Page 5

Chapter Five

W hat Peyton said about leaving Tasha alone stuck with me, and I still can’t shake the weight of it this morning.

She teased me about dragging ass on moving in together, saying I had cold feet or whatever, but it was never that. Hell, I’d drop down on one knee and marry that woman yesterday with zero fear in my heart. It’s not me I worry about—it’s her. And not that she’d say no, because we’re rock solid on our feelings for one another. It’s that I’m not sure how fair it is to leave her alone so much. Kind of the same way she worries about Tasha.

The next few years are going to be a bit wild, and while this season will pull me away for travel, our lives will still be pretty much in sync since she’ll be cheering. That all changes when I enter the NFL. I don’t want Peyton to feel isolated, as though I pulled her away from her support system just to abandon her.

But fuck was it nice waking up with her in my arms. And yeah, it’s probably going to feel even better when Whiskey isn’t sitting in the kitchen in his boxers when Peyton and I leave the bedroom.

“What took you so long?” Bryce’s voice rattles me out of my thoughts as I enter the weight room, his shitty country music already queued up and blasting through the speakers. I’m regretting that olive branch, though now I’m feeling mighty motivated to kick his ass.

“I like my beauty sleep. What can I say,” I respond, holding his gaze for an extra second, just long enough that it feels uncomfortable. I think he knows what I meant by beauty . I won’t flaunt Peyton in front of him because I have too much respect for her, but I’ll be damned if I don’t drop a few damn good hints.

“Hope you’re not too tired to hit the incline,” he jokes back, a clear bite to his tone.

“Never too tired, brother.” His eyes flicker to mine at my response, his expression temporarily devoid of the macho facade. I call most of my teammates brother, and I decided when I woke up this morning that I was going to set the kind of example this team deserves. Maybe Bryce will prove me wrong and turn out to deserve it too.

“Alright, let’s get after it,” I say, pulling my sweatshirt off and tossing it on top of my gym bag on the floor. I step up on the center treadmill and pull my right foot up from behind to stretch my quad, Bryce matching me stretch for stretch. We both start with an easy jog, and after a minute of running, I amp up my speed. Again, Bryce matches me, both of us cruising along at a solid eight miles per hour.

“You feel that burn?” I joke, mostly to show off the fact I have zero trouble talking while running at this speed. I’ve been doing nothing but cardio since my injury. My lungs are ready for the challenge.

Bryce is panting, though not hard. He glances my way with a smirk and shrugs his shoulder. “It’s all right.”

“Ha! Liar,” I fire back. It feels good to give him shit the same way I would Whiskey. It feels almost natural. There’s still this underlying tightness in my chest, though, and I’m not sure that will ever go away.

When his hand moves to raise his incline, I do the same, pressing the plus button every time he does. I usually stop at three, but Bryce pushes us to four, so I do the same. We run in unison, our heavy shoes slapping the rubber mat as it whirls beneath us in perfect sync. After a full two minutes, I notice that my mouth is hanging open, my bottom lip heavy with the rhythm of my pant. That extra percent on the angle might be kicking my ass a little bit.

“What do you think? One more?” Bryce’s words come out choppy, and I’m glad to hear this isn’t easy for him, but fucking hell!

No! I do not think one more anything.

“Sounds good,” I say, because I’m a man, one step away from comparing dick sizes.

Bryce ratchets his speed up to nine, so I do the same, and it’s not quite a sprint, but it’s a quick stride. The soles of my shoes feel a little like they’re igniting on fire, so instead of concentrating on how much it fucking hurts, I let my mind wander back to this morning and the feel of Peyton’s bare back pressed against my chest. How smooth her shoulders were as I kissed them. The way her nipples hardened under the thin layer of sheets, and how she writhed next to me as my hand brushed over the cotton covering them. The way she tasted when I trailed my tongue down her stomach to her pussy, pushing my tongue inside her and making her come in my mouth—the perfect start to my day.

Ten minutes pass before I know it, my mental distraction pulling me out of my body while it works to prove that I’m the best athlete in the room. By the time I’m present again, I’ve crossed into my running high, and I could easily go another level, but I can tell Bryce is working hard to stay in his own zone to keep up. Four years ago, I would have pulled the dick move and demoralized him just to prove a petty point. But now? Now, we’re teammates. He called me a mentor of sorts. And goddammit, I’m going to be one.

We finish out our four miles together, cooling down to a walking speed as our offensive line pours into the room to get in their morning lift. I reach across to my left, holding out a fist as I hit stop on my treadmill, and Bryce pounds his knuckles into mine as he slaps the stop button, too.

“You think maybe next time I can pick the music?” I joke through ragged breaths.

“Ha! Fuck, no. This stuff is good shit!” He hops off his treadmill and snags a towel from his gym bag while I stare at him with an open mouth.

“What?” he says, finally noticing my reaction.

“Well, you got the shit part right,” I fire back. I point up to the speaker, which is currently playing some forlorn song about a man’s struggle to be sober and win back the love of his estranged family. “I think we need to reassess the qualities of a good hype tune, dude. Cuz this ain’t it.”

“A-men!” Whiskey says from my other side.

