Page 21

Chapter Twenty-One

I ’ve only seen Bryce’s dad a handful of times, but the last occurrence made such an impression on me that it must have imprinted his profile deep into my brain. There are a dozen or so visitors in the stands watching our open practice today, mostly reporters speckled around the front two rows behind the training staff and coaches. From across the field, though, I recognize one man—one profile. Alex Hampton, Bryce’s sudden number one fan.

I flip around, knowing Bryce is a few yards behind me, and try to distract him on our way onto the field.

“Hey, did I tell you Peyton threw a ball yesterday?” He’s been supportive of hearing every little accomplishment I have to share about her, and at the news of this latest one, his brows lift high.

“Could she do that before?” he jokes. For being the daughter of a legendary quarterback, Peyton’s athletic talents take a different form. She’s more power, speed—strength.

“Maybe it’s like when Spiderman got bit by the radioactive?—”

“Fuck me, what’s he doing here?” Bryce cuts me off.

It was a good attempt by me, but the second Bryce glances over my shoulder, he has a clear shot of his dad.

“Try to ignore him.” I know it’s an impossible bit of advice the second I utter it, but it had to be said.

“Yeah, you mean the way he always ignored me. Got it.” His heavy brow and soured expression drop a weight into my chest. I’m not sure he’s going to make it through today’s practice without causing a scene.

We drop our gear on the sideline and meander out toward the center of the field along with Shad, Coach Skye, and the receivers group. We do some stretching as a team, then run a few sprints, warming our legs up. Bryce’s attention seems to be pulled away every few seconds during warmups, even as he and I toss the ball to prime our arms for throwing drills. Finally, Coach Skye steps in front of Bryce to block his view of his father.

“Do we have a problem we need to address, Hampton?” Coach Skye is about as warm and fuzzy as our head coach, meaning he’s sharp as a knife and cold as a steel blade.

Bryce’s nostrils flare in response, and I can tell he’s fighting to keep his cool. The student managers for our team are talking the group of visitors through today’s run-down for practice, and Bryce’s father claps louder than everyone else anytime there’s a reason to applaud.

Not wanting Bryce to get himself in trouble, and maybe because I feel I owe the guy, I step in front of him and press my hand on his chest.

“He’s fine. Just anxious to work some new routes today.” Coach’s gaze flashes to me, and he nods with a short laugh before leaving us to finish our long toss.

“I know this sucks, and I’ll tell him you don’t want him to show up here anymore once we get through this practice, but you have to show you can handle yourself without being a hothead in front of Skye and Byers, okay?”

Bryce’s eyes drift to mine, his gaze still hardened, but he nods with a faint exhale.

Somehow, over the last couple of weeks, I’ve started to root for Bryce’s success. Not that I want him to surpass me, but I see the changes he’s making, and I’m seeing the legacy I could maybe leave behind by handing the team over to him next season. Maybe it’s a little selfish of me for wanting the credit for mentoring him too. But it turns out I like mentoring. And I might just be damn good at it.

“Gentlemen,” Coach Byers says, pulling us into a tight circle. “That tough schedule I’ve been promising? It starts this week. You thought Western put up a fight, but Cal is going to give us hell. Bryce, Wyatt? I know you guys spent some time watching their defense yesterday. Did you see the same weaknesses I did?”

Shit. I did not watch their defense. Granted, Cal has had the same defensive coordinator for eleven years, and they’re known for one thing—shutting down the passing game.

I glance to Bryce, waiting for him to take the lead, but he seems stalled—either panicked because he knows I wasn’t there watching with him, or he’s still distracted by his father, who has started to wander down the row toward the end zone.

“I think we need to open with the run, really hammer it, force them to change up their defense. It’s the only way we’re going to get our receivers involved,” I say, taking a gamble.

“Good. I agree,” Coach says.

Bryce exhales along with me, our shoulders relaxing for a breath.

“So, Bryce, you’re gonna get the start,” Coach says.

And my shoulders tighten right back up. What the fuck?

“Oh, yeah. Okay,” Bryce rambles, his gaze shifting to me, maybe looking for permission. I’m too stunned, and angry, regardless of how unjustified it is.

“Wy, I’d like you to work on the deep routes with the receivers today, and Bryce . . . we’re going to mix in some running plays this weekend, maybe even a double hand-off with our backs, some extra sneaks behind the O-line. You ready?”

Coach’s questions aren’t really questions. They aren’t even suggestions. That’s the plan, and we’re off to execute it.

Mentally spiraling, I find my way to the other end of the field, where I begin with a few warm-up routes to Keaton and Nick. I can tell they’re thrown by the split in practice today, too, their attention constantly diverted to the middle of the field, where Bryce is rushing the ball in every possible direction, practically wearing paths into the grass while Coach Byers looks on.

