Chapter 10

Chapter Ten

T his is a bad idea.

I should have listened to my gut.

“We’ll be fine. They’re still my boys, at least until the last game of the season, when we crush them.” Whiskey hands me a beer that he snagged from one of their coolers.

I don’t think I need to be drinking tonight, but Whisk has been hyping the post-game desert party all week. He and the other guys who came over from the old school see things differently. Maybe that’s what it’s like growing up in a small town with only one football team. There’s no concept of territory, of bragging rights. At my old school, it was a big deal if we got midnight pancakes at the wrong Denny’s.

“We’ll see. I’m gonna hang back a while,” I say, taking a sip of my beer and getting comfortable against the hood of my truck. I should also stay close to our exit route out of here.

It doesn’t take long for the dry river basin to fill with trucks and cars, and the bonfire in the makeshift campsite pit is roaring pretty good. It’s hot as shit out here, so why there’s a fire beats me. Another part of the Coolidge tradition, I suppose. Might be time to start some Vista traditions.

Whiskey blends easily, slapping hands and hugging his old teammates. A few of our guys do the same, but not all of them. Tony and Dillon, who both caught passes from me in the end zone tonight, are hanging back too. I nod at them across the swath of desert between us, and Tony raises his beer. Dillon’s hands are empty, and I can’t help but suspect he’s staying ready for anything . . . just like I am.

The air breaks with electric guitar, and the song Whiskey was playing in the locker room after our win blares in the desert. Ten seconds in and he’s yelping like he’s some cowboy. I chuckle and indulge in another sip, turning my attention to the source of my favorite lineman’s favorite song. My gaze lands on Peyton about a half second before she lights me up with the Jeep’s high beams.

“Shit,” I mumble to myself, half because the bright lights have seared my pupils and half because that ominous feeling in my gut just doubled down.

My tongue passes over my dry bottom lip, and I lift my beer in her direction to acknowledge her. She should keep her distance tonight. I should. But she’s just flipped the Jeep lights off, and I’m pretty sure that’s her body I see walking toward me. I’d know for sure if I could fucking see.

Welp . I take an even bigger drink, then rest my beer on my hood and meet her halfway.

“What are you guys doing here, Wyatt?” She punches her hands into the front pocket of her hoodie. Her hair is pulled into a ponytail damn near on the top of her head, a yellow bow wrapped around the base yet a tad off-center. I nudge it toward the middle with my right hand, and she blinks up through thick eyelashes.

“What? Ugh. Just, I forgot about that,” she grumbles, ripping the bow from her head. Her gaze comes back to mine, and I laugh a little at her sudden mini temper tantrum.

“You’re pretty cute sometimes.”

Her mouth snaps shut and her eyes dim. I’ve either stunned her or offended her, both entirely possible.

“You’re avoiding my question.” She stuffs the bow into her hoodie pocket, then crosses her arms over her chest.

I debate whether or not to mention the glitter splashed across her cheeks, but thankfully, Whiskey saves me from myself, slinging his massive arm around Peyton and pulling her into his side.

“Ahh, there’s my favorite cheerleader,” he says, his burly body knocking her ponytail loose. She pulls the hair band out and shoves it into her hoodie along with the bow, her curled locks falling around her face.

“Jack Michael Olsen, what the fuck are you doing out here? You trying to start a fight?” Her hands land on her hips, and her brow lifts with her wide eyes.

Jack Michael Olsen? She’s gone full mom mode.

I chuckle.

“Hush,” she says, waving at me. It only makes me laugh more.

“Oh, come on, Peyt. Most of us grew up together. This is the party spot. Just let it be.” He finishes off what I somehow think is already his second beer and tosses the bottle into a gully behind my truck. I grimace at him and go pick it up.

“Sorry, Wy. I get too comfortable sometimes.”

“More like all the time. The amount of recycling I’ve cleared out of this place on fall weekends could fund my future tuition,” Peyton says.

I set Whiskey’s empty bottle in the back of my truck and meet Peyton’s stare.

“Starting my own fund, in case the full ride to Arizona doesn’t pan out,” I say with a shrug. I have a pending half-scholarship with them now, but I’d like to see them cover the whole thing. Which means I need to make sure this season goes one way—perfect.

Unfortunately, fucking Bryce Hampton is striding toward me right now, looking like he has zero interest in how well my season goes. He’s ready to start some shit.

