lot, too, and it’s nice the way he loved the man like a brother.

My dad has been hanging out on the field a lot more often when he can make it to Wyatt’s games. He’s sort of the unofficial life coach for my husband while he drains his soul motivating Chance Hickory to succeed at the job he wanted for himself. Life is a bitter pill sometimes, but this little man swimming around my belly sure puts things into perspective.

I barely take my seat before I get up and make my fourth trip to the bathroom. Wyatt’s mom laughs when I exit, and she tells me about the time she had to pull off the highway three exits in a row because of the acrobatics Wyatt was doing on her bladder. My parents finally arrive with my sister, and if it weren’t for Ellie being here, I think both my mom and Wyatt’s would have been happy to spend the entire first quarter terrifying me with all the crazy shit that’s to come during my pregnancy.

When the teenager covers her ears and starts muttering, “La la la la,” they change topics to something less . . . medical. Unfortunately for my sister, the new topic seems to be her mystery boyfriend.

“How does Mom know about him?” Ellie whispers to me when my mom finally steps away to grab a snack.

I smirk and lean in close to her.

“Moms have this massive spy network. They talk. Even to the other moms they don’t like if they must, just to get the deets on their kids. Information first. Grudges later.”

“Ugh,” my sister groans, rolling her eyes and pushing her bangs to the side.

My sister’s impromptu haircut has grown out finally, and she’s learning new ways to style her hair. My mom also let her put a few green streaks in it, and the look suits her. I run my fingers through the bangs and sweep them to the side as best I can, then smile at her.

“You’re really pretty, Ellie. I hope you know that.”

My sister’s cheeks blush as she blinks away, barely voicing, “Thanks,” before turning her attention to her phone. I can tell by the way she fights against her smile, though, that my words sneak into that stubborn head of hers. I’m going to tell her she’s beautiful as often as I can. It’s my sisterly duty.

I’m not sure whether it’s all the talk about bodily functions from before or the jug of water I’ve been sipping from like an anxious fiend, but I’m back to the bathroom minutes after the second quarter starts. I take my time, enjoying the quiet in the muffled room as well as the super-duty air conditioning vent blowing hairs loose from the messy braid I did during the car ride here. I let my eyes shut for a minute, resting my head against the wall to my right. The buzzing from the stadium speakers will keep me awake, so I don’t worry about dozing off. If it weren’t for those, however, I kind of think I could. I’m so tired all the time. And my mom keeps warning me that I’ll be tired for the rest of my life.

Great.

“Peyt! Get out here!” My dad pounds on the other side of the door. I startle, my muscles tensing, but manage to get myself together quickly and back into the suite where my parents and Wyatt’s mom, and Jeff are standing at the glass front, my father’s fists in the air.

“What’s up?” I ask Ellie who is sitting on her knees at a bar seat behind my parents.

“Wyatt’s in!” she proclaims.

“He’s what?” I push my way around Jeff to get a good view, and everyone scoots down to make room for me.

“Concussion protocol. Chance took a big hit, and I don’t think he’s coming back in. This is it, Peyt. This is where he shows them. This is his shot,” my dad says.

His focus locks onto Wyatt and doesn’t let up. My father’s jawline flexes as his fists tuck under his arms, which are folded over his chest. It’s as if my dad is willing every move for my husband, as if he has some sort of control. It takes me a few seconds to catch up to the reality of what’s happening. Wyatt is in. This is what I wanted for him for so long, for thisrealshot.Didn’t I?

“That hit lost them eleven yards. He’s taking over in a shitty field position, but he’s got this,” my dad says.

Running commentary when Wyatt is playing is a thing he can’t help. Gramps used to do it when my father played. It’s sweet. And when Wyatt’s in a tight spot, or about to get nailed by the line, I can look away, knowing my dad will give it to me straight.

I hold my fists to my mouth, my Cyclones hoodie sleeves pulled over my fingers, as Wyatt sets up behind the line and counts off the play. They’re only five yards out from the Arizona end zone. Not a lot of room to work with, and when Wyatt turns to his right and hands off the ball to the Cyclones running back, I stretch my fingers out to shade my eyes in anticipation.

“Not a great play call,” my dad says as they lose two yards on the play.

I swallow and ball my fists again, my knees bobbing as I stand filled with nervous energy. It’s only the second quarter, so there’s time, but we’re down ten to zip, so if we can’t get out of this, it’s going to be a tough climb the rest of the game.

Wyatt nods toward the sideline, probably relaying a new set of plays, then pulls his squad in for a quick huddle before breaking to take the line again.

“He needs a short dump pass here,” my dad mumbles.

“I agree,” Jeff says.

I don’t. I know my husband and what he’s capable of, and how his brain works when his back is against a wall. He’s notlooking at a short gain here. He’s going to throw it long, and he’s going to scramble to buy Jax time. In a nanosecond, I mentally play out the various outcomes as Wyatt takes the snap and spins.

He’s going to get sacked.

He’s going to scramble but come up short and be forced to throw it out of bounds, then they’ll have to kick to get out of here.

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