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Chapter One

I ’m already mic’d and I’ve paced the green room about forty times—the approximate number of times Peyton has given me the “stay calm” speech. I don’t know why she’s lecturing me when she’s the one with her hand in a fist and her molars crackling.

“Peyt, I’m fine. I swear. I’ve had an entire spring and summer to get used to the idea.”

Bryce Hampton entered the transfer portal the second it opened after I broke my collarbone at the end of last season. This is his second transfer. He’s on the hunt for playing time, sick of playing backup. And he smelled blood when I went down. I know I’ll need to compete for my spot—half the reason I came to Arizona is because Coach Byers insists every spot is up for grabs. He believes in putting the best team on the field. So do I. And I’m the best guy to lead it.

“I just know how Bryce likes to get under your skin.” Peyton pauses to straighten my shirt collar. I’m not great at shirts with ties. It feels like I’m being choked. Besides, if I adjust things now, I’ll just screw up the mic.

“Hey.” Her eyes stop on mine after she gives my tie a good tug. I cover her hands with my palms. They’re so soft and sweet, like her face. The golden flecks in her brown eyes sparkle sometimes, usually when she’s stressed or excited. I prefer the later. I squeeze her hand a little, then bring it to my mouth, kissing her knuckles.

“I promise I won’t let him get to me.”

She steps up on her toes and presses her lips to mine, her smile stretching as she falls back on her heels. She wants to watch, probably because she’s as curious as I am about what Bryce is going to say in that media room. I should warn her that the minute she walks in there, the only thing people are going to see is her. Even in a white T-shirt tucked neatly into white slacks with what she called “a boring leather belt” this morning, she’s drop-dead gorgeous. Peyton Johnson has this easy way about her but is always somehow completely put together, as if she simply walked off the page of a magazine.

“Good. Now go get ’em.” She pats my chest before backing away and leaving me alone with my thoughts in the room just outside the stadium’s media center.

I run through my talking points, muttering to myself. I didn’t lie to Peyton. It doesn’t matter what Bryce says in our joint interview sessions. There isn’t a voice loud enough to drown out my own, which has not stopped cycling through negative thoughts since I felt the crack near my shoulder after Cal State’s number seventy-four flattened me on my ass. I’ve fought hard to combat each negative thought with a positive one, the way my father taught me.

I’m never going to come back from this.

I can come back from anything.

Everyone will think I’m weak.

I’ll show them I’m not.

Who am I if I’m not a quarterback?

I am a fucking quarterback.

It’s that last question that attacks me most often. And my fear is dismissing it will only last so long. Because I’m not sure who I am without a ball in my hand, without the grind, and without the weight of a team on my shoulders. I thrive under the pressure. Without it, I’m afraid I’ll simply float away.

“Wyatt Stone.”

My mouth sours at the sound of Bryce’s voice. I may be able to handle this situation with grace, but underneath it all, I hate every second of it.

“Hey, Bryce. Been a while,” I say, spinning around as he crosses the room toward me, his hand outstretched. We grasp palms, and I’m pretty sure he’s trying to out-squeeze me. I know I’m testing his grip. Petty. I feel like I win, though.

“Crazy we end up in the same place after all this time, huh? Who would have thought?” He sniffs as he tilts his head up, a little act of fake bravado that’s stuck around since he was in high school.

“I mean, not totally crazy. You did ask to come here in the portal, and it’s not like me being here is a secret.” Okay, maybe I’m not as ready for this as I let Peyton believe.

“Ha.” Bryce snickers, his top lip sneering. He didn’t actually find my observation funny. It wasn’t meant to be.

“Right, well . . . maybe it was about time we teamed up. And with my extra year of eligibility, maybe we’ll see this program winning back-to-back championships.” His eyes lock on mine, and I bite my tongue behind my lips to keep my mouth in check.

“Yeah, maybe. We didn’t really have anyone ready to step in when I leave, so . . .” I turn my back to him and head toward the craft services table, a little ashamed of my passive-aggressive taunt. He started it, though.

His shoulder knocks into mine a second later, and he reaches across me to take a handful of cheese and crackers. He proceeds to crunch in my ear.

“Well, I’m just here to win. Whatever it takes, right?” Pieces of cracker flake from his lips as he speaks. It’s gross. I think he’s trying to push all my buttons.

“For sure,” I say, popping my fist gently- ish into his shoulder.

“All right, Bryce . . . Wyatt. We’re ready for you.” Sonia, the university athletics communication director, props the door open with her foot as she waves at us to hurry with the clipboard in her hand. She’s wearing a headset and holds up a finger when I ask how feisty the media is this morning. I start to move through the door, but she presses her palm to my shoulder, urging me to pause for a second while she seems to be listening to someone on her intercom.