“What’s the deal with that?” Keaton finally asks me when Coach Skye is out of earshot.

“He’s getting the start,” I say, my answer clipped and flat.

“Fuck! Seriously?” Keaton’s loyalty feels nice, but his response gets him in trouble, when Coach Skye hears what sounds like a complaint and quickly sends him to sprint to the opposite pole and back.

“Anyone else mad about today’s drill?” He stares Nick in the eyes for a beat, then Shad. He never gets to me, though, and for whatever reason, that’s the thing that pushes me over the edge.

“I’m pretty fuckin’ pissed about it,” I let out.

Oh, shit.

“Excuse me?” He’s in my face before I can blink twice, his fingers looped through my helmet’s mask to hold my head in place.

May as well take this as far as I can now that I’m in it.

I meet his stare and make a promise not to blink a single time no matter how loud he gets when I finish saying my piece.

“Coach, I’ve worked my ass off for three years, and I know I’m just coming off an injury, but I feel proud about my performance so far this year. I think it’s fair to say I’m not holding back out there, and I’m certainly not playing scared and nursing my break. Bryce is a good quarterback, and I think he’ll be ready to step up when I graduate. But I’m not happy that he’s getting the start Saturday to do something we all know I can do better—run the ball and score. So, yeah. I’m pretty fuckin’ pissed that I’m doing this drill while he’s over there doing that one. I’m pissed we’re not all working on the same page, on the same skills, growing as a team. And I’m mad that something I’ve earned is being toyed with on a whim. Now, if you excuse me, I’m pretty sure I have sprints to run. I’ll be right back.”

I place my helmet on the ground, my heart beating so fast I can feel my pulse in my eyeballs. I turn and begin a slow jog that I turn into a sprint, passing Keaton on his way back. He lifts a brow at me, but my only response is a quick, “Don’t.”

When I get back to the receivers, Coach Skye doesn’t as much as glance up from his clipboard. I pick up my helmet and fasten it back in place while he taps his pen on the paper a few times, his tongue poking into his cheek. Finally, he swirls the pen in the air, drawing a tight, invisible circle.

“Run the routes again,” he says.

I purse my lips and shake my head, but I do as he says, clapping twice and nodding to Keaton before lining up to drop the thousandth pass I’ve thrown to him this month.

“Blue, forty-two!”

Keaton takes off as I slap the ball, and I fake a scramble before sailing the ball down the field and hitting him mid-stride about forty-five yards out. I turn to my right, waiting for Coach Skye to glance up after writing down his notes, and when our eyes meet, I blink slowly and chew at my mouth guard to keep from spilling out my rage again.

He circles the pen in the air once more, opting for hand gestures over words. Probably for the best. I can’t imagine what my hand gesture would have been, though I have an idea.

Nick lines up for this one, Shad watching off to the side, getting ready for his turn. Maybe, if I work hard enough, I’ll be able to knock myself down to third string today.

Fucking goals, I guess.

Regret for my actions sinks in about an hour into practice. My arm grows tired from overthrowing to prove a point, my jaw aches from clenching my teeth, and my stomach is so tight I think I might throw up when I hit the showers. If I hit the showers. I kind of just want to leave today without talking to anyone else.

Whiskey busts up that plan quickly, though, knocking my cleats from the bench where I set them as I peel off my practice gear.

“Don’t fuck things up, Wyatt.” His glare is pointed, and the hard look on his face is easy to understand.

I sigh and lean back against my locker. My eyes scan the team room, our defense just now dressing out to hit practice hard, the second-string offensive players peeling tape from shins and worming out of pads so they can shower and get to the student center before the good food options shut down. Everyone does their job, no matter what that job is for the day. Why did I have to get so bent over mine being different for once?

I run my palm over my face and pull down on my cheeks, stretching my eyes as I meet my friend’s stare.

“Could you hear me out there?”

Whiskey, who was in the opposite end zone hitting pads and practicing snaps for most of the day, shakes with his laughter.

“Fucking Cal heard that temper tantrum, dude! You lost your cool. You completely threw your cool out the window. No fucks given.”

“Gah,” I groan, landing the back of my head on the locker door again with a little thud, self-punishment style.

“I should fix this,” I say, stripping off the rest of my practice clothes and zipping up my bag before heading straight to Coach’s office. I stop short of marching through the door, instead hovering outside when I hear him having words with Coach Skye on the other side. It’s hard to make out everything they’re saying, but my name sure seems to come up a lot. And when the door flies open, revealing me in all my tail-between-my-legs glory, Coach Skye basically confirms my hunch that my behavior is the big topic of the day.

