Page 24

Chapter Seventeen

T wenty-two-year-olds can be real assholes.

Chance Hickory is twenty-two.

I’m sure he took that photo, or one of his buddies did, but I’m trying really hard to give him the benefit of the doubt.

I’ve seen their likes on social media, the snarky comments some of them have made about the woman in the photo, questioning whether I’m stepping out on my wife.

My gut tells me the reason Chance did it, or at least didn’t stop any of it.

He wants to see my character take a hit.

He’s young. And he’s been given all this attention and power so early in his career. He’s not ready for it.

I bet someone said that about me my senior year at Arizona.

I do my best to live up to my father’s standards, to mind my emotions, do the gut checks before speaking and acting out.

But I’m sure I’ve messed up a time or two over the years.

Especially when I first entered the draft.

I get that saying about hindsight, now that I’ve got a few years to look back on.

When I took a year off to help Peyton, I went into the draft the next season with expectations—not of myself, but of the people who I felt would be stupid to pass me by. And when I didn’t get picked, that fucked with my head.

How could they not see what I had to offer?

What I should have considered, though, was what I didn’t bring to the table.

Looking back, I left a whole host of things out of my first, second, and third impressions with a lot of the teams. I didn’t lead; I followed.

I didn’t take risks on the field; I played it safe.

I didn’t put in the extra hour of work; instead, I called it a day early. I didn’t stand out.

Chance stands out. Maybe a little too much. And I can’t let this photo thing go completely, not without words.

I stare him directly in the eyes as I enter the locker room.

He took it easy at our workout today. And he was late to film this morning.

I went extra hard—partly to let out some aggression, but mostly because I’ve decided I want this, and if Chance is the heir apparent, he’s going to have to sweat a little to take his crown.

“What’s that look for?” He spits out a laugh with two of the young receivers after I pass by where they’re sitting.

“Just taking a mental picture of you, man. You know, for my collection.” I don’t bother to turn around. I strip off my jersey and pads before glancing over my shoulder in time to catch them whispering.

“You know, if you want a photo of me, you can just ask. Here, I’ll even pose for you.” He gets up from his chair and walks to the center of the room, shirtless and in his boxers. He flexes a bicep and acts like he’s about to kiss it before laughing and waving me off.

I scoff. “I’d rather wait outside like a creeper and catch you in your apartment, or maybe the next team hotel. I hear those photos go for a lot. You know, the kind that invade someone’s privacy.”

Chance chews at the inside of his mouth as he takes his seat again and stares at me. I hold his gaze, internally willing my pulse to slow. I pick up the towel hanging in my cubby and twist it rather than forming a fist.

A slow smirk stretches across Chance’s face as he tips his chair back, balancing on the two back legs.

“Nah, you won’t get the good pics that way. I’m careful when I’m out with the ladies. You know . . . I like to keep shit private. Balconies, though? Oof, yeah. They’ll get ya.”

I run a palm over my mouth and let my focus drop to the floor while I nod slowly.

I’m gonna lose my cool. I feel it, and my grip on my self-control is slipping.

I pop my gaze up, making eye contact with one of the young receivers who thought Chance was funny a minute ago.

He’s not laughing now, though. Neither is the other guy.

These guys haven’t seen any time on the field.

They know they’re probably getting cut after camp.

But if they want to find their way onto a roster again for the next camp, they’ll step out of this situation fast.

“You take that photo, Chance? Or was one of your buddies trailing me in LA?” I slam my cubby door shut and saunter toward him. His friends quickly disappear toward the showers. Smart.

“Look, Wyatt Earp, I don’t know what you’re talking about?—”

I hook my foot under the front rung of his chair and lift, sending him tumbling backward.

He braces his fall, straddling the fallen chair before kicking it to the side and stepping into me.

Our chests nearly touch. I’ve got him by an inch, but sore elbow or not, his arms look as though they could choke me out.

It would be worth it. I bump into his chest with my own, and he stumbles back a step, then comes right back at me. I take the hit like a champ.

