Page 29

Chapter Twenty-One

I can’t miss today. Every pass is on the money. Even Phillips gave it up for me a few times. I caught the whistle he let out when I dropped a fifty-yarder on a dime, hitting Jax in the end zone.

I’m still not Phillips’s guy, but today, for the first time, I don’t feel as though he’s actively rooting against me.

“Maybe you should wear weird-ass vintage jerseys out here more often, Stone,” he jokes.

“Ha, maybe,” I say, keeping the origin of my jersey to myself.

The only person out here who knows the meaning behind it is Whiskey, and he hasn’t seen it yet, other than the photo I sent to him and Peyton earlier.

The line will show up soon so we can run through a few plays before we break for dinner.

We have a lot to clean up from the first pre-season game, and it’s a short week for us with our next game Friday afternoon.

At least we’re home this time. No travel break.

Chance has been throwing short passes near the sideline while I’ve been practicing targets.

He’s itching to get out here, but the head trainer doesn’t seem keen on letting him go full throttle just yet.

I could tell him why his elbow hurts if he’d just listen to me, but I’m not sure he’s ready to ease up on the showboating just yet.

I knew the moment I saw him throwing those rocket passes for warm-ups the day we met that he would end up this way. I didn’t expect it to happen so soon.

I make my way to the water station, careful to keep my distance from the nearby press area.

Peyton’s statement after her hearing yesterday seems to have made the rounds, and everyone wants me to comment.

I haven’t read it yet, so I’m not even sure what I’d say.

Besides, I’m not the guy to be talking to the media out here.

I get the sense Mickey wouldn’t care for me looking like I’m the spokesperson. He seems to like Phillips for that.

I toss back some water, then prop a foot on one of the benches to adjust the wrap around my right lower calf.

Chance must be done with his reps as he heads my direction, setting the ball down by my foot as he passes.

We don’t make eye contact, which is probably for the best, but regardless, I get a good feel for his hostility.

“We wearing rec team jerseys out here now?” He laughs at his own joke as he guzzles down water behind me. I grit my teeth and do my best to ignore him.

“Hey, don’t knock it until you try it, Hickory,” Phillips says. It’s a rather backhanded way to defend me.

“Oh, yeah? You saying I should spend a few years playing rec ball like Stone here?”

The back of my jersey tugs up as someone picks at one of the letters in the last name. I shrug the touch off and turn around to catch Chance walking backward with a laugh.

“Don’t do that,” I warn.

“Oooooh,” he needles, holding his hands out to the sides and wiggling them.

Nobody else is laughing, so I continue to bite my tongue.

“You make fun of it, but Stone was making throws on a rope today. That rust is coming off.” Phillips holds a fist out for me. I bump it and nod back as I utter, “Thanks.”

“ Pshh , he’s just loose. When I get this elbow feeling right, I’ll show you how quarterbacks do it today.

It’s probably a good thing you don’t get too comfortable in our uniform.

You’ll be riding the bench soon, collecting your little one-year deal for pension.

Hey, maybe you can take it to Goodwill and buy yourself some more piece of shit jerseys when the season is done. ”

I straighten my spine and crack my neck at his words, and I’m about to get in his face when Whiskey cuts into the space between us, doing it for me.

“Let’s stop talking about shit you don’t know anything about, yeah?” Whiskey’s let his beard grow out, and he looks like a wild man who wandered in from the Oregon woods to play some football. He’s also about twice the size of Chance.

“This is a beef between me and him,” Chance explains. Whiskey pokes him in the chest in response.

“Understand this. A beef with him is a beef with me. You have a lot of growing up to do, toddler.” My friend barks when he’s done, literally saying the word woof as he snaps his teeth and lunges toward the young QB.

It takes every ounce of willpower in my body not to break into laughter over the way Chance looks as though he’s about to shit his pants.

Before any of us can stir up more trouble, one of the training assistants taps my shoulder as she holds out a cell phone that isn’t mine. My face puzzles as I take it into my hand, but then she says, “Peyton,” and my heart flies wildly around the inside of my body.

“Hey! What’s wrong?”

I walk toward the tunnel, fighting the temptation to run.

“I’m fine. Everything is okay. Please do not overreact.”

