Page 13

Fine. If he thinks Chance is warm and this little showcase they’ve got going is all he needs to perform today, who the hell am I to correct him?

I shake my head and laugh silently as I spin around and jog toward the center of the field.

I set the ball down along with my helmet and begin my warm-up routine, finishing with a few sprints to get the blood pumping through my entire body.

The rest of the team is trickling out when I jog to the sideline and fuel up on some electrolytes, and test the wrap around my wrists.

I recognize the third-string receiver from my late-night study sessions of the roster photos. His name is Jax, and he’s greener than green. He was a late round pick-up from Iowa. I hope he can catch.

“Hey, eighty-six,” I call out, getting his attention. He looks behind him at first, then turns his attention to me, tapping on his chest.

“Yeah, you’re Jax, right?” I’m starting to doubt my memory.

“Yeah, that’s me.”

Thank God.

“Cool. I’m Wyatt. I’m throwing to you today. Mind helping me get a few reps in?”

Jax has dark brown skin, and he’s maybe six inches taller than me.

When Peyton told her dad Jerry was working with the team, Reed mentioned that the man has a knack for discovering talent.

My gut tells me he saw something in Jax that others overlooked.

And if Jax can catch on the run, I have a feeling he and I are going to show a few people up today.

He seems nervous, though, so I’m going to need to give his confidence a kick in the ass.

He nods to me, and we both make our way to the sideline.

The receivers have been running all morning, so I know he’s good and warm.

The two of us start off with some light tossing about ten yards apart, and I gradually grow it to twenty until I’m zipping the ball at him with enough force that it will stick whether he wants it to or not.

My final toss lands square in his chest, but his hands collapse around the ball, caging it in place, and the grin that pulls up one side of his mouth settles my nerves about him.

“I’m good,” I say, walking toward him. He tosses the ball back to me when I’m a few feet away.

“You know, I watched you play when I was in junior high,” Jax says. His lips pucker as he fights to hold in his laugh.

“Yeah, yeah. Out here, I’m an old man. I get it,” I say, and he finally lets the laugh spill out.

“It’s cool, though. You were the shit for Arizona. When I found out they might pick you up—” He waggles his head and bites the tip of his tongue through his smile. “I got a little excited, I guess. Maybe a little star struck.”

“Ha!” My turn to laugh. “I’ll try not to disappoint you. How are you on the run? Like, if I lead you, make you stretch . . . will you get there?”

His deep inhale is concerning.

“Look, I’m not going to lie to you, Wyatt. I had a shit QB last season, and it damn near ruined my draft. I want to say no problem, but at this point? I have no idea what I can do with a real pass.”

I nod, suddenly getting why his draft pick was so high. I like Jax. Humble guys tend to surprise people. I have a good feeling about today.

“Got it. We’ll start easy, and then maybe see what we can do together.”

“I like the sound of that,” he says through excited laughter. We slap hands and bump fists, then join the rest of the team as everyone circles up to listen to Coach Phillips.

My gaze is glued to Coach Elgin, his hands comfortable in the pockets of his Cyclones windbreaker, his bushy eyebrows popping out above the rims of his blue-tinted sunglasses.

He’s old-school, with a whistle hanging around his neck and a hat that looks like it’s been through a war covering his head.

He rubs the scruff on his chin as he listens to his assistant run through today’s plan.

I have a sense he’s feeling out Phillips as much as Phillips is feeling out me.

I also sense he trusts him about the same amount I do.

Coach Phillips breaks, and we filter to our various positions, divided into two squads.

I make it a point to introduce myself to every single guy on the B team, especially my O-line.

That’s something I learned from Reed, to make the O-line feel like the most important guys on the field.

Because they are—at least as far as my skull is concerned.

Chance doesn’t seem to be interested in getting to know anyone, instead gripping a ball in his palm and swinging it into his hip as he waits to get called to the line of scrimmage.

I smirk in anticipation, and his first attempt at the Z-route goes about as well as I predict.

It’s hard to jump right in and throw to guys you don’t know.

But me? I know my guys. I’ve been saying their names in the order I learned them for the last five minutes while I stand back and watch Chance be exactly the guy Bryce told me he is.

