Page 39

Chapter Twenty-Nine

P eyton hasn’t slept this late since Warner was born four months ago. I never thought the day would come when seven in the morning feels like sleeping in, but here we are.

She must have fallen asleep feeding him in bed last night.

It was a welcome surprise for me to wake up to his eyes wide open, staring at me.

I’ve been letting him hold my pinky finger for the past ten minutes, studying how his little mind works.

Everything he touches and sees is so new, and it makes everything new in my eyes.

“Hey, what time is it?” Peyton rubs a fist in her right eye, and her voice is groggy.

“It’s seven. Go back to sleep. I got him,” I say, rolling in close enough to kiss the tip of her nose before scooping up my son and carrying him into the living room.

I pop him in the fuzzy green slingback chair that buzzes and makes fish bubbling sounds while I warm up a bottle.

He’s getting so big, and I swear it’s not because we’re overfeeding him.

The kid can eat like a champ, though. He was sixteen pounds at our last doctor’s visit a week ago, and I’d swear he’s put on a couple more since.

He starts to fuss, so I crouch next to him while I wait for the bottle. He likes it when I count his toes, so I start at the pinky and tap my way to the big one on his right foot, then do it again for the left. His mouth pushes into the cutest smile, and the spit bubble only makes it cuter.

“Who wants breakfast?” I whisper, rushing to get his bottle.

I test the temperature on the inside of my wrist, then lift him out of the magic nap chair to carry him to my favorite recliner.

I prop him in the crook of my elbow and touch the bottle’s nipple to his mouth.

He opens wide and begins to guzzle, so I guide his hands to the bottle while he’s drinking.

He’s close to figuring out how to hold it.

I left my phone on the nightstand, so I snag the remote and turn the television on at a low volume. It’s been ages since I’ve watched it, between the baby and helping Reed with spring ball. I’m exhausted when I hit the pillow at eight, and Peyton is basically exhausted all the time.

I buzz through the channels, stopping on cable sports news, and I click the volume up just enough to catch most of the words.

It’s baseball season, and this household doesn’t compute anything that isn’t football, so pretty much every story is news to me.

One of the Diamondbacks hit for the cycle last night while I was sleeping, so that’s cool.

And the Dodgers’ new fireball thrower needs Tommy John surgery.

I’m surprised there isn’t more of that happening with young quarterbacks, honestly.

There’s this insane pressure to overperform, and it starts in college.

It took me an entire season to get Chance to take his arm care seriously.

Hell, it took me two-thirds of the season to get him to trust me.

I’m still not totally sure the kid likes me, but he did send me a nice card along with a ton of wine from some vineyard he invested in.

He wanted to thank me for mentoring him. Peyton joked that he was really thanking me for giving him the job. I didn’t give it to him, though. It was always his, never mine. Like I said, I was simply passing through.

It stung when Portland didn’t sign me again, even though I saw it coming. I gave that team my heart, even when I wasn’t at the helm. It never felt like home, though. It felt like a test. Who knows if I passed or failed, but at least I wasn’t the only face to go.

Granted, Coach Elgin left on his terms. He was the one who requested a one-year contract. I don’t think Phillips is ready to step into the role, but Mickey seems to, and that’s the guy they’re going with.

Warner’s eyes grow heavy as he drains his bottle, and when he lets it fall from his lips, I set it to the side and hold him against my chest while I rub his back.

The little guy snores. Peyton says he’s just breathing, but I swear there’s a faint whistle sound in there.

My dad used to do that, and I bet there’s something about the way Warner’s nose was formed that’s just like my dad’s.

He's fast asleep in my arms in minutes, so I settle in for the long haul and turn the volume up one more tick so I can at least hear the program. They move from baseball to tennis, and then a commercial break for a new shake flavor at the DQ. My stomach rumbles, but I don’t dare get out of this chair while the house is this quiet.

I’m about to power the TV off when the next story catches my attention.

“Jerry Caswell . . . remember him?”

I sit up a little, but glance down to make sure Warner is still fast asleep. He is.

“Yeah, he was one of my favorite players for the Lions back in the day,” the co-anchor says.

“You and a lot of folks. Well, Jerry Caswell went in with Michael Payne on the Portland Cyclones expansion team, if you remember.”