It’s weird how her words do the opposite to my physical chemistry.

“Peyt, tell me,” I huff out, picking up my pace as I pass through the tunnel and turn right to head toward the locker room. I pause near the security office and duck into a small nook for privacy.

“I was having some muscle tightening, so I went to the hospital . . .”

I drop down on my haunches and drop my forehead into my palm. Hospital. I feel sick.

“Wyatt, you’re not listening. Everything is okay. I’m okay. I came here as a precaution because it was much worse than it usually is, and I didn’t want it to affect the baby. The heart rate is fine. I’m fine. They’re doing some massaging and PT with me.”

She’s fine. The baby is fine.

I slide into a sitting position, letting my back fall against the concrete wall as my stomach finds its way back to where it belongs.

“I’m sorry I’m not there.”

“No, Wyatt. Don’t.” She’s quick to answer me, but it doesn’t take away the fact I really wish I was with her.

“Are they keeping you overnight?” I’m sure her mom would stay with her if they were. She’s got family there. She’s taken care of.

“God, I hope not. But I’ll be fine.”

There’s a machine beeping in the background, and I can’t help but think it’s counting heartbeats—hers, our baby’s. My whole life.

“Do they know what triggered it?” I ask. Her spasticity has been under control for the last two months, and her doctor thought she might be one of the few lucky spinal injury patients who doesn’t have flare-ups with pregnancy.

“Well, my doctor did mention stress,” she says in a wry tone.

I chuckle softly and close my eyes.

“Yeah, I guess life has been a bit extra recently.”

“ Hmm , you think?” Her laugh soothes me.

“What’s crazy is I was turning things around today when it happened. I did something big, and I think you’ll be proud of me once you get over your initial shock.”

I swear my wife is an expert at doling out information in such a way as to fuck with my nervous system. I pinch my brow.

“What did you do?”

“Well . . .”

Her over-the-top guilty tone forces a hard laugh from me.

Jerry passes by and stops when he hears me, scrunching his face and holding his thumb up, then tipping it down as if to ask if I’m okay.

I nod and point to the phone, mouthing, “Peyton.” He nods, but his brow stays furrowed.

It’s a strange time for me to be on this call.

If I were any other guy out here, or hell, any guy trying to get out here, I’d wrap things up now that I know she’s okay. But that’s not how I operate, and it’s not the way I ever want to. This game will always be second to her. And Mickey can tell me to pack my bags if he has an issue with that.

Peyton proceeds to tell me about her day, and she was right, I flip out a little when she shares that she went to the Sommers’ house. But once I calm down and hear her out, I get her reasons.

“Do you think Alissa will show up tomorrow?”

Peyton’s quiet for a few seconds.

“That’s a hard question to answer, because yes, I think she’ll show up. I’m just not sure whether she’ll be handing me her uniform or accepting this new role. But I’m okay no matter which way it goes, ya know? It’s about letting it be her choice.”

My smile creeps into my cheeks.

“You’re good at this. Coaching?”

“Yeah?” I can tell she’s proud of herself. I’m proud of her, too.

“Yeah. And Peyt? You’re going to be a great mom.”

Her breath hitches on the other end of the call, and after a long second, she whispers, “Thanks.”

The clatter of cleats on concrete stirs me out of my complacency.

I get to my feet and peek down the corridor, where a dozen or so linemen file toward the field.

I grab the back of my neck, wanting nothing more than to stay right here in this little concrete shelter away from responsibility, and talk to Peyton a little longer.

“Hey, I gotta get back. But maybe we can do that thing tonight where we fall asleep on the phone, like teenagers?”

“It’s a date,” she says. “Oh, and Wyatt, one more thing. I can’t travel. Like, at all. So?—”

“So . . . no visit this weekend.”

“Or the next.”

The line is silent with our shared, heavy thoughts. This sucks. But it’s important. She has to stay healthy and safe, and traveling for a few football games isn’t worth the risk. Football became number three when we found out she was pregnant.

“There’s always the Arizona game,” she finally says.

I do the mental math, but it’s too far away to count to the first week of November. Instead, I’ll count the hours until I can call her tonight.

“I’ll be in the apartment by seven sharp.”

“It’s a date.”