“Got it. I’ll send him in first.” She drops her headset around her neck and nudges her head toward Bryce.

“They want you first. Just to get through the transfer questions before they get into the team business. I’ll send Wyatt in after about ten minutes, so you won’t be hanging out there alone too long.”

Bryce’s lip edges up on one side as he nods to accept her instructions, and when his gaze passes mine before he heads into the media room, every bone in my body sears with a thousand volts, as if I were just struck by lightning.

I breathe in deeply, holding the oxygen in my lungs until it burns. My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I pull it out to find a message from Peyton.

PEYTON: Just breathe.

I shake my head and laugh quietly to myself. She’s sitting in the media room, in the back. It took her about three seconds to see Bryce walk in alone and know just what to do to center me.

ME: I am. Like I told you, I’ll be fine.

She sends back a laughing emoji followed by the words bullshit. I heart her response. As much as I say I’m the steady one, I still have my weaknesses and insecurities. And nobody sees me better than Peyton.

“You wanna listen in?” Sonia asks.

I nod and take up the other door jamb, leaning my shoulder into it in time to hear the roar of laughter among the media in the room. Shit, he’s going to be the funny one. That makes me the serious one. Nobody likes the serious one.

“Jency, from The Times .” Sonia’s assistant is running the room. She’s young, an intern. It’s good she’s getting her feet wet with pre-season media sessions. That room can get downright hostile after a game, especially if we lose a close one.

“Thank you. Bryce, it’s good to see you. Weird to see you wearing blue and red.” Jency covers all the Arizona college sports. He loved it my freshman year when Bryce and I were going to be rivals. That never manifested because Bryce red-shirted a year, which means Jency’s probably foaming at the mouth to stir up something new, now that we’re vying for the same starting spot.

“Yeah, I know. My path here was strange for sure, but I feel like I’m right where I am supposed to be. Sometimes you need to get the bumps and bruises to grow, you know?”

I spit out a quiet laugh at Bryce’s response, and Sonia gives me side-eyes.

“Sorry,” I whisper, but her scowl lingers for a few extra seconds. Her job is to keep the peace, at least according to anyone outside the locker room. She doesn’t need me throwing out grenades.

I turn my attention back to the media room and she does the same. I can’t see much other than Bryce’s left shoulder and a few of the podcasters sitting up front with their phones held out to catch every word.

“That’s a positive attitude, Bryce. I’m sure Coach Byers appreciates that. But I wonder, how do you keep that up when you’re fighting for a starting spot against one of the best senior college quarterbacks out there? Why step into that situation? You could have transferred into a situation that promised playing time, but you didn’t. Why?”

I’ll give it to Jency—he goes right to the heart of a sports story. That’s the answer I want to know too. Why, of every school that was interested, did he decide to come here?

Bryce takes a few seconds to answer, shifting his weight and moving his left arm as he scoots closer to the table. I haven’t paid much attention to his media hits over the last year, but fresh out of high school, he had quite a mouth on him. He was quick to the mic, a big fan of his own sound bites. Seems he has learned to think before speaking.

“I meant what I said about those bumps and bruises teaching me a thing or two. I’ve done a lot of self-exploration. Sitting on the bench gives you time to think.”

The reporters in the room chuckle at his quip. He’s the funny one.

“Anyhow,” Bryce continues. “Not starting as a freshman bought me a little more time, and I really thought hard about what I wanted to do with that time. I could have stepped into a mediocre squad that was desperate for a quarterback, and maybe we would have won more than we lost. I probably would have gotten some attention for doing what I could with them. But that would have been the easy route. I looked at Arizona and saw an opportunity to learn, to get better. To be part of a team that fights for every inch. One that takes practices as seriously as games. And if that means I’m playing number two to one hell of a quarterback, then maybe that’s what I need to do to step into the spotlight when it’s my time.”

The room is quiet for a few seconds after his response, until eventually, Jency utters, “Thank you,” and passes the mic to someone else. Sonia elbows my side and drops her brow when our eyes meet.

“Those are some pretty complimentary words he had for you out there.” She purses her lips just to rub it in. I take my lumps and suck in a long breath as I nod.

He said the right things. I still don’t trust him, though. Just because he spent a couple of years learning how to be polished at the mic doesn’t mean he won’t play dirty everywhere else. I’m down for a fair fight for the starting gig. It’s the deceptive shit I’ll be on the lookout for.

“When the school press is done with this question, we’ll send you out to join him.” Sonia holds the mic part of her headset close to her mouth as she mutters her plan to her assistant. I’m never nervous for the media room, but my pulse is racing now. My palms are a little sweaty too. I run them along my thighs and flex them to work out the nervous energy while Bryce rattles out a few softball answers about his idols growing up. At least he didn’t say Reed Johnson. I’m already on edge about how everyone’s going to piece our history together. Both of us having the same role model would make the puzzle way too easy to solve.

