Page 2 of Final Down

“I’m probably a better golfer than NFL quarterback, so that’s for the best,” he says, tipping the cup back and gulping the water down.

“What’s up?”

I take a seat on one end of the bench as he sits on the other, pulling his sunglasses off and tucking them in his collar. Leaning forward and balancing his elbows on his knees, his gaze swings in my direction. He breathes out a short laugh, his mouth pulled into a tight smile that I can’t read.

“You talk to Jason lately?” he asks.

My chest tightens a little, and I shake my head.

“Not this week, but I mean, yeah. We’ve talked.”

Bryce nods slowly, and I start to feel a little uneasy.

“What . . . Bryce, what’s this about?”

He leans back, stretching an arm out along the back of the metal bench as he squints into the sun.

“You played that semi-league a few months back, with the Rattlers?”

I nod, then utter, “Yes.” How does he know that? Is he stalking me? It’s a minor, minor, minor league. I did it for fun, to hang out with Whiskey and see if I still had it. We won the league, and that meant five grand, which mostly went to taxes.

“Portland noticed,” he says.

I stare at him until he turns his head my way and repeats his words slowly.

“Portland. They noticed.” His eyebrows lift.

I tuck my chin and gurgle a belly laugh.

“Yeah, they’re all up on the Tyler, Texas news, I’m sure. I bet they’ve got a whole list of QBs staring down thirty.”

“Not a list. A name,” he says, and I realize he’s fucking serious.

“Bryce, I’m . . . I can’t hang with that anymore.”

Can I?

He stands up and pulls a card out of his wallet, handing it to me. It’s the same firm Jason’s at. He’s an agent now. He’s dead serious. This conversation is really happening.

“Think about it. Give me a call in a couple of days.”

He slides his sunglasses on and turns halfway, gazing out on the field as he nods at distant memories.

“Those were some pretty great games, weren’t they?”

“Which ones?” I ask, feeling the sharp edges of his card press into the pads of my finger and thumb.

His head swivels back to me, his lip tipping up on one side with a faint laugh.

“All of them, Wyatt. All of them.”

He holds up a hand, and I do too.

“Call me,” he says.

I think I answer, “I will.” I’m not sure if that was out loud, though. And I’m not sure I told the truth if it was. Will I? Do I even want to entertain this?

I glance to my right, where Reed is pointing toward the storage shed, directing the gangly group of freshmen to stack the pads neatly. I chuckle silently as I watch—they’re too short to stack them. Reed knows it, too. He’s fucking with them.

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