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Chapter Three

I t’s times like these when I really miss my dad. I didn’t inherit his decision-making skills. He was decisive, confident, somehow always right, yet never an asshole about it.

That’s one of my favorite qualities about Peyton.

It’s a piece of my father that I see alive in her, like a gift he sent me—someone who knows what they want out of life.

But she can’t help me with this. And really, even if my father were here, he wouldn’t be able to make the choice for me, either.

He’d guide me, but ultimately, the path I drive in this life comes down to me.

It’s not just my life, though, and that’s what’s got me stuck.

“You’re making eggs. You do that when you’re working out aggression.” Peyton’s bicep flexes as she whisks the seven yolks I watched her drop into the mixing bowl. I was planning on grabbing an apple on my way out this morning, but she was awake well before me and insisted on making breakfast.

She quirks a brow as she glances at me over her shoulder, arm still flexed, whisk . . . whisking.

“You know what gives me aggression?”

I shake my head, but I have a feeling it’s me. Right now. That’s what.

“People pointing out when I have aggression when all I’m doing is making some goddamn eggs.” Her slow, single blink is the cherry on top. Yeah. Zero aggression.

“Sorry,” I sigh, dropping my face into my palms and rubbing my tired eyes.

We talked through the scenarios for hours last night.

I found out about Whiskey getting the shot on my way home from practice.

Having my best friend with me nudges me in the direction of wanting to give this a try.

I also have a lingering worry that Whiskey’s opportunity hinges on me to a certain degree.

Like, if I don’t show up, his invite gets revoked.

It feels arrogant to think that, but Peyton voiced the same worry last night.

“He’s going to want an answer today. You know that, right?

If not a definitive one, at least a promising update so he knows you’re taking this seriously.

” A plate slides in front of me as I uncover my eyes.

I snag Peyton’s hand in mine before she flits back to the stove, where she is definitely not aggravated.

She drops her chin to her chest as her hand relaxes in my hold. I massage her fingers with both of my hands and hold her gaze hostage. It softens, probably because my eyes look something like those of a drowning puppy. I can feel how puffy and red they are without needing a mirror to confirm it.

“Babe, I told you I’m behind you, no matter what,” she says, sliding a hand through my hair, then down my jawline.

I close my eyes and shift my cheek against her palm until my lips find her wrist. I kiss it and let out the small bit of air left in my lungs.

“I don’t deserve you, you know that?”

She bends down as she tips my chin up and kisses me.

“Wyatt, you’re the only man who does. And that’s a fact.” She holds my stare for a beat, then squeezes my cheeks in her grip before leaving me to tend to the massive omelet she’s making.

The two of us eat in silence. Not a tense one, but a heavy one, regardless. There’s nothing more to say until I decide. We’d just be kicking around the same ideas, talking in circles, predicting and worrying, hoping and hedging.

Peyton said she supports me almost immediately when we started to talk last night.

Still, it’s that flash that passed behind her eyes after Tasha called that sticks with me—the worry of what our lives would look like if I took this chance, and more pointedly, what it means for a future family. Our future family.

I finish my breakfast and carry my dish to the sink, rinsing it off and smirking when I hear the little sigh Peyton lets out behind me about a second before she swoops in and shuts the water off.

“The point of the dishwasher is that it washes these for us. Don’t wash to wash.”

She’s already putting my plate and hers in the dishwasher before she’s done griping.

She stands up, flipping her hair from her face and blowing up at the strands that sometimes stick to her cheeks in the morning, and I help her push them out of the way before holding her face in my hands.

She catches my smirk and rolls her eyes.

“You do that just to watch me get all huffy, don’t you?”

I glance up and to the right, my mouth tugging up on one side.

“Maybe.”

She pushes my chest gently but easily gives in to the kiss I pull her in for.

“I’m off to pick your dad’s brain. He’s always in his office early. And I’m sure he already knows all about this.”

I’m a little surprised he hasn’t called, to be honest. But then again, if anyone understands the weight of this decision—whether to put my body through the grind or not—it’s Reed.

“You may as well plan to sit with Grampa for about an hour later, too. You know he has opinions.”

I meet her smirk and let out a soft laugh.