“Now, you see, Whiskey . . . this is why I thought this was a bad idea.” I nod toward the incoming piece of shit, and they both turn just in time to witness him lunge at me. Bryce’s hands grab either shoulder, and I stumble back a few steps until my back hits the side of my pickup.

“Fuck, that hurt,” I grunt out, shoving back to get the hothead off of me.

“Bryce, what the hell?” Peyton shoves him, and he moves a little from her force. I smirk and wonder if he hates that she’s strong enough to move him.

“You okay?” Peyton asks as she steps between us.

“He’s at the wrong fucking party, that’s what he is!” Bryce says, pointing at me over her shoulder.

I twist my lips and stand up straight. I have him by two inches, and while he might have me by weight, something about being just a little bit taller feels pretty good.

“Man, Bryce. Don’t be like that,” Whiskey says, laying his hand on Bryce’s shoulder.

I wince, mostly because I think I might be able to see the future. Bryce isn’t drunk on alcohol. He’s drunk on ego. And that? It’s far more dangerous and self-destructive.

He swivels his head and drops his gaze to where Whiskey’s hand rests on him. I don’t know about their lives before Vista was built, but knowing the kind of player Whiskey is, I’d venture to guess he and Bryce were friends. Friendly, at the very least.

“Fucking Mustang traitor. Get your hand off me!” Bryce jerks his arm away and takes a step back, giving himself just enough room to lean forward and spit on the ground between him and his old lineman.

“Are you being serious right now?” Whiskey sounds genuinely shocked. I, on the other hand, saw this play out almost verbatim in my head.

Dillon and Tony have made their way over, and we all exchange uneasy glances. Whiskey is too big for any of us to stop. And he’s pretty hyped from the game and the chugging he’s gotten in already. If Bryce decides to provoke him much more, it’s not going to be pretty.

“Yeah, I’m serious. We aren’t on the same team anymore, bro. And this place? It’s ours. It’s been that way for years. Go find your own fucking traditions. And find your own fucking girls, too, while you’re at it.”

Oh, now, that shit? That was for me.

I’m about to step up and do something stupid when Bryce shoves past Whiskey, ramming into his side with a stiff elbow, and everything turns to slow-motion. The chest of my new, ginormous, soft-hearted friend fills up and his face reddens with white-hot rage, and Whiskey grabs the entire sleeve of Bryce’s T-shirt. The seam tears at the neck as Whiskey’s jerk spins Bryce around, and about half a second before anyone’s fists are thrown, I get the brilliant idea to thrust myself into the middle—just in time to take Bryce’s knuckles to my upper lip. I instantly taste blood.

“Bryce!” Peyton screams, pulling what’s left of her ex-boyfriend’s T-shirt away from me.

My head flung to the side, my hat who the fuck knows where, I touch two fingers to the numb section of my mouth, then stare at the blood on my hand. I’ve been hit before. I’ve busted my lip plenty of times. Usually, I’m braced for the blow. Still, it could hurt worse. It could hurt a lot worse. And that thought makes me laugh.

“Wyatt, let me see,” Peyton says, cupping my face in her cool hands. She cradles my chin and nudges my head back so she can get a good look. And while she’s inspecting me, my gaze drifts to Hampton, who looks jealous as fuck, his eyes slitted and his lip curled in a snarl.

I grin at him, my teeth likely stained with blood.

“What’s so funny, dickhead?”

I laugh again, and Peyton’s hands slip away.

“Maybe your girl wouldn’t be looking at guys like me if you knew how to throw the ball.” I let my gory, toothy grin linger on him as his jaw tightens under the heat of my stare. Before he can lunge at me again, Whiskey wraps his arm around him and drags him about a dozen feet back. My laughter picks up. Bryce Hampton and I have been competing for records and rankings for years, but since we were at the same quarterback camp this summer, he’s risen to the number one spot on my list of least favorite people. Not only because of the way he collected girls all summer long like they were trading cards, but because of his complete inability to consider anyone but himself. Bad plays weren’t his fault. Great plays were thanks to him. And the lies that fell off his lips—especially the ones he told about his ex-girlfriend back home—let me know all I needed to about the kind of man he’s on track to be.

My eyes flutter, my focus a bit out of whack, but eventually my gaze returns to Peyton. Judging by the way her mouth is weighed down at the corners and her eyes have hazed, she’s not as amused by my comeback as I was. I swallow my remaining laughter.

