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Chapter Fourteen

“ P ick a hand.”

My dad grins while standing in the open driver’s side door with his arms tucked behind his back. It’s the third gas station we’ve stopped at on our way to LA, so I could pee. I probably should have made him stop a few more times, but I’m stubborn and held it.

“Right hand,” I say.

“Damn it!” He bows his head and hands over a pack of Reese’s.

“Yes!” I fist pump with one hand and snag my snack with the other.

I could’ve flown to Wyatt’s first pre-season game with both our moms and the rest of our family.

I’m sure I wouldn’t be stressing about getting there on time like I am right now if I did.

But I would’ve missed out on this. My road trips with my dad have been fewer as an adult, and I’m sure they’ll be even less when I add a baby car seat to the mix.

I wanted this time with my dad. I need it.

“Okay, that granddaughter of mine starts messing with your bladder again, just holler, yeah? I know every gas station from here to the stadium.”

I rip into my candy while my dad revs up his truck.

“Deal, though I don’t think the baby is kicking my bladder at this point. I read it’s mostly hormones and my uterus getting bigger, and?—”

“Yeah, I’m out when you start saying the word uterus,” my dad jokes . . . sort of.

I’m about to hit the three-month mark, and half of my family has placed their bets that Wyatt and I are having a girl.

I don’t know, though. There’s this thought nagging in the back of my mind that this baby might just break the girl streak my dad started.

It’s not like Buck and Millie, his late wife, had girls either; it was my dad and my Uncle Jason.

And my mom’s brother, my Uncle Mike, goes against that theory too.

And Wyatt’s family is split fifty-fifty girls to boys, and he carries the damn chromosome anyhow.

But no way do I breathe a word of those thoughts out loud in this family.

My dad and grandpa will be stocking up on shoulder pads and footballs for every size.

I’ve told Wyatt my thoughts, and he’s still sure it’s a girl. We have a wager on it for the first month of diaper duty.

We’re about an hour out when my dad’s phone rings through the truck’s speakers with a call from Wyatt. Kick-off is at six, and it’s three-thirty, which makes this a really strange time for him to be sneaking in a call.

“Shouldn’t you be on the field or getting stretched or something?” I make eyes at my dad, both of us wearing nervous smiles.

“Yeah, I know. I’m about to get taped. I just wanted you guys to know before you get here . . . I’m getting the start.”

My dad slaps the top of his steering wheel while my palms cover my mouth.

“Atta boy!” my dad says, and I’m glad he can speak because I think I’m in shock. Wyatt’s the better quarterback, but Bryce warned me not to expect much right away. Chance is where the hype is.

“Baby . . .” I mutter, my eyes tearing up. My dad chuckles next to me and reaches across the console to hold my hand.

“Don’t put too much weight on it, guys. Apparently, Chance has some elbow tightness, so it’s more a precaution that they’re going with me instead, but still?—”

“But still . . . this is your time to show those assholes what a real quarterback looks like,” I blurt out. I cup my mouth and make wide eyes at my dad as both he and Wyatt laugh at my fighting words.

“Wy, it doesn’t matter how you get your shot. It’s all about what you do with it. So get your head on right, spend a little time with Whisk before the game, sit with yourself, and talk to your dad. We’ll be watching everything. We’ll be there with you.”

“Thank you, Reed.” I can hear the hitch in his voice, the little break that lets me know this moment means something to him. It means a lot.

“I love you, baby. Give ’em hell.”

“I love you, Peyt,” he says before ending the call.

I break down into stupid pregnancy tears a half second later, and my dad keeps hold of my hand, vacillating between consoling my nerves and being amused at my emotional reaction.

What he doesn’t know is that Mom was like this when he played, at least for the big games.

She cried through the fourth quarter of his last Super Bowl.

My dad and I roll up to the stadium with an hour to spare.

Of all the perks that come with being a hall-of-famer, my dad’s ability to park anywhere he wants at any football facility ranks near the top.

He tosses his truck keys to the valet working the player’s garage, stopping to shake the kid’s hand.

