Page 12

Chapter Nine

I t wasn’t Peyton’s snoring that kept me up last night, though I didn’t lie to her—she was sawing logs so loudly she may as well have been building a cabin.

I’ve slept through her post-wine nights out, though, and what kept me up until two in the morning had nothing to do with my environment and everything to do with my head.

I know how much Peyton’s heart hurts, and every time a month goes by without a hint that we may finally be pregnant, the hope and joy that lives behind her eyes grows a bit dimmer.

Last night, seeing her fall apart with disappointment .

. . I couldn’t help but ask myself what the hell I’m doing here.

The dinner with Coach, Mickey, and Phillips didn’t help.

I feel I’m being used, and in the process, it’s taking a toll on Peyton.

It would be one thing if it were just me here going through the ropes only to get let down in the end.

I’m not sure I can take Peyton getting let down again.

Yesterday’s workout was a joke. It’s a good thing I had an hour to myself to cool off in the shower before Peyton got back to the hotel.

I was pretty lit. I spent the afternoon running routes and throwing the ball at targets, and the entire thing felt like those pro-games Bryce and I would get invited to during college.

Sure, my arm was fine. I think I looked fast, and I felt agile.

But I could see it in everyone’s face who was watching.

Indifference. Fuck, even Bryce looked indifferent, and his job is to sell my ass.

“Pumped for today, man! Let’s do this!” Whiskey flattens his palm into the center of my chest, knocking some of my wind away.

“Hell, yeah! See you out there, brother!” I put on a good face for my friend, but when he leaves the locker room, I drop my forearms to my thighs, balling my hands as I stare at the Cyclones emblem swirled in a mix of red, black, and blue in the carpet in the center of the room.

I can’t walk away from this. It’s not in my fabric.

My dad would be disappointed, and I live my life by his creed.

You finish what you start. And there are people who believe in me.

I don’t want to let them down. But I can’t help this feeling that this game is rigged. I’m not sure I have a fair shot.

“Hey, there’s my favorite client.”

I chuckle silently at the sound of Bryce’s salesman voice. Lifting my head, I snag my helmet from beside me and get to my feet.

“Dude, I’m your only client,” I laugh out.

I close the slick wooden cabinet where my change of clothes, phone, wallet—life—is stacked into a neat little pile.

There’s a security guard outside this room, and another two by the main entrance.

And probably another dozen wandering around the stadium.

I don’t think we have any fans yet to keep out, but I guess it’s the non-fans I should worry about.

Bryce slings an arm around me as we walk into the concourse together, and his grin is wide.

“What’s got you in a good mood?” He’s always been hard to read in this way.

This man can get excited about the dumbest shit.

Hell, I remember he got a sponsorship deal that basically paid in free subs for the rest of the season when we played together that final year.

You’d think he’d been given a new kidney.

“You do,” he says, patting my chest in the same spot Whiskey attacked. I wish they’d quit hitting me there.

His arm drops from around me and he walks a stride or two ahead of me so he can spin and walk backward to look me in the eyes.

“No pressure in that. Wow, thanks,” I say in a wry tone.

“Ha! I’m not worried in the least bit. I know you. And today? Today, we’re gonna see the Wyatt Stone I know still beats inside that chest of yours”

His smirk makes me laugh, and not because his pep talk is working some magic, but because I think he might be full of shit.

“Looking past the idea that you supposedly know me, tell me, Bryce . . . what is it that’s in store for me today that has you so sure I’m going to hit that turf suddenly a decade younger and a million miles faster?”

He makes a hard stop, and I halt a few inches before running into him.

His palms land on my shoulders, and our gazes square up.

A few seconds pass, and frankly, his smug grin is starting to piss me off.

But then he tilts his head to the right, and I follow his direction, my eyes scanning the field behind him where Chance Hickory, the Cyclone’s hyped QB draft pick, is tossing long balls into the end zone to Coach Phillips.

“Fuuuuuck,” I groan.

“Right? Let’s show this fucker,” Bryce says, squeezing my shoulder pads and shaking me where I stand.

I think he misread my fuuuuuck.

My eyes flit back to his, and his smile drops a hint.