“Sorry,” I utter.

She nods, only once.

“Yeah, well. You probably need stitches. You should go get some of those.” Peyton’s glare sticks to me for a full second, but nothing more. She’s gone, and I’m being helped into the passenger side of my pickup by Tony, who I gladly hand my keys to.

Whiskey opts to stay at the party, and I tell Dillon to stay behind and keep an eye on him. I don’t want him taking up a vengeance against his old quarterback on behalf of his new one. I don’t need him taking things too far and turning this into something that gets back to the district.

“Hey, just so we’re clear. I dropped a wrench on my face,” I say, my head resting on the seat as I try to hold my eyes open and keep my gaze on Tony.

He nods.

“You should maybe make sure Whiskey and Dillon know that,” he says, flickering my lights to get people to clear out of the way. Seems my little altercation with Bryce drew quite the crowd. There are a lot of blue and gold shirts out here tonight. I knew this wasn’t a party for us.

“I’m not worried about it getting back to Coach. My mom, however? She’s going to flip her lid.”

“It’s pretty bad,” Tony says. He glances at my busted face, then back to the dirt road that winds through overgrown brush.

“Feels like it,” I admit.

I sit up tall and flip down the passenger visor to check things out for myself in the mirror. The dome light in my cab is dim, but I can clearly see the split. I might get away with a single stitch if I’m lucky.

It takes us about an hour to weave our way back to the highway and through the west side of town to the urgent care. I call my mom when we’re five minutes out, and she meets us there. As I predicted, she immediately jumps to the worst possible conclusion, and even though Tony does a good job selling my story, I don’t think she’s buying it. Probably because as little as I drank, my shirt still smells like beer. And this isn’t the first time I’ve been punched in the face at a party.

Luckily, I get fixed up with one stitch and some really good glue. Not that I’ll grow much of a mustache now; it’ll probably have a small bald spot for the next several years. I tell Tony to keep the truck for the night and pick me up tomorrow for film review. The ride home with my mom is deathly silent. I know it’s because she’s worried. It’s me and her now, and I went and got knocked around.

“You should see the other guy,” I finally utter, unable to take the tension any longer.

She sighs and leans her elbow on the window.

“Fighting? Wyatt, that’s not like you.” Her brow is drawn in so tight I can see the wrinkle on her forehead in the dark.

“I’ve been in fights before.”

“You were twelve. And you had a bully! Not the same as—” She whirls her finger in my direction.

“I didn’t really fight, if that makes you feel better. I sort of got in the way of one, for the good of the team.”

She glances at me and her hard eyes soften a touch.

“It’s what Dad would have done. I actually thought about it when I made the decision.”

Her lip quivers.

I reach over and hold my hand out for her to take. She does, squeezing my palm while I squeeze hers back. She turns the final corner to head to our house but slows when we spot the Jeep idling at the edge of our driveway.

“Someone coming back for more?”

I shake my head.

“No, not exactly.” Peyton may have words for me, but she’s not going to knock me out. At least, I don’t think so.

When she hops out of the driver’s side and Whiskey climbs out of the passenger side, my mom sinks back in her seat with relief. She idles at the end of our driveway, and I get out to talk with my visitors.

“I’ll be right in,” I say. I feel guilty I pulled her out of bed in a panic. She has work in the morning and was already out pretty late for my game.

My mom pulls up the driveway and into the garage, leaving it open for me after she heads inside.

“How bad is it, dude?” Whiskey steps up as I tilt my head to allow the streetlight to glow on my wound.

“Oooof.” He winces.

“Eh, looks worse than it feels,” I lie. It definitely feels worse than a single stitch.

“You tell her how to get here?” I nod toward the Jeep where Peyton is still hovering outside the door.

“Yeah. I hope that’s okay. She was pretty insistent. And to be honest, she’s always scared the shit out of me,” he says, whispering that last part.

I chuckle.

“I get that,” I agree.

I glance back to Peyton and nod. She lifts a hand, but not really in a wave. More like a silent agreement that we’re both here, that she came to my house, and there’s a weird fucking vibe going on because of tonight.

“You wanna stay the night? We have a guest room. Tony’s picking me up for film in the morning, so you can just come with.”