If it wouldn’t get the kid in trouble, my dad would offer to take a photo.

The second we enter the suite, I make a beeline for the restroom, proud of myself for holding it for the final miles through LA. Those miles can take hours, but my dad pulled off a few questionable traffic maneuvers that we both agree Mom doesn’t need to know about.

I wash up and step out of the restroom into the buzz of our family and friends, who just learned that Wyatt’s getting the ball tonight.

Tasha hugs me first, then promptly switches into parent mode, filling her twins’ plates with crackers, cheese, fruit, and way too many cookies.

I think she’s hoping for an early sugar crash.

My mom’s eyes are glassy when I finally locate her, and we laugh quietly, an unspoken understanding of how we both likely reacted to the news.

She squeezes my hand and kisses my cheek before sending me off to hug my aunt and uncle, and then Wyatt’s mom, Theresa, who is standing with his dad’s old fire captain, Jeff.

Jeff was a last-minute addition to the suite, and Wyatt doesn’t know he’s here.

His mom asked for him to come, and I know how much Jeff was like a father to Wyatt, having worked alongside his dad for years.

Jeff’s wife passed away three years ago, and he and Theresa have formed a tight friendship through shared grief.

He’s been hanging around a lot more often, and given he lives in the city—about ninety miles away from Theresa’s house—it definitely means something .

However, Wyatt would prefer to keep whatever is happening between them a mystery.

I brought it up when we were at his mom’s New Year’s party, which Jeff attended.

He told me there was nothing there, but his attention stayed on them for the rest of the night.

“Good news, huh?”

I turn from my conversation with Theresa and Jeff at the sound of Bryce’s voice. I give him a hug, squeezing a little tighter thanks to the adrenaline pouring through me. I step back and meet his gaze.

“A start’s a start, right?” I wear a toothy, nerve-wrecked smile.

“He’s going to crush it, Peyt. Relax,” he says, but I can’t help but notice his shoulders are still ratcheted up to his ears.

“I will when you do,” I challenge.

“Ha, okay. Maybe after a few of these,” he says, cracking the tab from a microbrew he pulled from the large ice bucket.

“Totally not fair,” I pout, twisting the cap off my water as Bryce chuckles.

“Hey, maybe I can represent the little guy one day,” he says with a wink before heading toward my dad to talk business and football for the rest of the night.

Little guy. One more vote on my side.

I make myself a plate of bland food, trying not to wake the stomach gremlin that hasn’t shown up as often as it did the first two months of my pregnancy. My insides are twisty enough on their own tonight; no need for me to fan the flames and tempt fate.

Wiggling into the seat next to Tasha, I squeeze her knee and the two of us kick our feet with our own private celebration.

“You can take the cheerleader off the field . . .” she begins.

“But you can’t take the cheer out of the leader,” I finish with her.

We clasp hands, our shared nerves making us both a little sweaty. I pick at my food, the rumbles in my tummy a cautious warning that keeps me away from the turkey slices. I slip out for one more bathroom trip and a refill on crackers and water before the team takes the field, and then it’s on!

Wyatt’s warm-up tosses take me back, not just to college but to that first year we met. He was special, even then. My dad saw it early, and was terrified of it. And then, when Wyatt broke his records, he respected it. Now, Wyatt’s family.

“He looks good,” my mom mutters from the seat behind me. I nod, too busy chewing on my nails to speak. She squeezes my shoulders a few times, then sits back in her seat, urging my dad to finally take his. He’ll be pacing by the first set of downs. I’m certain.

The national anthem and coin toss are a blur, and before I know it, the Cyclones are on the field and Wyatt is lined up ready to count it off.

I close my eyes and breathe out slowly, my lips puckering as if there’s a straw in my mouth.

I watched my mom do this when I was little and my dad played.

She said she was able to block out everything but him. Now, it’s my turn.

When my eyes open, everything sounds muted. Wyatt takes the snap and falls back a few steps before hitting his running back with a short pass that he carries for seven yards. I clap, then hold my clasped hands to my lips, keeping my peaceful bubble intact.

