Page 9

Chapter Nine

I should have listened to Peyt when she said to start early. My fault for assuming there wasn’t much left to move.

It felt like we already had so much of her stuff at my place. Her clothes have filled half my closet for a year. My bathroom is basically hers. We make coffee with her Keurig and dinner in her insta pot. I figured since we were leaving the couch behind, we could get it all in one haul. And we’re turning Whiskey’s old room into a workout room for stretching and yoga. Hence, no bed to move. Whiskey never bothered with a frame so his was just a mattress, and we took that to Tasha’s on our first trip.

Somewhere along the way, though, I miscalculated Peyton’s affinity for shoes. And sweaters. And headwear, including four cowgirl hats. One is my fault since I bought it for her at the spring rodeo. After six hours of carrying Peyton’s boxes into my place— our place—I’m wiped. And now I have to run through the entire playbook with our offense while Bryce watches, learns, and repeats. I only hope he doesn’t do it better.

“Let’s start with the wide receiver slants.”

Coach is wearing his game-day sunglasses. They block his eyes completely and obscure most of his expression so there will be no reading into his mood. At least not on his face. The man is always direct and to the point, so everyone’s first assumption is that he’s pissed off. I remind myself not to make that mistake and get caught up in my worries.

“Yes, Coach!”

I pop my mouth guard in and chew at the hard plastic while working the ball in my fingers. Keaton, our number one receiver this year, steps up to the line and I give him a nod.

“Blue, forty-two! Blue, forty-two!” I shout, then fall back a few steps, faking a handoff before spinning out and hitting Keaton mid-stride just beyond the first down.

“Good. Run it again,” Coach says.

I flip my mouth guard around in my mouth, gnawing at it to keep myself from grinning like a child because he praised me. I shouldn’t need so much reassurance, but damn if I don’t. I glance at Bryce, his face stoic, eyes studying my every move. That fucker’s part robot now, I swear. He’s probably calculating every step I take and training his body how to shave off seconds, add in yards, double his speed.

“Blue, forty-two! Blue, forty-two!” I pivot again, letting my body do its thing. Keaton runs the route, and I hit him right at the line, a step before he goes out of bounds.

“Clean it up.” Coach’s criticism is warranted. It’s a good pass if we’re trying to save clock, run a two-minute drill down the field. But this season is all about scoring big. Coach made it clear that he wants us demolishing our opponents. It’s a tough schedule.

“Yes, sir,” I say, chomping on my guard again, this time to hold in the self-admonishing swear words.

I count it off again, dropping back and letting my mind go blank. It’s all rote. Every cell in my body is trained for this. Keaton barely glances over his shoulder before the ball is there for him, and he tucks it in his arm and sprints ahead another fifteen yards.

“There it is. Yes!” Coach claps, then steps forward and points at Bryce.

I jog over to Coach’s left side and give the field to Bryce. Coach pairs him with Nick, our number two. He’s not as fast as Keaton, and a small part of me hopes Bryce overestimates his speed and biffs the pass. It’s not what’s best for the program, but it would sure as hell be good for me.

Bryce counts off and Nick takes off for his route, turning to find the pass right at his chest. The catch isn’t as smooth, but that’s more on Nick than it is Bryce, whose timing was actually right on target. Shit.

“I like it! Run it again.” Coach shifts his weight, folding his arms over his chest as he chews at the toothpick in his mouth. The man has an endless supply of those things. It’s more superstition than dental needs for him. He goes through at least a dozen every practice.

For the next hour, Bryce and I trade off running every single play, even the ones Coach only breaks out when he’s feeling lucky. I feel good on my feet, and I’m smoother in the pocket, but I can’t shake this nagging feeling that Bryce simply isn’t going away.

Coach calls us to the sideline after he sends the rest of the guys off to the showers, and the fact the only guys out here are me, my former nemesis (easy on the former), our quarterback coach, and the man who holds my playing fate in his hands has my heart pounding.

“I couldn’t be a happier man right now, gentlemen.” He pulls his glasses from his face, a rarity out here, and his eyes crinkle on the sides from both the sun and his obvious glee. I, however, feel as though I’m slowly sinking into the turf.