We both pound fists and Bryce waves us off. The tunes change after a few seconds when Deacon, our center, takes over the speakers with the pre-game playlist he made last season. The room thumps with heavy bass while laughter breaks out across the room, more guys piling in and getting amped to kick off the season.

I wipe my face off with my towel, then lean toward Bryce, forcing him to meet my gaze and admit I’m right.

“Okay, I see your point. But don’t bag on country just cuz you don’t understand it. Maybe you just need to join me on my next trip to Fort Worth to see my dad. Visit a real bar, listen to some real music.” It’s the first time he’s ever mentioned his dad to me. First time he’s ever brought up family, period. Rather than react with the surprise I feel, I give a nod in a show of consideration.

“Yeah, that might be cool.”

Would it be cool? How well do I want to know this guy?

“I’m gonna take a two-minute cold one before we hit the field,” Bryce says, gesturing his thumb over his shoulder toward the showers. I nod and wait for him to turn the corner out of view before I address Whiskey’s hard stare that I swear is burning a hole in my temple.

Whiskey has been telling me for weeks to go at this thing with Bryce as if we’re old friends, to just pretend the bad blood was never there. It’s what he’s done, though I could make the argument that he’s simply practicing avoidance. But he may have something with the whole more bees with honey idea.

“I’m trying it your way, okay? I don’t want to hear it, and no, I’m not going to say you were right. Just . . . let it be, and we’ll see if this works out.” I roll my eyes, but my gaze sticks to him. The fucker chuckles, and even though he doesn’t say it out loud, he’s sure as hell thinking it loud enough.

“I was right” is all over his face.

Maybe Whiskey’s maturing, too, because he manages to keep it to a smug grin, not even adding commentary when we get out to the field and Bryce and I are tossing the ball for warm-ups.

After warmups and team stretching, we break off into our position groups. The two freshmen recruits—who will be redshirting this year—set up a few obstacles and targets for the rest of us. Shad Owens—the guy who was my number two last year as a sophomore—eyes Bryce just over his shoulder. As anxious as this situation makes me feel, it must be eating away at Shad. He was in line to take the reins from me next season, having gotten time on the field for some key running plays last year. But now, nothing is certain. Hell, I’m not certain at this point, and a year ago, I was part of the Heisman conversation.

“Owens, come here,” I say, drawing him out of his mental spiral, at least I hope that’s what I’m about to do.

Bryce follows my gaze and steps out to make room for Shad in our three-man circle. The dude is trying, and damn if it doesn’t feel sincere.

“You wanna run the drills first, show Bryce how it’s done?” I’m trying to set Shad up with some confidence, remind him that he’s still got seniority on this squad even if Bryce is bigger, older . . . better.

“Sure,” Shad says, his response clipped. He steps between us and takes a ball from one of the freshmen, tossing it in his hands a few times before dropping back and running through the various routes.

Bryce watches intently, though he and I both know he can do this drill in his sleep.

“He’s on edge about you. You get it,” I say as we both look on and avoid eye contact.

“That’s the game. I’ve been on edge since my Pop Warner days ended.” Bryce chuckles.

I join in, laughing at the way I used to run the football every damn play. Scoring a dozen touchdowns all on my own, I was forced to learn how to be a real quarterback.

“That was cool of you, by the way,” Bryce says. I glance at him, and he nods toward Shad as our teammate talks with our quarterback coach.

“People need to feel important. They need to know they have value. And everyone out here does—in the game or not. Every single person has a role out here that impacts our result as a team.” I sit with my own words, a little surprised at how much I believe them. Part of it is my dad’s morals that I’ve carried with me, but also, I’ve learned a lot about leadership under Coach Byers. It’s strange to see lessons stick.

Bryce’s hand lands on my back for a second, and the weight of it knocks me forward a half step. He huffs out a short laugh, looking at me with a crooked grin and squinted eyes. It feels kind of rehearsed.

“See, I knew I’d get better just being around you,” he says, patting his hand on my spine once more before jogging toward Shad and Coach to take the ball and run through the drills.

Shad nods and smiles at him, uttering, “Let’s see what you can do, transfer,” as he steps into place next to me. We both look on while Bryce talks through a few things with Coach.

“I get what you did there, Wyatt. I appreciate it, but you should keep your guard up. There’s something about that guy. He feels off somehow. Too . . . nice. Nobody’s that nice.”

“Huh,” I breathe out, pulling the corner of my mouth in tight, not sure whether I wish Shad got more out of my lesson or that I got more out of his.

My eyes snap back to the field at the sound of the whistle, so I bite my tongue and decide to let things be for now with Shad. At some point, I’ll relay the same thoughts I did to Bryce a minute ago, to reassure him that no matter what, he has a place here—that he’s vital.

Just then, Bryce drops back and spins as if he’s broken a tackle, rushing to his right about ten yards before slinging the ball right on target. His moves are crisp, his feet sure. He seems taller now, and the power in his arm feels light years ahead of everyone else out here. The applause from a few of the receivers looking on, as well as from our quarterback coach, elevates what just happened a little more. And when I glance to my left, meeting Shad’s I told you so face, I put my guard back up—just like he said.