“Okay, go on out, Wyatt,” Sonia urges.

I crack my knuckles and exhale like Peyton does when she’s doing her weird yoga crap. She swears it works.

I walk into the room and take the open seat next to Bryce, and we exchange knuckles as if we’ve been besties since grade school. I can put on a show, too. The cameras catch our friendly interaction as we both set our expressions to jovial smiles, and I ready myself to be at my best for the next twenty minutes.

The first few questions are easy and obvious.

How’s the collarbone?

What was my routine for physical therapy?

Do I feel ready for our first game against Northern Iowa?

And then they hit me with it. Well, Jency hits me with it.

“So, are we to presume Coach told you you’ll be starting next Saturday?”

I take a beat, which I always do, but this time I give it an extra breath. I have to be careful here—show I’m ready but also respect the process. Never mind the raging voice inside, screaming at me to fuck the process!

“Jency, I think you know all too well that nobody speaks for Coach Byers but Coach Byers. What I can tell you is that I feel great. My reps are up to the same levels they were before the injury. I’ve somehow gotten a little faster, maybe from all the PT, who knows. And if he puts me in the game, I’m going to be ready to execute.”

Phew.

“A follow up for you both?—”

I exhale, and it irritates me that I don’t hear Bryce do the same. Instead, he sits up tall, ready to take on more. I nod.

“It’s been mentioned here and there that you two were rivals in high school. Is that correct?”

“Oh, I don’t know that—” I stop short, my smile instantly tight, holding in the lie as I glance to my left, meeting Bryce’s similar expression. He spits out a short laugh, and I exhale again, this time letting my lips flap. Fuck it. “Yeah, I mean, sure. We were rivals.”

I hated this motherfucker.

“Do you think that rivalry will rekindle? And will it make you both better or worse?” The pregnant pause that fills the room sparks a few chuckles from the other reporters.

I glance back to Bryce and hike my shoulders along with my eyebrows.

“You want this one?” I prod. If he’s going to be the funny one, might as well let him put out fires.

“Uh, sure. Well . . . I mean, there’s only one quarterback in the game at a time. And do we both want to be in? Yeah, we wouldn’t be here if that wasn’t the case. But we’re both grownups now, and it’s probably fair for me to admit that Wyatt’s always been a little more mature. Historically, our rivalry didn’t paint me in a very good light. I mean, hell, Wyatt even got the girl.”

Everything suddenly moves in slow motion, beginning with Bryce’s hand as it gestures toward Peyton in the back of the room, and continuing all the way through every head swiveling to stare in her direction. Her eyes grow wide and remain that way, and the room is so quiet I swear I hear her hard swallow. A few cameras snap and Peyton’s eyes flutter, snapping my world, and perhaps everyone else’s, back to regular speed.

Somehow sensing the instant chokehold that revelation left in the room, Sonia steps in before Jency has a chance to monopolize the press room and ask yet another follow-up.

“All right, everyone. I need to get these guys to the film room. If you have additional questions, I’ll be around for another hour to fill in any gaps you might have. In the meantime, please refer to the QR code on the screen for the materials we’ve posted.” Sonia flips on the large presentation board, and Peyton ducks out during the distraction.

“Dude, I’m so sorry,” Bryce says as I get up to leave. His hand grasps my shoulder, and it takes every ounce of restraint not to shirk him off.

“You put a huge target on her, Bryce. Not cool. And I’m not the one you should apologize to,” I bark over my shoulder as he follows me down the steps and back into the green room.

“I know. I got carried away, and I didn’t want people to think I was only in this to beat you.”

“You’re not?” My response surprises me, but the way saying it out loud soothes the raging fire in my stomach means it needed to be said.

I stop in front of my backpack and gear bag, dropping my hands into my pockets and turning around to face him. His mouth is slack, and he’s chewing at the inside of his cheek with his brow drawn in tight.

“I meant what I said, Wyatt,” he finally says. “I came here because it’s where I’ll become the best quarterback before the draft. And if it means learning some shit from you before I get my shot, then I’m ready to do it.”

We stare at one another for a few long seconds, sizing each other up, perhaps, and maybe feeling each other out. Eventually, we turn away from each other, grab our shit, and leave the media center. I let him get a head start to avoid more conversation.

It’s hard to tell what’s bullshit and what’s real with him. It’s not like I ever knew the guy well. I know what Peyton has told me about him, and I know what I saw of him in high school and after we parted ways for college. I know there was always something in him that Reed respected, and I have to accept that. But it doesn’t mean I have to like sharing my space with him.

And I sure as shit don’t have to like him talking about Peyton.