“First, that chat will be more than an hour, and somehow devolve into your grandmother pulling out the highlight DVDs from your dad’s high school days.

Then I’ll be on the floor again, figuring out how to get the damn DVD player to connect to his television, and probably end up hurting myself, which .

. . I guess . . . results in not having to make a choice.

” I flash my hands in the air between us, like a headline.

“Promising quarterback taken out of the game by ancient technology.”

Peyton laughs hard enough that her head kicks back, and for a moment, my lungs fill. I love that sound. Her eyes dazzle when she rights her head again and meets my gaze. And for a tiny moment, I believe everything she’s said since finding out—that no matter what, she and I? We’ll be all right.

I ’m not sure what to make of the fact Reed isn’t in his office when I pull into my usual parking spot, but rather is throwing balls from the caddy through the targets on the field. For a man in his fifties, he’s still got one hell of an arm.

I kill my truck’s engine and fold my arms over the steering wheel to watch him for a minute.

I’ve seen his highlights enough to know his movements by heart.

It’s been thirty-plus years of throwing, and I don’t know that he’s lost a step.

At least, not when the defenders are invisible figments of his imagination.

He’s lost in his past, I think, and it’s kind of fun to watch.

He pulls a ball from the caddy and steps back a few yards before pretending to take a snap.

His feet seem so light on the turf as he falls back before spinning to his right and rushing toward the sideline.

My mouth inches up at the corners as I anticipate his moves, his arm dropping to that signature three-quarter slot as he slings the ball practically side-armed and into the target net about twenty yards away.

He fakes a jump-shot, then claps his hands like he’s still in the game, under the lights, hearing the crowd.

I step out of my truck and push my fingers into my mouth to let out a whistle. When Reed jerks his head around and spots me, I clap above my head. He laughs me off and pinches the bridge of his nose, probably a little embarrassed that he got caught— by me.

My truck beeps as I press the fob to lock it, and I jog to the field to help Reed pick up the balls.

“Let me guess, you heard Portland was looking for a quarterback?” I joke, figuring he knows all about my invitation. He chuckles.

“Little competition is good for everyone, right? You don’t mind going up against me for the gig, do you?

” The weight of his palm as it slaps my back would be enough to take me out of the running if I thought he was serious.

Of course, he’s not. But I have a feeling this little exercise he’s in the middle of is part of a bigger point he plans on making.

“Who told you?” I squint as the sun hits my eyes over his shoulder.

“You mean first? Because Bryce couldn’t help himself yesterday.

I don’t think we made it all the way to my office before he blabbed about it.

And then, well, ya know . . . Whiskey called.

And that wife of his. And Jason and I met up for a beer last night, so you could say I’ve gotten most of the angles covered.

I mean, except yours, of course. And my daughter’s.

You two have been remarkably mum about the news, which makes me wonder?—”

“Well, keep wondering,” I laugh out. He joins me, getting it. I’m lucky to have Reed in my life. He’s not my father, but I know they would have been like brothers. There is so much about them that’s the same. And Reed sees me in ways that only a man who’s been in my shoes can.

We push the caddy to the sideline, then take a seat on the middle bench, both of us leaning forward and resting our elbows on our knees as we knead our hands.

“What’s Peyton think?” He swivels his head to meet my gaze.

I shrug.

“She says she supports me no matter what.”

Reed shakes with a short laugh.

“Well, shit. That’s not helpful at all, is it?”

I shake my head.

“No, sir. Not in the least.”

I sit up straight and grip the bench on either side of me, shifting my focus to the golden light coloring the tips of the ripe spinach and kale fields on the other side of the fence.

There aren’t many farms left in Coolidge, but I hope this one stays.

I can’t imagine sitting here one day and seeing rooftops or a block wall around a shopping center. It won’t hit the same.

“You probably came out here early thinking I’d be able to get your head straight.” The way he says it hits my chest with a thud. Something about his tone tells me Reed’s not going to be able to give me any answers, either.

“How did you decide? I mean, when you went in the draft, and when you left the game. All of it.” I squint one eye as I look at him. His eyes meet mine as he softly chuckles.

“Nolan.” He shrugs, as if it’s that simple. It’s not. It can’t be.