Page 19

Chapter Thirteen

I ’m starting to think I’m the oldest guy on the team.

Our backup center, Cisco, looks like he’s in his late thirties, but it turns out beards can be deceiving.

That fucker’s twenty-six. That new information has me second-guessing my assumptions about most of the O-line.

I think the only guys I’ve got beat out here for sure are Phillips, Elgin, and Jerry. And I’m not so sure about Phillips.

It was hard to leave for camp. I’m glad Peyton is with family, though. And she’s busy with tryouts for the upcoming cheer season. She seems genuinely excited about our future, and since I’m nervous as hell about it, it’s good that one of us has a steady head on our shoulders.

Hell, I’m just hoping to keep my head attached to my body during camp. The hits are coming for real now. It’s time to shine for every guy out here, not just me, and I’ve felt every single ounce of effort in that pass rush.

“Tackling is discouraged, my ass, ” I grumble to Whiskey as we undress after another grueling day.

“You know how it is, man. We all want a job.” Whiskey chuckles as he pulls his pads off and plops down on the bench.

“You’re getting a job, Whisk. You’re killing it out there. I’m proud of you.” I pat him on the back, and he groans as he tilts to one side to pull his layers of socks and tape from one leg.

“I don’t know why you think you’re not starting with me. Chance can’t hit the cross pattern for shit. He’s too green.”

“Thanks,” I say with a nod, holding in the fact I’m pretty green myself. It’s not like I’ve stepped foot on a pro field before.

There’s a clear line forming on the team, and I don’t want to be the guy drawing it, but I think I am.

The grinders out here, like Cisco and Drey, have bought into my style.

We’re always out on the field first, off it last, talking up everyone, celebrating the small wins.

Most of the young guys, the two- or three-year players, along with the rookies, are into Chance’s hype.

My dad used to call it me ball. Funny that the last time I saw players hotdogging and getting away with it was when I was a kid.

Maybe they’ve got it figured out, though.

I’ve watched Chance out there, and he’s full of so much raw talent it isn’t even funny. He simply lacks discipline.

“Oh, fuck that guy at Athletico! ” Speaking of the immature punk.

Chance busts out of the showers with his entourage behind him. What kind of man can’t shower on his own? I swear, those guys follow him everywhere. Half of them won’t even make the final squad.

“Did you know he was covering the MLB before they gave him the Cyclones beat? I bet he doesn’t even like football,” one of the guys laughs out, slapping hands with Chance as he flings open his cubby and lays out his after-camp clothes.

I’m putting on jeans and my Arizona hoodie.

He’s rolling out of this place in a suit.

“Man, that Trujillo guy writes shit. I bet he thinks the old rickety man over there should start the first game. No offense,” Chance says over his shoulder, as if I’m an afterthought. I’m not stupid. I know this entire conversation is about me. If I weren’t in here, he wouldn’t be having it.

I read the article he’s talking about. It points out a lot of Chance’s weaknesses, things that will likely result in embarrassing turnovers on the field if he’s not careful.

And Trujillo isn’t wrong. He’s usually not.

Sure, he was covering baseball last season.

That’s after a decade covering the ins and outs of the NFL, though—for pretty much every outlet in the country. But yeah. What does he know?

Once I’m dressed, I fire off a quick text to Peyton letting her know that I’ll give her a call when I get to the room.

If she were here for camp, I might drive the hour back to our apartment.

But since she’s not, I may as well stay in the hotel with the rest of the guys.

Maybe I’ll spend some time in the bar and win a few of them over. I can be charming. I think.

“You coming out with us, old man? Or . . . you have a curfew with the old lady?” The few guys still lingering in the locker room with Chance snicker at his stupid joke.

Ten years ago, I would have knocked his teeth out by now. Sometimes, being professional isn’t what it’s cracked up to be.

I force out a friendly-sounding chuckle and shake my head.

“Yeah, you got me. She’s got me wrapped around her finger, I guess. Hey, but good work out there today. Keep it up,” I say with exaggerated enthusiasm, then pat his shoulder as I walk past him. He lets out a snort-laugh.

“Yeah, you too. Keep it up.”

At least he and his buddies wait for me to almost clear the doorway before they burst into laughter. I don’t like to wish for quarterbacks to eat turf; it feels like bad karma. But damn would I revel in seeing Chance get knocked on his ass a few times.

His time will come.

It’s a five-minute walk to the hotel from the facilities we’re using at the university.

I’m not used to summer air feeling so chilly.

I kind of like it rather than the oven-burn that comes along with living in Arizona.

Late afternoons here drop below eighty, and there’s this perpetual breeze that I could get used to.

I call Peyton the second I step off the elevator.

“Hi, Daddy.”

She’s been calling me that for the last week, and at first, I thought it was cute. But then Whiskey brought up Reed, and how funny it is that he’s her daddy, and now I don’t think it’s cute at all. All I see in my head is Reed’s wild eyes staring at me and telling me to watch myself.

“You’re still sticking with that, huh?” I hold my keycard against the lock pad, and when it clicks, I push the door open and head straight for the bed.

“Wyatt, you’re stuck with it. Because you are this baby’s daddy.”

The smile hits my lips automatically as I collapse on my back, my head sinking into the pile of pillows.

“Okay, maybe baby daddy, then. How’s that?”

“I can call you that . . . baby daddy. ” Her voice is sultry, that touch of grit that’s part of her signature sound when she’s tired. I miss her.

“Tell me about tryouts?”

She groans in response, so I settle in on my side to hear what promises to be a long venting session.