“I do.”

My pulse is speeding up thanks to their banter. They’re dragging this out, and the ticker at the bottom of the screen isn’t giving any clues as to what this is all about. Get to the point, fellas!

“Well, reports came out today that Caswell sold his interest in the team. Now, I’m not sure whether he was unhappy with the business investment or unhappy with Payne, whom I have heard?—”

“Can be a pain , yeah. I’ve heard that, too.”

I chuckle at their joke. Also, why did I never think of that?

“It will be interesting to see if Jerry Caswell surfaces somewhere else, maybe with another team. Or, who knows, perhaps he’ll be joining us on the desk come fall.”

Huh.

“In other news, a young Olympic hopeful set a new record for twelve-year-olds in the swimming pool . . .”

I turn the volume down again and mull over everything I just heard.

I wonder if Reed has heard anything. He and Jerry were getting close again during the season.

I’m not sure they talked business, though.

I can’t say I blame Jerry for cutting ties with Mickey.

Portland has the potential to be a good team if Mickey would just let the good people he hires do their jobs.

I consider sending Jerry a text, but by the time Peyton wakes up and takes over Warner duty from me, I forget.

We tag-team a few chores around the house, finally putting our own laundry away and starting another load of onesies.

I swear, our infant has more costume changes than a Taylor Swift concert.

I fix Peyton her favorite sandwich for lunch, a toasted hoagie roll piled high with salami and prosciutto and those little yellow peppers she likes.

I try to remember to give her the little things, to remind her that I love her more than anything on this planet other than Warner.

My dad always made sure he did the little things for my mom, like always making sure her gas tank was full or that she had a clean towel waiting for her after a shower.

Peyton does them right back for me, too.

I may be nearing thirty, but I still love pancakes decorated with chocolate chips.

Peyton makes them for me, just like they do at Jack’s, then draws me a funny face in semi-sweet morsels every time.

“You should get to practice. I think we’re going to take a nap together,” she says, kissing Warner’s forehead as he sleeps in her arms.

“Maybe I skip today, take that nap with you,” I say, truly tempted.

Peyton playfully pushes my chest, though, coaxing me toward the door.

“I’m kind of looking forward to hogging the bed to myself. And you won’t fit in the bassinet with Warner, so . . .”

I chuckle.

“I got it. Okay, fine. I’ll be home in a couple of hours.”

I kiss her goodbye, then slip out the side door, gently closing it so I don’t make a loud sound.

The ground is beginning to take shape on the back acre of the property.

I can see it from the guest house’s kitchen window, but the view is extremely clear from the driveway.

Peyton and I decided to start building our place slowly.

Her dad, of course, offered to help, but it’s enough that they gave us the land.

We want to do this ourselves. And the money from my one-year deal is going to get us mostly there.

From where I stand, the foundation looks good.

I climb into my truck and make my way to the high school. I pull in next to Reed’s truck, and the old Lions sticker he still has on his back window reminds me of the news I learned regarding Jerry.

Reed’s sitting on the first row of bleachers when I head out to the field, so I follow his gaze and see the group of freshmen and sophomores running the long route around the school’s perimeter.

“Someone show up late?” I’m late. I hope he doesn’t think I’m running too.

“Someone showed up with weed. The entire fucking locker room stinks. They wish they were late.”

I squint as I look across the field, honestly proud that they’re not half-assing things. They aren’t jogging this.

“Is this one of those ‘if you won’t tell me who did it, then you’re all being punished’ moments?”

Reed nods.

“Sure is.”

I take a seat next to him and reminisce about the time he and Coach Watts made us run bleachers in the middle of the night.

“Bunch of assholes, you guys were,” he mumbles.

I cackle out loud. He cracks me up when he’s ornery.

“Yeah, I’ve heard your stories from Buck, so don’t think you’re better than me,” I push back.

“Shit, I know I’m not. You don’t know half the crap we pulled.” He gets up to walk away after dropping that bomb, and I simply stare at his back. I tag along when I realize he’s heading to the field.

“Hey, you talk to Jerry lately? You hear the news?” I ask.

“I haven’t talked to him, but I saw on the news that he sold his shares. Good for him. That Mickey Payne character is bad for football. Jerry can do better. He’s got too much to give the game.”