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Chapter Twenty-Three

I ’m taking it out on Bryce—though he clearly covered for me. It’s not his fault that Coach is following his instincts on this move. After my heartfelt chat with Coach in his office, a part of me gets his reasoning, though I don’t think this decision is totally for my benefit. He’s thinking about winning as much as he’s thinking about my mental wellbeing.

Maybe I’m jaded.

Part of what attracted me to this program was Coach’s no-nonsense, zero-tolerance-for-bullshit approach. I’m not sure why I expected anything else when it came to me.

“He feels like shit about this, you know?” Whiskey says as I stuff myself into pads I probably won’t even use tonight.

I don’t answer him. I’m not sure what to say. The best I can do is give him the look, the same expression I wore with Reed when I gave him the news—a face pulled in two directions, guilt and disappointment.

I had to let Reed know I wouldn’t be starting since he was planning to drive out for the game. He stopped in for a little pep talk with the team a few minutes ago. Part of me hoped he’d give me some motivational speech that would amp me up enough to get my head in the game and to be the leader Bryce deserves. It’s not his fault. Hell, he hasn’t even played that well. A true team player would hype him up right now, but instead, I can’t even look at him.

“He’ll probably fumble the first play,” Whiskey says, and I chuckle, but shake my head.

“I hope he doesn’t. We need this win.” I need this game too, though. My stats are good, but I haven’t exactly had that showy breakout everyone’s been waiting for. I can’t seem to find my game. It went missing the second Peyton was loaded into that ambulance.

She’s my reason.

My phone buzzes deep inside my travel bag, and since there’s still a lot of time before I need to head out to the field, I fish it out to check the message. It’s a photo from my mom, of me on my dad’s shoulders, hoisting my Pee Wee football trophy. I must be seven or eight in this picture, but I remember the feeling like it was yesterday.

My phone buzzes with another message from her as I exit out of the image.

MOM: Remember who you are. You’re Todd Stone’s MVP!

Her words do enough to edge the corners of my mouth up.

ME: Thank you, Mom. I love you.

I’m about to put the phone away when it buzzes again. I wake my screen back up to a new photo from my mom, and it takes my brain a few seconds to realize what I’m seeing. Peyton is sitting on a horse. Her mom’s hand is on her thigh, and I’m sure it took teamwork for her to get up there, but she’s doing it. She crossed one thing off her list.

ME: Are you with them?

It looks like the right color of sunlight for this to be happening right now. I hate that I’m missing it, but I feel so alive seeing it.

MOM: Yes. Nolan invited me over to watch the game. Rose made carnitas.

ME: Tell her I love her.

MOM: Rose?

I snort out a laugh and the sound surprises me. I haven’t laughed for real in a while.

ME: Well, her too. But you know what I mean.

I wait for a minute while my mom appears to be typing, then suddenly my phone buzzes with a short video that appears to be Peyton on the horse. I glance around to make sure I’m alone enough then press play, turning my volume up just enough to hear. I tear up instantly.

“Wyatt, I’m doing it. Can you believe this?”

Peyton’s body sways with her horse’s slow steps. Her mom’s hand is still on her leg. And it looks as though Rose is out in the arena with them. She’s surrounded by support.

“I wanted to do something hard today. For you. I know you have to do something hard soon, and I want you to know that I believe in you. Your greatest gift isn’t how you throw a football, Wyatt. It’s your spirit. You make people believe they can. Now, go have the game you deserve.”

I press my finger to the player for the video and drag it back a few seconds to hear her say that last part again.

I put my phone away and stare for a few long seconds at my closed locker door. Teammates are shuffling around behind me, locker doors slamming shut while the scent of pre-wrap spray filling the air. It’s college game day. My last season in this uniform. The last time I’m going to take on Cal, the school that said they weren’t interested in me when I was a junior. The school my dad said didn’t deserve me.

They’re going to lose today, and it’s going to take two of us working together to get it done. Peyton’s right. So is my mom. It’s time my father’s lessons make an appearance.

“Let’s go!” I shout, turning around and drawing the attention of the few players still in the locker room with me.

“Hell, yeah!” Shad shouts, pushing his palms into my chest. I give it right back to him, hyping him up for a game he has even less of a chance of getting into. Yet look at him—ready to show up for us. However. Whenever.

I lead the dozen players left in the locker room down to the tunnel. The roar of a sold-out stadium rings in my ears, and I mentally convince myself that those screams are for us. For me.

I make my way through the team to the front, where Bryce, Whiskey and Keaton are all holding hands. I break into their line and take Bryce’s hand in my right, Whiskey’s in my left. Turning to face Bryce, I press my face mask against his, both of us breathing like two bulls ready to be cut loose in a town painted red.

“You get that ball; you don’t let it hit the ground. You get your ass in that end zone. And then you do it again.” I grit out the words with so much force I spit.

“Yes, sir!” His fire matches mine.

He unfurls our grip for a second, grabbing the back of my helmet and holding me to him as his eyes lock on mine. It’s a silent thank you. A masculine show of affection. A football love letter.

“I believe in you,” I say.

Just like that, everything clicks behind his eyes. Confidence colors his irises, power flexes his jaw. I grab his helmet back and growl as he does the same, and in a blink, we rush onto the field as a team—all of us and both of us. The boos fuel us. The fireworks fill our senses with the need for destruction. And the brass horns blaring our fight song set a new rhythm in our hearts.