“I agree,” Coach Skye, our QB coach, adds with a nod.

I sink deeper.

I’m noting every detail of everything—the way Coach Skye’s teeth are holding on to his thumbnail, his eyes set on Coach to take the lead, Bryce’s slow rock from side to side, his hands knotted behind his back. I feel small, though I’m the tallest dude out here. And I’m getting smaller by the second.

“Wyatt, your recovery is incredible. I can tell you’ve worked your ass off to get back out here at one-hundred percent. You think you can handle the rush? Take the hit if our pocket turns to shit?”

I nod.

“Yes, sir. I’m stronger. I really worked to shore up my core and legs.” I mean, I’ve been working on it, but I feel the same—no better, no worse. That’s not what he wants to hear, though, and now, I’m selling myself like one of those dudes on Wall Street.

“Good. Good.” He’s nodding as his gaze wanders to the empty space between Bryce and me, as if he’s still trying to decide what he’s going to do. When his gaze snaps to Coach Skye, my heart stops.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

“I’d like to try something,” he says.

Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit.

I nod and wish I had a mute button for the voice in my head. I glance to my right where Bryce has quit rocking, and his chin lifts a tick.

“Yes, sir.” His Adam’s apple bobs with a hard swallow. I’d feel a little bad for the stress he’s feeling if I weren’t in this fucking whirlpool with him.

“I want to run two quarterbacks.”

My instant deep breath is audible, and my chest fills as I lean back. I’m no longer looking directly at Bryce, but I see his posture do the same in my periphery.

“It’s not something we’ve done in a while, and with this season’s schedule, and the different approaches, we’re going to have to tool to every defense. I’d like to give this a try.”

“I’m all in, Coach. Absolutely.” Bryce is practically bouncing on his feet.

I run my fist over my cheek, my mouth open with a million questions at the ready, but when Coach’s gaze hits mine, I shut it. His mind is made up. And he’s about to answer anything he cares to for now. I sink deeper.

“Wyatt, you’re the starter. There’s no doubt that your arm strikes fear in our opponents. We need that. And with our one-two punch in Keaton and Nick, I see big scoring games in our future. Lots of forty-burgers.”

My lungs relax.

“For sure, Coach. It felt good with Keaton today. I think I could hit that dude with my eyes closed, and his speed is up, for sure.”

Sell it, Wyatt!

“Good. I agree. And Bryce?—”

My lungs cinch right up. My stomach hurts.

“I think we need your bulk for those running plays. Maybe we’ll have you in for a pass or two, just to keep people guessing. I want that arm ready, and I want you learning from Wyatt. But when we need to move that ball a yard—punch it in the end zone—I’d like to see what you can do.”

Bouncing. Fucking. Toddler.

“Absolutely.” Bryce glances to Coach Skye, and the two share a nod, as if they’ve cooked this whole thing up together. Now I’m a paranoid lunatic. I need to stop my mind before it runs me out of a job.

“Fantastic. Thanks for today, guys. You were great.”

“Thank you,” Bryce and I say in unison. I feel his eyes flash to me, and I can sense his grin. I’m sure my mouth looks as if it’s about to vomit, so I do my best to force my lips together tight. I can’t muster a smile.

“Hit the showers. We run the full game plan against Tech starting tomorrow. We go hard all week. And Saturday we make a statement.”

Coach says those last few words as he’s walking away. Coach Skye shakes both of our hands, then jogs to catch up to his boss. Bryce is lingering, so I stay back with him, knowing he wants to talk this shit out. I’m not sure I’m ready to be the bigger man, though.

I walk over to the water station, the ground littered with paper cups, and I stoop to clean up.

“The student field crew will get that,” Bryce says.

“Yeah, I know. But we’re fucking pigs, and I don’t mind.” And I need to do something to feel useful. Plus, this keeps my eyes off you, asshole.

Naturally, Bryce picks up the dozens of cups near him on the ground. This new leaf he’s apparently turned over is annoying as hell. I miss selfish Bryce, who would have walked into the locker room with Coach and left me out here to stew on my own.