“Speak of the asshole. He’s all yours,” he says, waving a hand to usher me in as he steps out. I’m not sure if I’m the asshole by his statement. I don’t think it matters.

“Go on and shut the door, Wyatt.”

“Yes, sir,” I say, finding my manners again, it seems. I close the door and take the seat across from coach’s desk, my gym bag straps wrapped around one fist as I clutch it between my knees. I’m in ready-to-go position, half expecting to be kicked out as soon as I get comfortable.

“Wyatt, I don’t know if you know this about me, but my wife and I . . . we lost our daughter about twenty-two years ago.”

My gut fills with instant rocks. His gaze meets mine, and I can tell by the way his pupils widen he’s not letting go. I am the asshole.

“I’m sorry, Coach. That’s terrible.” My mouth waters at the thought of such a loss. Losing my dad broke me—broke my mom. I can’t imagine what it would have been like for them if it had been the other way—if they’d lost me.

“It was. She had a pretty aggressive form of leukemia. It happened fast, and there’s not a day that goes by that I don’t wish for one more hour with her. Playing with our family dog in the front yard, acting in her school play while her mom and I cram into the last row of seats because I was always late, tearing away Christmas paper to get at her gifts. That girl, she sure loved art supplies. That last Christmas . . . that was the year we got her an easel.”

He leans back and chuckles at the memory, but his focus sticks to me. I force my upper body to relax but keep my bag held tight. This story has a point, and it could be that I’m not worthy of wearing this jersey with an attitude like this. I’d get it. I’d deserve it.

Coach leans forward, folding his hands together on his desk as he blinks slowly. I adjust my grip on my straps, my toes curling inside my shoes as if trying to grip the ground and ward off being sent away.

“One of the things I loved most about you when we had our recruitment meeting was how you talked about your father. And the way you talked to your mom. You had this sense of right and wrong, this deep understanding of priorities, that just . . . well, it’s rare for young people. Let’s just say that.”

His lip ticks up and I find mine doing the same.

“Thank you, I think?” I eke out.

“You’re welcome. And no thinking about it. It’s a huge compliment.”

I nod and the silence stretches out between us for a few seconds. I fight to hold his gaze, not wanting to look down—to cower.

“I’m starting Bryce Saturday, Wyatt,” he says, and my fist tightens even though the straps are cutting into my skin.

“Yes, sir.” My mouth waters.

“And I know you don’t like it,” he adds, pulling his hands apart and lifting one palm along his desk, urging me to hear him out, I think.

“It’s not that?—”

“Wyatt, I got an earful from Coach Skye. He doesn’t like my decision either. But he doesn’t like you very much right now, so maybe just shut up and listen, okay?”

My muscles slacken and I drop the bag to the floor as I nod.

“You have a resilience that is far too mature for your age, young man. The things you can handle mentally . . . emotionally? Most of us ancient creatures have a tough time with that stuff, but you . . . you take things as they come and compartmentalize and trudge forward. It’s admirable, but it’s not always healthy.”

I mash my lips, wanting to argue with him but not really having a good one. He’s right.

“You are my guy, Wyatt. You are my number one, and you are going to be the face of this program this season as well as long after you are gone. I believe you are that good. I believe you are that type of a man. But we have a chance to give you a little breathing room this weekend, and it’s an opportunity to see what Hampton is made of. It’s not some sort of test for you, but it is a bit of a test for him. If I’m wrong about it, course correction will happen fast, and you’ll be in the game trying to fix my bad decisions. It’s a risk I am taking as the head coach. It’s not just what’s good for the whole of this program looking ahead to possible playoffs and then next season, but it’s also what’s good for you.”

I work my jaw, uncomfortable admitting to feeling weak but recognizing that lately, I have been running on fumes. I’m tired. And I’m worried. All I can think about is Peyton and whether she’s going to be able to meet her own wishes and expectations for herself. I want to fix everything for her, to right the wrongs, reverse time. But I can’t. All I can do is be there. And there’s no way I’m not showing up. I don’t care what it costs me, or this program.

Coach sees that. It’s why he’s making the call.

“Thank you, Coach,” I say, standing up and snagging my bag from the ground.

I reach across his desk and take his hand, and before I pull away, he holds on to me extra tight, forcing me to look him in the eyes.

“You’re strong enough for this, Wyatt. For all of it. Even standing to the side and letting someone else do the work for just a little while.”

My mouth pulls into a tight smile, and I nod. It’s nice of him to say. It still hurts. And I’m not entirely convinced it’s true.