Page 2

Chapter Two

T ate’s Steakhouse is my father’s favorite place on earth. He says our home is his favorite, and then the high school field, but I’m pretty sure this old barn-looking joint complete with sawdust on the floors and never-ending hot rolls with butter has his heart. I’ll admit the food is good. But for my dad, I think it’s that literally every person who steps foot in or works here knows him. Intimately. As if he’s a godfather— that kind of godfather.

“Babe, I’ll be right back. Corbin just walked in, and it’s been a minute since we caught up.” This is the fifth time my dad has left our table to catch up with an old friend. I’m pretty sure he saw Corbin two weeks ago, the last time we were here with my grandparents and little sister.

“Okay, but hurry. Wyatt’s on his way and we need to order, Reed.” My mom shakes her head as my father flashes a thumbs up over his shoulder.

“You should have his funeral here,” I say.

My mom chuckles and pulls another roll from the basket in the center of the table. She rips a piece off and stuffs it in her mouth.

“If he keeps ditching me for middle-aged men, that funeral might come sooner than later,” she snarks mid-bite.

I smirk, then twist in the booth to track my dad. I spot him with his hand on his friend’s back, laughing at the bar. Just then, Wyatt walks in, and for a moment, Reed Johnson isn’t the most popular person in Tate’s.

“That should get Dad back to his seat,” I joke before scooting out of the booth to rush into my boyfriend’s arms. He high fives a few Tate’s regulars at the bar before patting my father on the shoulder, then immediately bracing himself for me. His arms wrap all the way around me, and a few patrons whistle when I nuzzle my face into the crook of his neck and wrap my legs around his waist.

“You saw me this morning,” he chuckles, kissing the side of my head as I breathe him in. I love the way he smells after a shower. His hair is still wet, and it’s soaked his T-shirt collar.

“You look good in jeans and a clean white tee, what can I say?” I slide down his body until my boots touch the floor again.

“Wait until you see me out of them,” he whispers in my ear just before my dad sidles up next to him, slinging an arm over his shoulder and guiding him away from me and to more old friends he wants to introduce him to.

“You two have thirty seconds before Mom makes Joey pull the saddle seats out and forces you both to sit on them through dinner,” I tease. Those chairs are usually reserved for birthday honorees, but my mom has the Tate’s owner, Joey, wrapped around her finger. And he’s planted my father’s ass on that saddle more than once just to make her happy. Truthfully, though? I think my dad likes the attention.

“I saw the presser today,” my mom says as I slip back into the booth and take my seat across from her.

My molars smash together as I wince. She and I have had a lot of therapeutic conversations about Bryce’s transfer. It’s easier to be honest with her about how uneasy it all makes me feel. My dad is too tangled in Bryce’s playing history. But also, he’s my dad, and any inkling of Bryce making me feel uncomfortable sends him into papa-bear mode.

“His answers were good,” I say.

“Whose?”

I glance up to meet her expectant stare. My stomach tightens.

“Both of them.”

My mom nods, I think a little bit in understanding my stress while also agreeing that yeah, Bryce didn’t come off too bad. Before we can get into it more, Wyatt scooches into the booth next to me and my dad slips in next to my mom.

“You two done signing autographs?” Mom teases.

Wyatt chokes out a short laugh before taking a bite of a roll.

“It wasn’t me they were interested in. This little shit is looking to take over my college records too.” My dad nods toward Wyatt, a bit of pride flashing in his eyes.

“I don’t know. I missed some games last year, so unless I play like I’m a Marvel Comics quarterback, I think your records will be just fine.” Wyatt’s being humble. He put up high enough numbers his freshman and sophomore seasons that even missing a few games late last season won’t set him back far.

I’m about to say so when Bryce suddenly appears at our table’s edge.

“Are you our server?” I blurt out. It comes out snarky, and my mother nudges my shin with the toe of her shoe.

Bryce chuckles awkwardly and I mutter a half-assed, “Sorry.”

“Honestly, I’m willing to wait tables if that’s what it takes for you to forgive me for my massive screw-up today.”

“Oh,” I utter, my gaze drifting to Wyatt, who’s focus is on his menu.

“You know the press loves a good joke. I’m sure it will blow right over,” my dad says, though he wasn’t actually there for it, and nobody laughed.

“Still, I shouldn’t have gone there. I’m sorry, to both of you,” Bryce says, holding out his hand for Wyatt.

My boyfriend’s eyes flit to his right and his jaw flexes before he eventually drops his menu and takes Bryce’s hand with a firm grip.

“Sure. We’re good.” I can tell by his tone that he’s far from good with any of this. Anyone in a five-foot radius can tell, and there are plenty of tables near us with eavesdroppers.

“Mrs. Johnson, it’s good to see you,” Bryce says, nodding toward my mom.

Ever the steady professional, her mouth curves into her famous smile, bright white teeth and dimples beside her glossed pink lips.

“Same, Bryce. I’m glad you’re doing so well. And it’s nice to have you home.” I’m pretty sure my mom means it, too. Bryce’s home life was always a little rough. Hs parents fought in public often and eventually divorced our junior year. My mom always had a soft spot for Bryce because of it. Family is pretty much a bedrock for my parents—it always comes first.

“Thank you, Mrs. Johnson. That means a lot.” Bryce smiles at my mom, then turns his attention to me, the corners of his mouth dropping a hint.

“I really am sorry.” His insistence makes me uneasy, even if it’s an apology.