“Hey, I wanted to run something by you. Uh, it’s . . . awkward, I guess? But I thought it was better coming from me. If you heard it from me, I mean. And it’s meaningless. But you know how people are. Anyway . . .”

I stand with my back to him, my fists full of trash. I walk to the metal bin by our bench and toss the paper cups inside before wiping the sticky Gatorade from my hands onto my pads. With my mouth sealed shut and molars glued together, I turn to face him.

“It’s really nothing,” he says, but the way he’s tethered his hands behind his neck, elbows out as he tips his head back and looks at the blazing sunny sky, has me thinking it’s far-ass-far from nothing.

I literally bite the tip of my tongue as I inch closer to him.

“Just spill it, Bryce. I’m kind of done with you today, and I’d like to get my shit and go home.”

His head falls forward, and when our eyes meet, I get a glimpse of his old competitive flair. His lips part with a hint of a smile, and his head tilts slightly.

“You’re pissed about what Coach said.”

Fuck him, he knows I am.

“I’m fine, Bryce. What is it?”

I’m not fine. And I’m pulling further away from fine by the millisecond. When Bryce chuckles, I decide I’ve endured enough of everything for the day. I shake my head and walk past him, toward the stadium locker rooms. He follows, but gives me a welcome lead. Finally, fucking alone. I get about halfway there before he stops me cold with his words.

“You’re so pissed off now, but wait until you see the picture someone got of Peyton and me at the club.”

“That’s it.” I spin and close the distance between us with a few long strides, flying into him with both hands wrapped around his shoulder pads so I can force the top-heavy motherfucker onto the ground.

He topples quickly and I pin him down, straddling his flailing body while I push his shoulders harder toward the earth.

“Get the fuck off!” He shoves at my chest, but between my leverage and my rage, he doesn’t stand a chance. I won’t punch him because that would leave a mark. Last thing I need is Coach seeing my co-quarterback showing up with a black eye.

“Isn’t it enough yet? Don’t you have enough? Or do you want it all? My whole life?” I shake him, my weight landing on his upper body over and over. His eyes narrow as I continue to pummel his chest. Slowly, his body goes slack and I finally crawl off him and sit on the ground at his side, sinking my hands into my hair as I grumble.

Bryce sits up, brushing the bits of grass from his hair before leveling me with a hard stare that I deserve. My eyes flit up to catch it briefly.

“Fuck, man. I’m stealing your life? Are you that fucking clueless?” His words spill out in an exasperated, breathy laugh.

I wave my hand at him and shake my head as I drop my gaze back to the ground. He didn’t even throw any punches. I’m not sure if we’ve grown or are just chicken shits now.

“I will never, in my lifetime, find a woman—let alone a whole damn family—like Peyton and hers. If I had one superpower, it would be to trade places with you in a heartbeat. So pardon me if I can’t wrap my fuckin’ mind around you feeling threatened.”

My chest puffs with a short laugh, and I lean forward to spit out the pieces of grass that found their way into my mouth. Rolling my head to the side, I meet his stare, and that flash of arrogance I saw before is gone. Now he just looks sad.

“I’m not here to make some big play to get her back. I swear. But I am here to play football. I won’t apologize for that.”

I catch my bottom lip under my teeth as I take in his words. I start to nod, and the reality washes over me. Nothing is guaranteed—Peyton, this game—but I can’t lose sight of who I am as a man, the person I want to be. Todd Stone—my dad—he wouldn’t let anything pull him away from walking his line. That’s how I win.

My nostrils flare as I slowly let out the hot breath from my lungs. I lean to my right and hold out my hand, and Bryce grasps it firmly. We clutch each other, a little bit of a promise, and for me at least, a show of strength. Not who has the firmer grip, but who can rise above. We pull in unison until we’re on our feet, then dust the scraps of grass and dirt from our white practice pads.

“Dude, you fucking stink. You should really shower,” I say.

Bryce breathes out a quivering laugh that grows into a loud cackle.

“Says the man who smells like shit on roses.” He nods at me.

I flash him my middle finger, then step in line with him as we head the rest of the way to the locker room. I muster the emotional strength to briefly place my hand on his upper back, and he does the same. I think, for us, that’s as good of an apology as either will ever get.