I hype up the team along the sideline as we receive the kick, stopping at Reed long enough for him to see the clarity in my eyes. His heavy hand on my back as I walk away lets me know he’s proud, and when I reach the end of the line for our team, I close my eyes for a moment to see my dad, too.

I feel his shoulders holding me up. I hear his voice telling me he’s proud. I see my mom smiling at both of us. I feel their love. And suddenly, Peyton’s there, sitting tall, kicking the sides of her horse before it sprints off into the sunset as she rides.

Rushing back down the line, I hold my helmet up to fire up our student section too. I can always count on our drunk frat boys to get things going, and their painted, shirtless bodies jump wildly as Miguel Montoya, the best kick returner in college football, gets the ball to the fifty-yard line.

I run over to Bryce, taking up his other side while he gets his orders from Coach. I slap his back a few times to bring the blood to the surface and waken the lion within, and he turns to me just before running backward onto the field.

“This one’s for you, Stone.”

It’s not a taunt. And it’s not him showing off and being arrogant. It’s my friend, my brother, doing something to get me into the game. He won’t fumble. He’s going to score. In fact, he’s poised to score a lot until Cal is forced to put a stop to him. And then, it’s my turn to carry us home.

With three minutes to go before the half, we’re up twenty-seven to fourteen against a tough Cal team. Bryce has taken a beating, and he exits after getting stopped on the third down, his nose bleeding and the bruise on his right bicep already a deep purple. They’ve closed the gaps, and if they keep that up in the second half, I’ll get my turn.

“Stone, get in there!” Coach shouts.

Or maybe I’ll get my shot now.

My pulse ratchets up as I slam my helmet on my head just before Coach pulls my face in close to his. It’s a fourth and long, and there are three minutes left, which means if I fuck this up, Cal gets the ball in a pretty good spot with plenty of time on the clock. But if I pull this off?—

“You’re my guy,” he says, his gaze locking on mine, his mouth a stoic straight line. “Get it done.”

“Yes, Coach!”

I rush out to the field, half the stadium losing their minds in my favor, the other half wishing nothing but my total demise. I’m about to fucking ruin their day.

“Hey, look who’s back!” Keaton punches my left shoulder pad, and I give him a nod.

“Time to let it fly, boys You know what to do.”

We break and hit the line, the Cal defense scrambling at our quick change in plans. I count off the snap and my world turns to slow motion. The ball in my hands, I fade to back while the line holds the pocket to buy Keaton time. My eyes are like military target locks, my arm the missile launch, and Keaton the destination. He’s not as deep as I want him to be, but the pocket is collapsing around me. I spin out, avoiding a tackle, and run to the opposite side of the field, but Keaton’s in lock step with some pretty good coverage. It’s too risky.

I don’t panic. There isn’t time. Instead, I chart my path and run. It’s not what Cal is expecting, not from me, so I easily manage the first down. But then a hole breaks wide open in front of me, and I turn up my speed. In seconds, I’m in the end zone, spinning the ball right before Keaton lifts me up.

“Hell yeah, motherfuckers! Hell yeah!” Whiskey rushes at me, bumping my chest with his, and I ricochet a few feet back. It’s the best feeling in the world, even if it hurts.

Coach grabs my arm when I hit the sideline and pats my helmet a few times, meeting my eyes.

“There’s my guy! There he is!” He sends me off with praise, and I head right to Bryce, who blasts into me the same as Whiskey did.

We end up holding Cal until the half, and I finish out the game with two touchdown passes and two flawless quarters.

I use my game MVP status to get my own seat on the bus, tucked in the back, away from the rowdy linemen and the annoying loud country music being played by one of the assistant coaches. Peyton texted me her own play-by-play reactions throughout the game, and I’ve read them at least a dozen times. My favorite is when she sent the tongue-out emoji for some reason. I’m going to need clarification on that. I promise her I’ll call when we get through the mountains, but by the time most of the guys on the bus are either passed out or watching videos on their phones, it’s close to midnight.

I chance that she’s awake, sinking low in my seat as I press call. I pop my earbuds in so I can keep the volume low. She answers in a groggy voice after about three rings.

“Hey, how late is it?”

I feel bad. She was asleep.

“It’s almost midnight. I’m sorry, I just got a signal. You go back to sleep. I’ll see you in the morning.” I’m talking in a hushed tone, but it feels loud on the quiet bus. I maybe should have called during the country music binge. Of course, then I wouldn’t have been able to hear her.

“ Hmm , okay. Hey, Wy?”

“Yeah, baby?”

“I’m so proud of you.”

I smile to myself, wishing I video called her instead so I could see the sleepy look on her face. I love it when her eyes fight to stay awake, and I love it even more when she gives in. Her lips always part with the sweetest breath, her nose crinkling whenever it’s tickled. Sometimes that’s my fault . . . on purpose. Because it’s cute.

“I’m prouder,” I say, knowing she’s already fallen asleep and hasn’t hung up. I listen to her sleep for a few minutes, the buzz of the fan in her room, the soft hum she makes when she nuzzles into her pillow. She’s had to train herself to sleep on her back, and she’s still never rested enough.

Since I’m still wired on the high from my game, and from hearing her voice, however brief, I decide the moment we get off this bus, I’m heading right to my truck and driving the sixty-five miles of desert to hold her through the rest of the early morning hours. I want to bring her breakfast in bed.

And then, I want to help her ride a horse again. Because I hate that I missed it, but I love that she can.