“I picked fifteen. I should have stuck with ten, but I’m new, and I didn’t want to cut half of the girls who came out, so I kept a few extra on the agreement that they’ll be for practice and games, but not competition. Unless, of course, they earn it. But one of their moms is . . . a lot. ”

I smirk, my memory easily slipping back to Peyton’s high school cheer days. She never had to earn time on the mat. But she did run into some trouble with warring egos. And then there was the parade snub.

“I’ve seen you work wonders with your sister. I’m sure you’ll be able to handle those teen personalities,” I say.

“ Mmm , it’s not the teens I’m worried about.”

I breathe out a laugh along with her.

“I get it. I miss working with teens. They’re a lot easier than young college grads who think their shit doesn’t stink.”

I hear someone calling Peyton in the distance through the phone, so I sit up, figuring our conversation is going to get cut short tonight.

“I’ll be right there,” she says, her voice muffled, probably from tucking the phone against her chest.

“Don’t overdo it.”

She sighs at my parenting of her. It’s one of her hot buttons, but I can’t help myself.

I’m worried about her pushing herself too hard with the cheer practices and still helping her mom.

Her body needed breaks when she wasn’t creating a second human inside.

Now, she really needs to listen to her body’s warnings.

“I’m being very careful, Wy. It’s just Ellie. I created a monster when I helped with her hair. My mom gave her permission to dye it purple. I’m merely supervising this experiment.”

I imagine Peyton with purple hair for a blip, and somehow, I swear she senses it. Before I say another word, she breaks into my thoughts.

“And no, I like my hair how it is.”

“Damn, you really have that mom intuition thing going strong already, don’t you?” I chuckle as she hums, “ Mmm hmm .”

“I love you,” I say, cupping the phone and wishing she were here for me to kiss.

“I love you more. Now, go bond with your teammates. You can’t have them thinking I’ve got you on a short leash.”

I chuckle silently as she ends our call. She has no idea how spot-on her observation is.

It’s not quite six yet, so a few of the guys are probably still lingering around the bar downstairs before going out.

I’m not so sure I want to head to the club with Chance’s crew, and I doubt they want to see me there.

But I could hang out in the bar and grab dinner, maybe watch the Diamondbacks game, and lament that I didn’t pick baseball instead of this brutal sport.

I freshen up, swapping out my hoodie for a more respectable quarter-zip, and shove a Cyclones hat on my head to avoid doing something with my hair.

I hit the lobby in time to catch a few of Chance’s buddies waiting for the valet to bring around their ride.

They get quiet as I approach, so I make a point of stopping and putting my hand on one of their shoulders.

“Hey, we didn’t get to formally meet yet. I’m Wyatt,” I say, taking the guy’s hand. His mouth is caught in this half-surprised, half-laughing position as his eyes bounce between me and the other two guys waiting with him.

“Yeah, uh. I know you. I’m Clay. This is Shawn, and that’s Kenny.”

We shake, and I nod and smile at the other two.

I don’t bother to memorize their names. They aren’t on the team.

They’re just here to surround Chance in a bubble.

It’s a bad way for this kid to start. I get that these are his pals from college, and I know he’s young and wants to keep the party going.

I may be new to the pros, too, but I know enough to see bad habits forming.

And the fact he put these guys up in the same hotel with him for the opening week of camp is a majorly bad idea.

“Hey, don’t keep him out late, yeah?” I point at Clay as I leave their group, and while my tone says I’m kidding, I’m actually not.

“Yeah, all right, Gramps,” he responds.

I keep walking, and I nod before turning my attention to the bar.

I hold my tongue until I spot a familiar round body nestled into the corner stool at the end of the bar.

Coach Elgin looks to be finishing up a steak he probably shouldn’t be eating, but he’s still nursing a beer, so I take the seat next to him.

“Hey, Wy. You need a menu?” He runs a napkin over his mouth, then reaches across the bar and grabs a laminated page with maybe a dozen items printed on the front.

“I don’t think I can eat that,” I say, nodding toward his plate. “I’d be a slug tomorrow.”

“Ha, well, good thing my job calls for slugs.”

I peruse the menu and settle on the grilled chicken and veggies. I flag down the bartender and put my order in, adding a beer to join Coach as he finishes his.

“So, how we looking, Coach?” I’ve been dying to pick his brain about this entire situation, and since I have him alone, there’s no better time.

I’m not comfortable enough to come straight out and get his take on me showing Chance the ropes, and the knowing laugh that spills out as he pulls his beer from his lips is why. Nothing gets by this man.

“I’ll tell you what I’ve told all my quarterbacks like you over the years, Wyatt. We’re all here to do a job. Best advice I’ve got is for you to do it to the best of your ability.” He lifts his beer and tips it back, draining the mug before setting it down next to his plate.

He wriggles his way from the stool, his legs not quite long enough to reach the floor. It’s funny to see a man with his pedigree in a game of big men lumber around at five-foot-six. It’s even funnier to watch him dismount from a barstool.

“Quarterbacks like me, huh?”

He pauses and quirks a brow.

“You picked up on that, did ya?”

I nod.

“Yeah, I did. And all due respect, sir, but I don’t think you’ve ever coached a quarterback like me.” My mouth works before my brain sometimes, and I instantly swallow, hoping that wasn’t too bold.

The long, quiet seconds before Coach laughs are torturous. He finally does, his eyes crinkling at the sides like Santa Claus. His hand lands on my back as he leans in close, like he’s about to tell me a secret.

“I’d love for you to surprise me.”

He winks, then drops a hundred-dollar bill on the counter to cover his tab. It’s the same wink my dad used to give me after dropping one of his classic lines. The same wink he taught me. I can’t help but feel there’s a sign in there somewhere.