Jax, Sumon, Taylor, Ben, Drey, Michael, Mo, Lenia, Felix, and finally, Cisco.

Cisco . . . he’s the most important right now. B-squad center and the first guy to hold off the rush.

“B squad, let’s go!”

The A squad clears out as we rush to the line. I flatten my hand on Cisco’s back as he centers the ball.

“Deep breath, Cisco. We got this,” I say, reassuring him.

I blink slowly, repeating those words in my head to myself, and I look to my right and left, putting faces to every guy on my line. I see Whiskey, even though he was on the A squad. Where Ben is lined up, I imagine Ratcliffe from Arizona. And Drey is also Jake from my Vista days. These are my guys.

“Oh, twenty-one! Oh, twenty-one! Hike!” The ball sticks to my hands, and I fall back a few steps, believing in my pocket.

Jax hits his route as if he’s been programmed by some AI, not missing a beat and crossing over just as the ball leaves my hands.

My line holds off the sack, thank God, and Jax hits the forty right when the ball does, the catch near seamless—minus the slight twist he has to make with his shoulder to make sure it’s snug before he takes off.

“Run it again!” Coach Phillips whistles, halting Jax before he can break for the end zone.

My squad scurries back to the line of scrimmage, and before I start the count, Coach Phillips growls, “Clean it up!”

“Looked pretty clean to me,” Drew mutters to my right. I smile, and I catch the shake in Cisco’s body as he keeps his laughter quiet.

“Yes, Coach!” I say, leaning down and turning my head to the right to catch Jax’s eyes. I give him a nod, and he flashes a quick thumbs-up. We’re gonna need to fast-track our plan. Mostly because I’m ready to show off a little.

“Oh, twenty-one! Oh, twenty-one! Hike!”

This time, the play goes off faster, the defense rushing with more energy, and the O-line breaks down right before I’m able to step out and sling the ball down the field.

I take the hit, landing on my shoulder. It hurts more than I remember, but also less than I expect.

Maybe they’re taking it easy on me, friendly fire and all that.

I lift my head enough to watch Jax stretch his hands out and pull the ball into his chest about two yards deeper than the last time we ran the route. This time, Coach Phillips lets him run all the way.

“All right, A-squad. Get in there and show them how it’s done,” Phillips says. His whistle is secured between his front teeth, probably to keep him from cracking his molars.

We were supposed to run this five times, but it only took two passes for me to get under Phillips’s skin.

Jax jogs back to us, and we slap hands. I walk down the line and praise every guy on my squad, telling them to keep the energy up.

It’s been twenty minutes, but already we’re bonding.

Behind me, Chance and the A-squad are running one sloppy play after another.

And when I glance at Coach Elgin and Jerry, the two of them are grinning with tight lips, matching toothpicks sticking out.

About a half dozen routes and two hours later, my body is drenched inside and out, and my squad looks a bit ragged, but we held our own. I’m pouring water down my throat—and the front of my body—when Keke, today’s star pass-rusher, holds out a fist.

“Pretty good stuff, old man,” he says. We bump knuckles, and I give him a nod and smile, catching Chance looking our way while Phillips fills his head with what I assume is unearned praise.

“Looked good out there today, Wyatt. You made a statement for sure.” I turn at Jerry’s compliment, my helmet still propped on my forehead.

He’s standing with Bryce, whose smug grin tells me he’s pleased with my performance today.

I wish that guy had a better poker face, but it feels good that he seems to think I did well.

“Thanks, but I’m not sure that message got through to everyone.” I chuckle and spray another dose of water into my mouth before tossing the empty bottle onto the grass near the hydration table.

“Phillips doesn’t matter here. Elgin makes the call. It’s in his contract. Phillips is?—”

“You don’t need to finish that,” I cut in, and the three of us laugh.

“Fair enough,” Jerry says.

“I’ll catch you inside, Wy,” Bryce says, placing a hand on my shoulder and forcing my gaze to meet his. His eyes flicker with a flash of what I think is pride. Maybe a little greed too. He has a lot riding on this. He wants it to work as much as I do, if not more.

“Sounds good,” I say, patting his bicep and nodding. It’s weird being able to read each other so well, especially given our past. But I hear his silent words loud and clear—I stood out today, and Chance is exactly the kind of guy he said he is.