“It’s fine, Bryce. Really—I’m fine.” My eyes flutter above my forced smile, but thankfully, Bryce was never that great at reading my facial expressions.

He falls back a step and his shoulders drop. I’m pretty sure he just exhaled.

“Well, you all enjoy your night. Wyatt, I’ll see you early for conditioning.”

The two of them nod at one another, and from the outside looking in, I’m sure it seems cordial. But most people can’t see the way Wyatt’s hand has gripped my thigh under the table––possessively. His palm rests on my leg for a few seconds before I clear my throat and he finally pulls it away.

For a few minutes, we all manage to fill the silence by chowing down the rest of the bread. Carbs can only tide us over for so long, though, and per usual, my dad is the one to break the tension in his super non-tactful way.

“So, seems his head games are doing the job, eh, Wyatt?” My dad takes a long sip from his beer as he settles into the leather seatback and stares at my boyfriend with a knowing smirk playing at his mouth.

Wyatt drops what’s left of the bread he’s basically been mashing back into dough and lets out a heavy sigh.

“Reed.” My mom’s tone carries the rest of the meaning. Lay off him tonight. Can’t we just enjoy dinner?

“I’m just giving you shit. You know that, right?” My dad waits a beat for Wyatt to nod, but I can feel the tension rolling off him. I lean forward to catch his sightline, and when our eyes meet, his flutter shut for a few seconds as he exhales for a second time.

“It’s just that I have to watch my back on the field, in the weight room, during freaking media day. I didn’t think I’d be watching my back at Tate’s is all. And you know full well, Peyt”—Wyatt leans in close to me, doing his best to keep his voice down—“He’s not charming you because he wants to mess with me. He wants you to forgive him . . . for everything. And then he just wants you , period.”

I drop my chin and draw my brows together a hint.

“At what point do you think I found any of that charming?” I hold Wyatt’s gaze until his mouth finally twitches with the threat of a smile.

“My part was charming, though. Right?” He’s fishing now, but also, he seems more relaxed.

I quirk a brow and turn my attention to the waiter who just stepped up to our tableside. After listening to him share tonight’s specials, we all rattle off our orders, and by the time he finishes filling our glasses with water, it seems like the Bryce conversation is finally done.

Except my dad’s had a few beers tonight. He’s been here chatting up old friends for a while. He’s feeling . . . punchy. And I maybe overshared some things last week when I went home to visit with Grampa.

“Bet you wish you went ahead and moved in with Peyton like she asked,” he blurts out, throwing in, “Not that I like the idea myself, mind you.”

My immediate instinct is to scout the space under our table to see if it can accommodate me. I give up on the idea when I see exactly how filthy the floor is, complete with peanut shells and straw bits. Next to me, Wyatt leans forward, dropping his face into his open palms and pressing his hands into his eyes.

“You’re being a tad loud, Reed,” my mom says, rubbing my father’s arm and mouthing, “Sorry,” to me.

I scan the restaurant, and the good news is fewer people seem to be staring at us now compared to when Bryce stopped by. The sound of a metal object clanking against the tabletop draws my focus to the space between Wyatt’s and my plates. It takes my mind a second to catch up to the key now lying there, and when I pick it up and realize it’s to Wyatt’s apartment—the one he just moved into with Whiskey—I promptly set it back down and slide it in Wyatt’s direction.

“Really? A pity key?” My pulse now thumps from irritability. But before I can push Wyatt out of my way so I can exit the booth, he takes my hand and unfurls my fingers, pressing the key in my palm, holding it in place with his thumb until I glance up and meet his gaze.

“Believe me, there is zero pity in this gesture. I planned on asking you to move in with me tonight, after a lovely dinner with your family. It’s been in the works for a week; I just needed to make sure Whiskey was able to swing a one-bedroom on his own. He’s moving to the unit downstairs next weekend. But since I seem to have veered onto the world’s unluckiest timeline, I’m sure you’ve changed your mind, so?—”

“Wyatt,” I interrupt.

His lips fall shut, but the top one twitches a little as our eyes meet. It’s a nervous tic I’ve learned he has, like it’s hard for him to patiently hold in his thoughts.

“I’d love to live with you,” I say, waiting for his nostrils to flex with his exhale. I know when he’s holding his breath.

“Wait a second, shouldn’t you have asked me?” I can tell from my father’s tone that he’s joking, but I’m pretty sure Wyatt’s had enough of Reed Johnson’s ribbing for one night.

“No, Dad. Because he’s not asking you to move in. Just me.” I wave my dad off, and he chuckles before immediately muttering something about needing to have a new “talk” with Wyatt.

“Yeah?” Wyatt says softly to me in the meantime, a crooked grin playing at his lips.

I nod as my eyes squint under the pressure of my growing smile.

“Yeah. I’ll be your roomie.” I close the tiny distance between us and push up enough to press a soft kiss to his lips. “On one condition,” I add.

His eyes flicker for a beat and his head tilts with caution.

“ You have to tell Tasha,” I say.

My best friend. Who is tougher than most of the linemen gunning for Wyatt on the field. Who does not like the idea of living alone. And who is going to lose her ever-loving mind when she finds out she’s going to have to find someone else to take over my half of our split floorplan.

Wyatt’s eyes remain wide open, perhaps a little frozen in fear. Without breaking our gaze, he feels for my hand and promptly pulls the key free of my grasp. Then, leaning to the side, he pushes it back into his pocket and utters, “Never mind.”