“Come on, baby. Let’s go,” I mouth, not even certain the words are aloud.

Wyatt hands the ball off two more times, gaining a first down before taking his first hit on a pass that barely misses his receiver’s hands. My teeth gnash, and my mom’s hands land on my shoulders.

“It’s okay. I’m okay,” I reassure her, hoping she understands what I’m doing, that I’m closing out the noise the same way she did.

Wyatt takes a teammate’s hand as he gets to his feet, and my eyes scan every single muscle on his body looking for limps or hesitations. He seems whole. Unscathed. This time.

I’m so intent on bracing myself for another hit that I don’t see the signs until Wyatt scrambles to his right, buying time for his receiver to sprint downfield before he launches the ball forty yards.

He hits his guy mid-stride, and nobody’s even close.

He’s in the end zone and we’re up six with only two minutes off the clock.

I finally breathe.

My dad’s pacing seems like a good idea by the time the second quarter starts, so I join him, popping in and out of the suite depending on whether we’re on defense or offense.

Wyatt threw a pick his last time out, which I will fight anyone to the death arguing it wasn’t his fault.

It literally bounced out of the tight end’s hands.

And other than the big hit during the first set of downs, he’s been lucky.

Or rather, the pocket’s been good. Tasha says it’s because Whiskey’s protecting him, and I tend to think she’s right.

Phillips has been warming up the third and fourth string quarterbacks for the last few minutes, so my gut tells me Wyatt’s done before the half.

My dad and I are about to head into the suite and hit the buffet to eat some real food when the monitors on the concourse show Wyatt’s slow jog out to the huddle to close out the half.

This time, there’s something about the crowd that begs me to stay out here, to let the noise in— all of it.

“Dad, I’m gonna . . .” I gesture to the tunnel leading to the second level seats, and my dad nods.

We slip in without anyone noticing, which, when I’m with my father, is often a feat.

It’s cleared out up high, partly because this is preseason, but mostly because everyone up here is making a dash for the bathrooms and the beer lines.

A guy a few rows behind us seems to be well versed on the team, and when he rattles off Wyatt’s college stats, messing up his total passing yards, I grip my dad’s forearm to keep him from turning around and correcting him.

“It’s my damn record he broke,” my dad grumbles, and I laugh softly while patting his arm.

“I know, but when Wyatt’s their all-star in a few years, that guy will know better,” I say, letting myself go there mentally for the first time since Wyatt started camp.

He really can do this.

The first few plays are running routes, one for a loss, the next two for the first down.

There’s a mad swap of players dashing on and off the field as the clock winds down, and I suddenly feel thankful that Wyatt got an entire half to prove himself rather than a few dwindling seconds.

I’m also a little uneasy seeing Whiskey peel off for the final play.

Unfortunately, the new center isn’t going to win over anyone as he snaps the ball over Wyatt’s head.

My husband scrambles to pick it up, and I brace myself for him to take a hit.

But rather than crumpling under the two-hundred-plus pounds that try to wrap him up, Wyatt spins out and tucks the ball in tight, ready to run.

“Oh, fuck,” I let out, getting to my feet. My dad joins me, echoing my words as we simmer on our toes.

Please keep his legs intact. And please let those tendons hold. And his head . . . God, please protect his head.

About a dozen more requests buzz through my mind while Wyatt breaks three tackles before clearing the field and sprinting forty-seven yards into the end zone for the score.

My hands fly up along with my dad’s, and we turn to face one another for a double high five while we shout nonsense so loud that both of our voices break.

Wyatt spins the ball on the grass, then skips toward a few of his teammates, bumping chests with two of them before rushing to the sidelines, where Whiskey waits to wrap him in a massive bear hug.

And then, somehow, he finds me. I blow him a kiss that he grabs out of the air, and when the clock hits zero, I flop down in the miserable plastic seat and wonder how the hell I’m going to keep this up for an entire season. Or more.