“Come on, Wyatt Earp. Man up a little. Take a joke,” he says, his laugh sounding less sure this time.

“You keep calling me that, and I assume it’s about my age. But you know Wyatt Earp was the sheriff. And you need to have someone lay down the law with you.”

“ Pfft , okay! Yeah, you go ahead. Lay down the law,” Chance mocks.

I catch him off guard with a quick slap to his jaw, and his eyes flash wide with shock when his head snaps back to face me.

“Don’t start shit with me. Not unless you’re willing to take it to the next level.”

I slap him again, then shove him back until his back is flat against his cubby. He pushes into the center of my chest with his fists, shoving me off him, but I come right back at him, pinning him to the door and staring into his wild eyes.

“I’m gonna tell you this, and I’m only going to tell you once.

The woman in that photo is my wife. I think you know that, but you thought it was funny to disrespect her anyhow.

And the thing is, Chance? I don’t let people make assumptions, spread stories, disparage, or threaten my wife.

And what you did? What you let happen? That was a direct attack on the woman I love.

The mother of my child. My unborn child.

“Your young punk ass is too underdeveloped to grasp the gravity of being a man on the verge of becoming a dad. You can’t fathom the strength that comes from having a family of your own, of having something so precious in your life that you’re willing to throw away an NFL career defending them when they’re attacked.

So you go ahead and snicker with your friends in the corner like some high school cafeteria bullshit all you want, but I swear .

. . you ever take a photo, share a photo, fucking comment on a photo of my wife again, I will make sure that sore elbow of yours hurts for the rest of your fucking life. ”

I pound my fist against the wood paneling next to Chance’s head before I finally step back.

His teeth are gritted and his breath ragged as his fists ball at his sides.

I walk backward slowly, almost taunting him to keep this up, to make a move and come at me.

Peyton would be so mad if she were here.

She’d tell me to put my caveman in check.

Sometimes, though, the caveman gets shit done.

“We have a problem here?” Coach Phillips says as he steps into the room filled with obvious tension.

“We’re all good. I was just giving Chance some photography tips.

You know, for his hobby.” I glare at Chance, noting the way his eyes flicker.

I’m sure he’s thinking of what he can say to make sure he’s still Coach’s golden boy.

Phillips will take his side no matter what, though.

That’s the difference between us. I don’t give a shit what Phillips thinks.

I’m still the better QB. And I’m a fucking way better man.

“Yeah, Wyatt was just giving me some tips.” Chance blinks a few times, his mouth stuck in a hard line.

“Anytime,” I say, turning my body to face my cubby.

“I don’t like drama, boys. Drop your shit at the door. If it shows up on my field?—”

“No drama here, Coach,” I say, not bothering to face him again as I finish stripping down for the shower. I wrap my towel around my waist and fling my cubby door shut, giving both Coach and Chance a wink as I pass.

Todd Stone would be proud.

C hance doesn’t seem to want to stick around to shower at the practice fields. I’m glad because my bravado fades under the hot water, and I am not ready to go another round with him. I think he got my point. If he decides to keep stirring shit up, he’s just a dick. And feeling threatened.

I’m stuffing my headphones and my dirty T-shirt into my duffle when my phone buzzes with a call. I palm it, then shut my cubby door before checking the name on the screen. My heart kicks like a teenager in love when I see my wife’s picture and name.

“Hey, babe. How’d you know I needed to hear your voice?”

She laughs softly.

“I don’t know. Maybe because I needed to hear yours, too.” She lets out an audible sigh.

“I’m sorry we didn’t get to talk more this morning,” I say, hating that I had to let her go after dropping such a huge bomb in her lap.

“It’s fine. It’s not like talking would have done much. If it helps, I’m a lot calmer now. In fact, I’m basically emotional putty. I’m not sure I can feel anything.”

My heart squeezes at her words. My truck’s the last one in the lot, other than some of the support staff and Coach Elgin’s SUV. I click the fob and climb in, putting Peyton on speaker before buckling up.

I want to tell her about my conversation with Chance, leaving out some of the details, of course, like the part about slapping him. And shoving him. But I don’t think she needs to take in anything new tonight.