Whiskey nods and runs his hand through his sweaty hair. It’s too hot to party in the desert. What is up with this place? Why don’t they simply pick someone’s house?

“I’m gonna shower if that’s cool with you?” he asks as he begins to trek up my driveway.

“Yeah. There are clean towels by the linen closet. We haven’t gotten around to unpacking the boxes yet, so look for the one with a T on it.

While Whiskey heads into my garage, I shuffle toward Peyton, my chest tight because I’m not sure what to expect. She rests her back against the side of the Jeep and tucks her hands in her hoodie as I step in front of her.

“How’s the lip?” Her brow arches.

“You tell me,” I say, turning my head slightly as if I’m showing off a new piercing or a close shave. She stands up and leans in close, her hand reaching up and brushing my chin. Her eyelashes flit as she studies my wound, and a second later she’s staring into my eyes.

“It’s pretty gross.”

I laugh at her unkind bluntness, but I don’t back away. Neither does she. And her hand, its touch only becomes more certain. Steadier.

“I brought you a dime,” she says, her other hand slowly bunching up the center of my T-shirt. The toes of our shoes are touching now.

“A dime? Do they still make those?” I say.

“ Hmm , it’s an artifact, for sure. But I wanted to buy that bottle off you. You know, for my collection. Contribute toward your tuition fund.”

I move my hands to her elbows, then slowly glide my palms up her arms, then neck, until my hands cradle her face.

“I think I can get more than a dime for it,” I tease, our mouths now inches apart.

Peyton lifts up on her toes and blinks slowly. She runs her fingertip over the cut on my upper lip and I twitch. Her gaze flits to mine.

“You get more for recycling in Michigan. You’re welcome to try that if you want. Or you can take my deal.”

The healthy side of my mouth raises with a tiny smirk. She’s so funny and smart. Smart-mouthed for sure, but also . . . just smart. And so fucking beautiful. My chest tightens again, and the thumping inside gets louder.

“I’m sorry about starting shit with Bryce tonight,” I say with a hard swallow.

She shakes her head slowly.

“That wasn’t because of you. And Whiskey told me it was his idea to come. I shouldn’t have made you all feel unwelcome.”

I squint one eye and dimple my cheek with the good side of my mouth.

“You were a little harsh,” I tease.

She shakes her first against my ribs, her hand still clutching my shirt. She can have it. My shirt. My heart. My rib. Whatever she wants. She can take it if she’ll just give me one shot. One kiss.

“I’m not Bryce’s girl,” she says, a point she’s made clear many times. Still, I can’t help but hate that guy for having had something with her. And having cheated on her. And spreading stories about how clingy she is, and making her sound like a crazy ex to every other girl he bragged to. He used her as clout, used the fact he dated a famous man’s daughter as a way to up his own cachet.

“I know,” I say in a hushed tone. My eyes zero in on her mouth. I feel her breath against my chin.

“I’m nobody’s girl. I belong to me.” Her eyes are open, and I lean back a tick to meet her gaze and prove to her that I hear her.

“Okay,” I say.

Her attention once again dips to my mouth, and her tongue peeks out between her lips. While her left hand twists my shirt into a tighter hold, her right one nudges my chin toward hers, and I bend down just enough for her sweet, perfect mouth to touch my bottom lip. It takes every ounce of self-restraint in my body not to say fuck it and kiss her the way I want to. But I’d only bust open my stitch and probably bleed all over both of us. So I’ll have to settle for slow.

I indulge in her being in charge of this. She takes my bottom lip between hers and sucks in lightly, her tongue passing along my skin as she holds my mouth to hers. I forgo breathing. In fact, I don’t fill my lungs once after her feet flatten back on the pavement. I definitely don’t draw in air when she unfurls my shirt from her grip. It’s not until her hand falls from my chin and I let go of her face and look into her almond-shaped brown eyes that I remember air exists at all.

“I’ve decided,” she says, climbing into the driver’s side. I ease the door closed.

“Oh, yeah? What’s that?” My eyes don’t know where to focus. What mental pictures to snap most. Her mouth. Her face. The stray blonde hairs blowing across the bridge of her nose. Back to her mouth.

“I like you, Wyatt Stone. Quite a lot, I think.”

The full grin sneaks up on me, and I wince when it stretches my stitch. I touch the spot with my fingertips and Peyton giggles, then promptly rolls up her window and drives away.