“What? You’re not hyped for this? Since when does Wyatt Stone not thrive under competition? Man, this is where you’re at your best! And this kid, he’s a lot like me when I was in high school.”

“A total dick?” I say, my lip twisted up on the side.

“Ha, ha, very funny,” Bryce says. I move to walk forward, but he stops me, putting pressure on my shoulders again. My focus returns to his face, and I hold on to the stern look in his eyes.

“Okay, maybe a little. Yeah, he’s a dick. And I was a dick. But he’s also arrogant to a fault. And he thinks he knows everything. He thinks he’s invincible. He thinks he’s the second coming of the football quarterback gods. And Wy?”

I tilt my head a hair, mouth closed, brows raised.

“He’s not. He’s no god. He’s a twenty-one-year-old with a whole lot to learn. And he is not the guy to lead this team when they host their opening kickoff in a few weeks.”

I blink my attention back to the field, where Chance takes a ball from the basket and instantly drops back a few steps before flinging it fifty yards down the field.

It looks easy for him. I bet it doesn’t hurt his elbow the way it sometimes does mine.

But I get what Bryce is saying. He’s showing off.

This little exercise is meaningless. And it’s careless.

If his arm is a commodity, I’m shocked Phillips is putting it at risk by letting him act like a fool.

Which means maybe they’re both like Bryce was in high school.

Arrogant assholes.

I nod slowly, then meet Bryce’s gaze again.

“Yeah, okay. I see what you’re saying.” I slip my helmet on and come back to his waiting stare, letting him manhandle the sleeves of my practice jersey for a few more seconds. We nod at one another as if we’re back in the tunnel at Arizona, ready to beat our rivals.

“Show them who you are,” he says, sending me on my way with a swift slap to the ass.

I jog out to the sideline, meeting up with Coach Elgin and Jerry, who is dressed more like a coach today than a guy who bought his way into the front office.

“There’s the man,” Jerry says. I smile because all this ego-inflating is well-meaning, but fuck is it embarrassing.

“Morning, Coach.” I pull my helmet off and set it on the sideline the way my dad always taught me.

For every team of mine he coached, he would have us line our helmets up as we ran and stretched.

We set up in perfect lines. We shouted in unison.

We listened and respected, and I carried those lessons with me through high school and college, getting my teammates to follow suit.

“Respect your equipment. Respect your teammates and coaches. And respect your family members who work hard and show up,” my dad always said. It’s the simple things that set the example, and treating this game with respect shows. I just hope Mickey is up there in that box watching.

“You ready to show this kid what’s up?” Jerry’s chuckle crackles, and he snaps the gum in his mouth as his grin pushes into his cheeks.

He’s wearing reflective sunglasses, so I can’t make out his eyes, but I sense from the rest of his expression that he’s amused.

I think he’s waiting for me to shame this kid a little, maybe knock him off his pedestal.

I just hope I don’t get knocked on my ass.

“Stone!”

My head swivels to the other end of the field where Coach Phillips is feeding balls to Chance.

I bend down, grab my helmet, and put it on as I jog over to him. I’m not sure what I’ll do if he asks me to start throwing recklessly like his golden boy is. I guess I’ll do it to make him happy, though I fundamentally disagree with it. This isn’t how you warm up.

“Yes, Coach.” I glance beyond his shoulder to Coach Elgin, who is standing on his own in the end zone. I think his eyes are on me, and I gulp. I don’t want to disappoint him.

“We’re gonna run a few routes today with the A and B squad. You’re going to be working with B. You good with that?”

Phillips doesn’t look my direction when he asks, instead tossing another ball to Chance, who I notice hasn’t given me a single glance. I’m sure he knows who I am. That’s the arrogance Bryce was talking about, I bet.

“You got it, Coach.” I snag one of the balls from the cart and squeeze it between both palms as I nod toward Chance.

“Maybe we can toss a little? Get the arm warm?” I suggest.

Again, Chance’s neck doesn’t even break to look in my direction.

“He’s warm. Grab one of the B receivers when they come out.” Phillips physically turns his body away from me, leaving me holding a ball with nobody to throw to and a face as hot as a hatch chile.

“Got it,” I say, knowing he’s no longer listening.