28. Fern

Chapter 28

Fern

Wyatt drives to my neighborhood the next morning to meet me for coffee. It's strange to see him here, where I grew up. My neighborhood is much more focused on football and baseball, as a rule, so he doesn't seem to be at risk for being recognized here as he would on campus with all the rabid college fans.

But when I peek in the window from the sidewalk and see him waiting at one of the tables, he actually looks a lot more relaxed than I've seen him anywhere outside of his family's ski house.

"Hey," I say, pulling up the chair opposite him and sinking into it.

He smiles, wide and bright-eyed, sliding a plate of pastries across the table toward me. "Hey. You hungry?" I shrug, reaching for one, and if possible, his smile widens. "I like that about you, Fern. The way you enjoy your food."

I flush and dab at my mouth with a napkin. "You said some stuff happened? Also, what are you wearing?"

He's got tight-ish black workout pants and a black jersey I haven't seen before under a plain black zip-up athletic jacket. Usually, he wears university team gear.

He grins. "This is for the soccer combine later today." He bites his lip, expression turning hopeful. "You want to come watch? It's basically a bunch of pro hopefuls in the region doing skills and drills for some scouts from international clubs."

My eyebrows shoot up. "International? Like the Mexican team you were looking at?"

Wyatt nods, pulling off his hat—plain black—and runs a finger through his hair. He doesn't place the hat back on his head, and I hold back the urge to tuck his loose, dark hair away from his forehead. He seems youthful and content. "Did something change for you, Wyatt?" I take another bite of the pastry, and he leans forward, clasping his hands on the table.

"I talked to my dad. And my uncles. About everything." He waves a finger in the air, and I take that to mean his entire situation with his name and the threatening texts and all of it. Wyatt grins. "Uncle Tim pulled a lot of levers. And my Aunt Juniper is a magisterial judge who happened to have night court last weekend." He reaches into his pocket and procures a creased photocopy, which he slides across the table.

"What's this?" I squint to read the fine print, but it's all legalese I'd usually call Thora to interpret.

"My name change. It's official." He pulls the paper back, expression a blend of awe and disbelief. "As soon as I deal with the social security office, DMV, and passport people."

"I just did my passport yesterday! I can help you with the forms." I clap a hand over my mouth, not at all sure why I'd offer that when he's apparently got a whole team of experienced lawyers and lawmakers shepherding him through this process.

But Wyatt reaches for my hand and squeezes it appreciatively. "I'd love that, Fern. Seriously."

I want to bask in the warmth of his skin against mine, but despite his trying to keep a low profile, I can't risk being seen intimately with Wyatt. I tug my hand free and reach for the pastry plate again. "So, you're officially Wyatt Moyer?"

He puffs out a laugh. "Wyatt Stag Moyer. I ditched the middle name for a better one."

"I'm glad for you, truly. Good luck getting your transcripts updated in time for graduation, though." I laugh derisively, and then I realize he probably doesn't care too much about his college transcripts if he's headed off to be a professional soccer player.

"Come to the combine today," he says, his voice low. "I'd love to have you there cheering me on. Yelling Moyer and having it be me you're calling that …"

I frown. "Won't you have your family there? And your agent and all that?"

He shrugs. "Yeah." He leans forward, closer to me. I can smell his soapy scent, his deodorant and laundry detergent, and his tangy Wyatt aroma. "But they're not you." I take another bite of the pastry, and Wyatt pulls out his phone. "I'm going to text you the info and your name will be at will-call. You don't have to talk to my mom or Grand or Lolly." He winks. "I hope you can make it."

Wyatt leaves the coffee shop, and I sit with the tray of buttery deliciousness, worrying about what to do. I'd love to see Wyatt in his element, wearing little shorts. I'm so happy for him that he seems to have dealt with the albatross, although I can't help but wonder if his next steps ought to include some mental health support for the trauma that got him into that state to begin with.

I stare at the details in my phone about the soccer event. It won't be crowded with fans—most likely just family members and press folks. Since I already finished absolutely everything school-related, my only alternative would be another day glued to my couch watching sad television.

I dash home for a hat and sunglasses and make my way to the stadium along the Mon River. By the time I arrive, the athletes have begun their activities. The stands have pockets of families, many holding up signs, but there are a few scattered individuals in the bleachers. I make my way toward the seats behind one of the goals, avoiding eye contact with Wyatt's mother and grandmothers, who I can clearly see up in one of the fancy boxes along with a man who must be Wyatt's father. I can hear them shouting, and I glance to the field in time to see Wyatt receive a complicated pass from a coach.

Wyatt flicks a foot, seemingly effortlessly, and the ball sails into the net right in front of me. I can't help but whoop. And then he cycles through the drill several more times, scoring with each opportunity—sometimes off his left foot, sometimes his right, and sometimes using his forehead to nudge the ball into the net.

He's magnificent out there, totally in control of his body on the field. Other players sometimes crash into him, but he doesn't lose the ball. At times, he moves his foot on top of it, pulling it around the grass like it's attached to his shoe. I see people on the sidelines taking note of Wyatt's work, making phone calls, whispering to one another, and pointing at him. A ball of pride swells in my chest as if I had something to do with his success out there.

One of the coaches blows a whistle and the players break into teams wearing black shirts and white shirts. They start a game, and I wish I had paid attention during any of the times I worked with Thora at these events. I have no idea what's going on with the game, but I can see Wyatt's family pumping their fists and hollering whenever the ball is near him. Wyatt doesn't break his gaze from the field, though. He's focused, determined, dodging around other players with ease.

After a few minutes, he breaks free of a crowd of players, shakes off an elbow, leans back on one foot, and kicks the ball into the corner of the net past the diving hands of the goalkeeper. The stadium erupts into cheers, and I'm caught up in the moment, jumping to my feet to wave my hat around. And then he sees me, and I freeze. The whole stadium seems to melt away as he smiles at me and gives me a little wave. My cheeks heat as he wiggles his fingers in my direction.

Someone calls him off the field, and he disappears into a tunnel. I sit back down and try to pay attention to the action on the field, wondering if I should stay or go now that Wyatt is apparently done with his performance. I've made up my mind to head home and call him later, but someone puts a hand on my arm, stopping me as I go to leave.

It's a man with a camera, which seems to be recording. "Pardon me, miss," he says, his voice indicating a long history with a lot of cigarettes. "You're here with Wyatt De Luca?"

I frown. "I don't know anyone with that name." I try to shove past him, but he chuckles and stands in my way.

"Right, right. Goes by Moyer, doesn't he? I'm doing a little story on his family. Thought it would be good to include some quotes from the girlfriend. What's your name, honey?"

I stare at the man, not knowing how to respond. I know Wyatt is guarded with the press and I can't imagine he'd want to reveal anything about a romantic relationship in the news. He can't really avoid his parents coming up since they're part of the sport. But I feel pretty confident he'd support me telling this guy to fuck off. Except I don't say that because I'm too overwhelmed. I shove past the man and hurry toward the exit gate.