Page 26

Chapter Nineteen

“ S o much for this story going away. “

I hand my phone to Peyton while I finish getting dressed.

The Cyclones’ PR department has been working overtime.

It seems a few people posted about Peyton’s speech last night at the board meeting, some of them sharing video snippets that have now gone viral.

For the most part, the response has been positive.

Yeah, there are the occasional assholes who hide behind their fake profile pics and keyboards to tear her down, but the positive comments have been overwhelming.

They’ve also piqued the curiosity of a lot of media ready to talk about double standards in social media and sports.

“I should probably put out a statement or something. I can’t keep answering these with the same information over and over.” She folds her legs up in our bed and cradles my phone as her thumbs fly along the keyboard.

“That’s not a bad idea. For what it’s worth, though, I’m proud of you.” I lean over and kiss the top of her head.

“Thank you,” she rasps in a sleepy voice.

This time together was too short. I hate being apart. By the time we got home last night, we were both exhausted. I could barely keep my eyes open long enough to take a mental snapshot of her in my arms. I don’t even think I dreamed.

“There. Sent. I’ll call Jason this morning.” She looks up into my eyes as she returns my phone. She seems sad.

“I’ll just quit,” I say, running my hand through her hair once, then holding my palm to her cheek. She leans into it and hums through a soft smile, turning just enough to kiss my wrist.

“We both know neither of us are quitters.”

She’s right. I laugh faintly.

“Yeah, I know. But right now, I wish I were.”

She sucks in her bottom lip and scoots to the edge of the bed, wrapping her arms and legs around me the way a toddler does when they don’t want their parent to drop them off at daycare.

“This isn’t helping.” I chuckle.

“Gah!” She lets go of me, and I help her to her feet. “Fine. I’ll let you go.”

My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I pull it out to see a message from my mom.

MOM: In the driveway. No Jeff. How about we talk?

I squeeze my eyes shut and show Peyton the message. She laughs and pats my back.

“You can do this, Wy. Have a talk with your mom. A real talk. You’ll feel better. Then, call me tonight after practice.”

I kiss her and take my phone back, shutting my eyes once more as I breathe her in.

“See you again in one hundred and four hours and sixteen minutes,” I say, a ballpark guess, but I’m close.

Peyton gives me a sideways look on her way into the bathroom.

“I’ll see you first since you’ll be on the field,” she teases, shouting from the bathroom as I head down the hall.

I don’t reply, but the truth is I always see her first. I find her instantly, every time. She’s the first thing I see when I step on the field, and the only person I want when the lights go off.

My mom lifts her brow as I approach her SUV, and Peyton’s pep talk—and truth session—from last night plays in my mind. My mom’s making the effort. I need to be ready to listen. And to be open.

“Thanks for being my rideshare. It’s a tight turnaround,” I say, dropping my travel bag in the back seat, then sliding into the front passenger side and buckling up.

“You know I like that you call me for things like this. It means a lot.”

Our gazes meet, and we share a short knowing smile. It was Mom and me for a lot of road trips when I was young and my dad was on shift. She handled a lot of the back and forth to practice or to sports camps, too.

“Well? Shall we?” She shifts into reverse, and I nod, aware that she’s not only talking about hitting the road.

“I’m sorry about how I reacted, Mom. That was . . . oof! Not my best moment.” I wince, recalling what I said to her on the phone the other day.

“It was definitely not how I saw this conversation starting,” she says as we hit the main road.

“You know, Peyton’s kind of known for a while,” I say.

My mom snort laughs.

“Son, I think the entire town has known. Along with half of the Valley fire departments. You might be oblivious.”

“Really?” I lean forward, and she glances my way before belly laughing.

“Yeah, really. We didn’t really hide it. His house is for sale, for Pete’s sake. We’re moving in together.”

I flinch at that reveal. I definitely missed the clues for that level of relationship.

“Okay, okay. In. my defense, you maybe could have said something to me. Even if it wasn’t right away. Like, say, ‘Hey, Wyatt. Jeff and I have been seeing each other, and things are getting serious.’”

Her smile slips a tad, and she sighs.

“I know.”

Her heavy sigh is a relief. I feel less crazy now. She didn’t exactly share things with me.

“You could have told me, even if it was obvious.”

She glances my way again with a brief, tight smile.

“I was . . . scared.”

Her confession hits my chest hard. She’s had a lot to be scared about in her life. The thought that she was afraid to talk to me hurts my heart.

“I wouldn’t have been mad. I mean, I may have been surprised, but not . . . mad. I love Jeff. Like an uncle. Or apparently, a stepfather. ”

“Whoa, oh oh oh, slow down. Nobody is getting married anytime soon.”

We both settle into nervous laughter, and slowly our conversation morphs into stories about Dad and Jeff on the job.

I have a lot of nice memories with the man, and my mother does too.

She doesn’t say it outright, but I think perhaps that’s part of the attraction.

He’s comfortable. He’s also kind. And probably the man most like my dad out there—besides me.

