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Chapter Twenty-Five

I ’ve never been great at interviews.

I know it’s part of the game, at least at this level and beyond. The media side of things is what drives the train, so to speak. Celebrity begets TV contracts, and advertisers bring money to programs, which, in turn, brings more talent. It’s a vicious cycle, the business of sports. And it can get nasty.

While I like to be honest and transparent about everything, I also try to be private. When my dad died, there was a lot of local press about it. He was a big voice in the cancer community for firefighters. And our battle to get him care and coverage was an important story. I just hate that we had to tell it. It was hard on my mom. Hard on me.

I’m coming off the best game of my career, though. And we’re looking at taking on a tough Texas Valley at home this weekend. I’d like to remain Coach’s “guy.” So here I am, at practice an hour early to talk with the guy from Althetico about who knows what. Coach asked, and I said yes. Running away is no longer an option, either, because he’s here now. Coach Skye is walking him up to the press box in the stadium. We thought he might like the view. I hate that I’m in a glass box with only one door out.

“And here he is,” Coach Skye says. He eyes me for an extra beat, the tension still very much present between us since I blew up at him last week. We never discussed it beyond him calling me an asshole as he stormed out of Coach’s office. On the field, it’s been business as usual. I’m kind of bracing myself for him to call me an asshole now.

“Wyatt Stone, meet Kelly Brooks, senior college football reporter for Athletico .” The senior thing must be important, I guess, since Coach Skye leaned into it.

“Kelly, nice to meet you,” I say, standing up from the swivel chair I’ve been spinning in for about ten minutes. I reach out a hand toward the stocky man who appears to be in his forties. He grips my hand back, his shake firm. There’s a certain former-coach vibe emanating from him, from the short-sleeved plaid button down to the nylon cord attached to the temple tips of his glasses.

“Likewise, Wyatt. I really appreciate your time. I’ll try to keep this to the hour they set aside.”

We smile at each other, and I hope like hell he can’t read through mine, because we set aside an hour for this?

“It’s fine,” I lie. My chest is tight, but I’m sure I’ll relax when we get into it.

Coach Skye pulls up a chair, and it helps having him in the room as we run through some of the nitty gritty stuff for his story. We cover my background, my love for the game, high school, and my dad. Turns out Kelly’s the son of a firefighter, too. When we start to nerd out over firefighter culture, Coach Skye excuses himself, I think feeling a little awkward and left out. Of course, the second he leaves the room, senior reporter Kelly dives into the hard stuff.

“So, whose idea was it to run two quarterbacks this year?” He sits back in his chair, his phone recording everything from the table between us. He jots down my key comments in a small notepad propped on his knee.

I smirk and turn my head a tick to give him a sideways glance. He chuckles.

“Yeah, I’ve been doing this a long time, and I know the best answers come when the stiffs leave the room.”

“Stiffs, huh?” I glance through the window to where Coach Skye is jogging out to the sidelines, waving a hand and blowing his whistle.

“Yeah, very few coaches make for good interviews. I mean, there are exceptions, of course. I interviewed Bobby Knight back in the day, and he was colorful. Had plenty to say, most of it unprintable.”

We both laugh. Also, he’s got some good street cred.

“And I’ve given a good interview or two in my time, back when I coached in Texas.” Ah, yes. I heard that accent.

“I had a feeling you coached. Call it instinct.” I leave out the clues I got from his fashion. I need him to like me, at least until this story goes up.

He smiles and shakes his head, holding up a hand.

“I was probably one of the worst coaches in Texas high school football history. My record was . . . abysmal. But I doubled our wins in the five years I was there.”

“You go from one to two?” I joke.

“Ha!” He points at me, squinting one eye. “You’re funny. And close. I went from four to eight. Even made playoffs the final year. Got our asses handed to us from Permian.”

I chuckle.

“They’re legends.”

“Indeed, and for good reason.”

He taps the end of his pen on his notepad and glances at his phone before looking back at me. I think he senses my paranoia, or hell, since he’s been at this so long, he’s probably inciting it. After a few awkwardly quiet seconds, he reaches for his phone and pauses the recording, flipping the screen and showing me.

“Sometimes the recording makes people nervous,” he says, laying the phone back down on the table.

I smirk at it, then meet his gaze.

“I’m not sure that’s the part that makes me nervous.”

His lips pull into a tight smile and his eyes flit to his notepad. He taps the pen on the paper a few more times, then pops his gaze back up to mine.