“You talk to your dad yet?” I figure Reed’s seen the news. I’m a little worried about his reaction, for obvious protective-father-for-life reasons. But he’ll be as pissed as I am when I tell him about my chat with Chance. I have a feeling, given the opportunity, he’ll have a talk of his own.

“Not yet. I did get an earful from my sister, though. Apparently, I’ve ruined her life.”

Shit.

“I didn’t think about how this might show up . . . you know . . . in the teen world.”

We both sigh.

“I mean, they basically live on their phones. Even more than people our age do. I’m giving her the evening to cool down, but I told my mom I’m going to take her to breakfast in the morning before school.

I figure letting her skip the first couple hours and signing her in late may buy me her willingness to listen . . . a little. ”

“Yeah, that’s a good idea. Maybe I can buy your dad breakfast too. You know . . . so he doesn’t kill me,” I say with a short laugh.

“He’s probably going to be busy burning down the school district offices, so you may need to have that breakfast in jail.”

My face puzzles as I say, “Huh?”

“Seems my cheer coaching gig was short-lived. I’m suspended pending a decency hearing.”

I punch my brakes in the middle of the parking lot, coming to a hard stop at her revelation.

“I’m sorry, decency?”

I’ve had a solid twenty-four hours to study that photo, and I’ve decided there is nothing indecent in it.

Peyton’s clothed. I look fully clothed. Nobody would know that my shirt was unbuttoned.

Can people make suggestive insights? Yeah, probably.

That’s because we’re all basically perverts who love that gotcha shit.

“Yep. I’m sure my dad’s heard about it. The district gossipers are quick to do damage, and people around here love to start fires. I stand in front of the firing squad tomorrow at six.”

“I’m coming,” I say, without giving any thought to the logistics. I don’t care what they are. There’s zero chance I’m not showing up for her. For this.

“Wy, stop it. You can’t possibly?—”

“I’m coming,” I cut in.

The line is silent for a few seconds. Peyton must realize she would be just as insistent if the tables were turned.

“Fine, but let me defend myself. You can stand in solidarity, but this fight is mine. Got it?”

I’m already scrolling on my phone for flight options.

“Got it. You run the show. I’ll just be background.”

I find a flight that leaves at two tomorrow, giving me just enough time to make morning practice before jetting to the airport and heading to Tucson. I’ll just need a lift from the airport.

“I can’t talk you out of this, can I?” Peyton says as my purchase goes through.

“Nope. Flight forty-seven-sixty. American. I’ll get my mom to pick me up. Calling her now. Love you.”

I hang up before Peyton has time to talk reason into me. I shoot her a quick text before calling my mom, one simple word— please.

PEYTON: Okay. Sir.

I chuckle as I dial my mom. Of all Peyton’s gifts, her ability to find humor when the world is on fire is one of the best. It’s kept me from spiraling during stressful times.

My phone rings in my truck a few times before the speakers finally crackle with the sounds of someone picking up.

“Hey, Wy. What’s up, son?” Jeff answers.

I snap my mouth shut and stare blankly at my mom’s photo on my phone screen, wishing I had one of Peyton’s funny quips to get me out of this very awkward long pause.

Jeff answered. He’s called me ‘son’ many times, but it hit differently this time.

“Uh . . . hi, yeah. Sorry. I was just?—”

I was just falling down the rabbit hole of acceptance that you and my mom are likely a thing.

“Let me get your mom,” Jeff says.

“Yeah. Yeah, uh. Mom. Thanks.” I swallow down the dry razorblades.

Stick to the plan, Wyatt. You need a ride from Tucson to the district office tomorrow. It’s a quick turnaround. You’ll be in and out. You’ll fill her in on everything during the drive. Everyone’s fine. I’m fine. Peyton’s fine. The baby is fine. I simply need a ride. Nothing else on my mind.

“Wyatt, what a surprise,” my mom says, her voice wavering with the guilt of a kid literally stuck inside the cookie jar.

“Are you and Jeff fucking?”

I think that went well.