As we close in on the airport, I promise to reach out to Jeff when I get some downtime this week. I’m sure he’s feeling awkward in all of this, but it’s important to me that he knows how I feel about him and that I approve of this, despite my initial surprise.

“You know, it’s funny,” I begin as my mom enters the departures lane for the airport.

“What is, honey?”

I gather my thoughts and sit with my embarrassment for a minute.

“I really was daft, wasn’t I? I mean, now that we’ve talked about things, and you’ve pointed out the dozens of times you two showed up at something as a couple, and I was literally right there! ”

My mom pats my knee.

“Well, it’s a good thing you’re handsome,” she jokes.

“Aww, that’s cold, Mom!”

We’re back to us, and it feels good. In fact, it feels better than before. My mom seems genuinely happy. Less lonely. And if I’m really going to do this thing for more than a single season, I like the idea of her having someone in her life to give her comfort. I like Jeff.

She pulls to the curb, and I hop out to grab my bag before gazing back across the passenger seat to say our goodbyes. Before I speak, though, she pulls out a package from the nook in her door and hands it to me.

“What’s this?” I arch a brow.

“Something I found the other day that I thought you might like to have. You can open it when you get inside.” Her coyness makes me suspicious.

It would be like my mom to buy me one of those embarrassing shirts, and I can tell by the floppiness and size of the wrapped item that it’s fabric or clothing.

“Okay, then. Drive safe, and I’ll call you.” I blow her a kiss.

“You better,” she says.

I push the passenger door shut and check the time on my phone.

I still have forty minutes before my flight.

I adjust my bag’s strap on my shoulder, then pull at the twine my mom fashioned into a bow.

Whatever this is, she wrapped it in re-used tissue paper from Christmas, the pale blue paper covered in snowflakes, wrinkled and torn in a few places.

I unravel it as I walk inside, and at first glance, the garment doesn’t look familiar.

But then I unfurl it and stop in my tracks.

It's my name printed in red across the back of a white jersey. It’s also my dad’s name.

STONE

My fingertip runs along the stitching, the sharp corner of the T scratching my skin.

It’s my father’s old public safety football jersey.

Fire played games against police every year for charity.

I loved this thing, and I wore it for Halloween at least three times when I was a kid.

The first year, my mom had to pin the hemline up nearly in half so it didn’t drag on the ground as I walked the neighborhood on a mission for candy.

I wanted nothing more than to be him every chance I got.

Halloween was the ideal time to act it out.

In total, I think I was either a firefighter or a fire football team captain eight times over the years.

As far as I was concerned, Todd Stone walked on water.

I fold the jersey, careful not to crease the letters on the back, and tuck it inside my travel bag. I pull my phone from my pocket and dial my mom as I head toward the security checkpoint. She answers right away.

“I love it.”

“I knew you would. It seemed like something that should live with you.” There’s a softness to her voice, a tell of her emotions. She’s not sad, though. She’s reliving moments. I recognize the tone because I speak in it myself at times.

“You think it fits?”

I didn’t really stretch it out enough to tell, but I remember it being large.

“Well, he never quite had your biceps, but I imagine you can pull it off.”

“Good. I’m going to wear it under my jersey if I can, at least for practice. Thanks, Mom. I love you.”

She echoes my affection, and I end our call as I step into the security line. A boy who looks to be about eleven or twelve is standing in front of me in line with a man I assume is his father. He gives me a double take before tugging on his dad’s jacket sleeve.

“Hey, that’s Wyatt Stone,” he whispers, and not very quietly either.

I feel my cheeks warm up. I’m not dressed up as I should be, but I have on a button down and slacks, so at least I’m professional-looking.

“How you doin’?” I say, nodding to him.

“Good,” he mutters, biting his bottom lip while he twists in place with nervous energy.

“Hey, great game, man. We were rooting for you. Pretty cool having an Arizona guy out there representing,” his dad says. He reaches out his hand and we shake.

“Thank you. I’m trying. It’s hard to keep up with those young guys, you know?” I kick myself internally when I realize he’s probably about a decade older than me.

“Oh, I don’t know about that. You looked comfortable to me. I think they had a hard time keeping up with you. Hey, good luck, man.”

“Thank you,” I say, tucking his words into the corner of my mind to dwell on later. Was I really that good?

His son keeps looking over his shoulder as we move up in the line.

I feel inside my bag for anything that might work for an autograph, and I come across my pen and the coffee receipt from my trip to LA.

I pull it out and scribble my signature along with a short message that I sort of borrow from my favorite quarterback growing up.

Kurt Warner signed a ball for me once, and he wrote, “Always play with heart.” It stuck with me, so maybe it will with him.

“Here,” I say, handing him the makeshift keepsake. “You’ll always know I take my coffee with double cream and sugar.”

His dad laughs, and the kid holds the paper up in front of him while wearing a grin and wide eyes.

“Thanks, Mr. Stone,” he says.

“Yeah, thanks, man.” His father glances at my message, then back to me, nodding. He gets it.

As we shuffle through the checkpoint and approach the scanners, I set my bag on the conveyor belt and leave my palm on top for an extra beat.

Play with heart. I think I will.