“You weren’t on board with two quarterbacks, were you?”

I shake my head and pull my brow in.

“I didn’t say that.” I don’t want him choosing my words for me. I nudge his phone toward him and lift my chin.

“Go ahead and turn that back on.” I’m uneasy either way; may as well be uneasy but quoted accurately.

Kelly restarts the recording and licks his lips, seeming to choose his words strategically.

“The two QB thing—it seems to be working out well for you guys so far.”

I lift my brows, waiting for the question, and eventually realize I’m meant to agree with him.

“We’re three and oh.” That’s confirmation enough.

He nods and jots that killer quote down.

“You’ve been running the show here since you were a freshman, though.”

“Ah, I’ve been throwing the ball. Coach Byers runs the show. He’s been at the helm for a long time. He deserves the credit.” I may have learned a few things in my PR and messaging classes to keep me out of trouble after all.

“Spoken like a loyal quarterback who loves his coach. But it had to sting a little, no? That he wanted to change things up?”

He pokes his tongue into the inside of his bottom lip as he waits patiently.

“There’s no room for egos out on that field. It’s a team sport, and Coach saw potential in switching things up to start the season.”

Shit, I slipped.

“Start, huh? So, are you moving back into the starting role this week? Have we seen all we’ll see of Hampton this season?”

I shake my head.

“I don’t know. I’m not the coach. I can tell you that Bryce and I are both ready to do what needs to be done, to answer Coach’s call and help lead this team into a playoff position. That’s always the goal.”

Phew. Back on point.

“So, that potential you mentioned . . . you think he had a reason to think Hampton had an edge that you didn’t when it came to the start against Cal?”

He waits me out as I mull that question over. I know what he’s trying to fish out of me—he wants me to say I was mentally distracted because of Peyton’s injury. He wants to make this a story about us rather than simply the game. I won’t pull her into it.

“I can’t speak for him, and you know that would be a foolish move. Coach Byers speaks for himself.”

His mouth pulls into a knowing smirk, and his eyes stick to mine for a few extra seconds while he waits me out. I’m not breaking, though. That’s all he’s going to get on that subject.

“Okay, well, I had to try. You know Coach Byers is a man of very few words.” He glances up from his notebook, and once again, I merely shrug. Nope. Not falling for it.

“Let’s move on to your future, then. Heisman talk is something that’s been bandied about with your name in the past. It was a different kind of start to this season, but your game against Cal has people talking. Are you feeling that pressure?”

I relax a little, laughing off the compliments.

“I’m glad I put up good numbers last week. We need all the yards and big stops we can get with this schedule. And while the chatter about me is nice, it’s not what I’m focusing on. I want to win games. Make the playoffs. Leave this place on the highest note possible. Anything after that is—” I shrug, not wanting to get into my future right now.

“So, the combine. We might see you out there?”

“You might,” I say, purposely vague.

I’m having a harder time masking my impatience, and I think Kelly can feel it. I glance out the window and wait until Coach Byers looks in my direction. I hold up a finger, and he nods. It’s a show for Kelly’s purposes, to hurry this along and get my ass back down on the field where I’m far more comfortable.

“Well, thanks for your time, Wyatt. I’m rooting for you. I think you’re an exciting player to watch. And my best to Peyton.”

My mouth tinges with his overstep, and a sneer creeps along my lips.

“Thank you,” is all I utter. And I don’t shake his hand a second time, instead getting up to hold the door open for him as he tucks his notebook away and drops his phone into his bag.

I follow him down the steps toward the field, one of the reps from the university’s athletic director’s office waiting to walk him out.

“Good luck, again, Wyatt,” he says, holding his hand out to me in front of everyone, probably to see what I’ll do. It kills me to give in, but if I meant what I said—that this place is about the team and not the individual—then I have to get over myself and shake hands with this piranha to leave a good impression. His grip is as firm as before, and I try to forget the feel of it by slinging the football as hard as I can for the next hour.

It seems Bryce is ready to work out his own tension, because he fires the ball back with the same amount of zest. When one of his passes nails me in the diaphragm, knocking my breath away for a brief second, I tuck the ball under my arm and level him with a stare.

“You have to talk to that ass face too?” I ask.

“Nope. Not that ass face,” he says, holding his palms out and snapping for the ball. I toss it back as his jaw flexes and he works through his own shit. I don’t have to press him for details, though. Because his headache is related to him. And that kind of ass face is a whole lot harder to shake.