Chapter 12

Chapter Twelve

T he first Sunday swim went well, I think. The guys might hate me for it a little when winter months roll around, but that’s when the toughness comes out.

Truth is, I was motivated when Whiskey took me by the old campus and I saw how much work the guys put in above and beyond regular practice and drills. But there’s something about having an organic thing happen that starts with the players. I wanted Sundays to be a thing we start and that Coach finds out about. It’s a gift to him in that way, I guess. It’s gotta feel good seeing your players put in overtime on their own. But beyond the pats on the backs, if we can get to a point where most of us—at least the nucleus of the team—show up for laps on Sundays, our bond is going to be unbreakable.

As it is, I swear my cardio is better today because of the hour straight swim about twenty of us did on Sunday. Now, to put in the work for my passing. I’m not in sync with Jody yet. I can lead Tony and Dillon deep downfield, but Jody needs to be my top target at running back. He has the speed, and from what I could tell when we watched the Coolidge game, they struggle defending the short pass. It’s their weakness. And in a few weeks, I need to exploit it.

Coach Watts is still in his office when I finish dressing out, so I lean into his open door and knock to get his attention.

“Got a minute?”

He nods, so I take a seat in the metal chair on the opposite side of his desk.

“I got something for you,” he says, opening his side drawer. He tosses a key on the desk, and I stare at it for a moment.

“That way you guys don’t have to hop the fence to get in laps at the pool.” His mouth is a straight line, and I’m not sure if he’s impressed or irritated with us.

“Thanks,” I say.

“ Hmm ,” he grunts, and nods.

I slide the key into my pocket while he goes back to reviewing something on his iPad. He’s always studying film.

“That the Marcos game from Friday?” I crane my neck to get a better view and he turns the tablet a tick.

“Yeah, they’re gonna be tough. We front-loaded our schedule. It will pay off, though, I think.”

I nod at his assessment and watch the game play with him.

“They’re sloppy with the handoffs,” I say, pointing to the screen.

He drags the video back a few seconds and watches them run the play again.

“Good spot. We’ll need to work on that with the defense tomorrow.” He makes a note, then turns his attention back to the screen.

“So, what’s up?” he asks, his gaze not on me. He’s such a hard man to read. Harder when he’s not looking at me. I swallow.

“I want to get in some extra pass work. You think I can get the end zone lights on?”

He stops the video and leans back in his chair, studying me.

“Tonight?” His brow pulls in.

“I was . . . well . . . yeah. Tonight. Tomorrow. Next day?—”

“Yeah, yeah. I get it. Uh, man, I don’t know if I can get facilities to stick around. And the AD is up my ass about costs and raising more money. It’s something like two hundred for every extra hour the lights are on or some bullshit.” He chews on his pen cap as he stares hard into my eyes.

“Forget the lights, then. Just give me a key to the back gate, and I’ll use my headlights.”

Coach chuckles and tosses his pen on his desk.

“Hell, if you’re willing to go that far to get better, I may as well get out there with you.” He stands and closes his laptop as I push back in the metal chair, the legs scraping along the concrete floor.

“I didn’t mean to make extra work for you,” I say, feeling bad when his phone buzzes and I see an image of his wife pop up on the screen. He holds up a finger.

“Hey, babe. Wyatt and I are going to work out a few things. I’m gonna be an hour. If you want to bring the boys, though . . .”

“Really, it’s o—” I try to let him off the hook. He holds up a finger, though, and listens as his wife talks. A second or two later, he holds the phone away from his ear.

“You like rice or chow mein?”

My face puzzles.

“Rice, I guess? Is she?—?”

He repeats my answer and is off the phone and heading out of his office seconds later. What just happened?

“My boys are starting pee wee next week, and they’ve been dying to meet you. So, hope you don’t mind having some helpers out there. And apparently, my wife is hungry, so we’re getting dinner delivered.”

“Oh, wow. Umm, okay.” I try my best to keep up with him, shutting off the locker room lights and snagging my duffel as he holds the locker room door open for me. My mom is working late, picking up all the extra hours she can so it hurts less financially when she takes off Fridays.

I follow Coach down to the field, the sun still up just enough that we might be able to get away with some work before I have to pull my truck around. He stops at the equipment room to grab a bag of balls and wheels out a basket I think he wants to use as a target, but as he slides the door back down to lock it again, an acrid scent hits my nose.

“You smell that?” I ask.

His head snaps to mine and a half-second later, he drops the balls and we both rush around the building to get a clear look at the field. The flames aren’t terribly high, but they trail across the width of our end zone.

“Call nine-one-one!” Coach shouts, sprinting down to the field. He hurdles the fence and scrambles to open the box for the automatic sprinkler lines, flipping them all on at once. He races through the middle of the field, water blasting him from all directions, and stops at one of the large corner jets. He cranks it to point the spray directly at the flames, and the air fills with white smoke just as I finish telling the operator there’s a fire at the school field.

I pull my collar up over my nose and cup my hand on top. Our field backs up to desert, so it’s not like someone drove by and flicked out a cigarette. Do people even smoke cigarettes anymore? I don’t think throwing a vape pen out a window has quite the same effect.

“Fuck!” Coach’s voice reverberates off the bleachers.

I jog up behind him, and when I get a clear view of the burn marks, I see what led to his reaction.

The letters CHS are charred clearly in our end zone. My mind instantly flashes back to last Friday. To Whiskey telling me it wouldn’t be a big deal. The uneasy feeling I had going in for the party. The stitch in my lip. My bruised upper gums that makes it feel a lot like my teeth are falling out.

“I don’t suppose that fat lip of yours has anything to do with this?” He starts pacing with his hands threaded over his head. Sirens blare in the distance.

“I wish I could say no, but I have no fucking idea, Coach.”

His gaze snaps to mine, and as hard as he normally is to read, I can tell right now he’s lit as hell.

“I’m not instigating anything. I swear.” I hold up my hand in pledge and shake my head, my body thrumming with a jolt of adrenaline.

“Go get the emergency gate,” he barks, tossing his keys to me.

I clutch them in the air and jog to the access road to undo the padlock and open the gate wide. Coach’s wife shows up with their two boys, who look to be about six and eight, just as the firefighters finish off the last bit of flames. I toss a ball with them on the track to keep them away from danger as the crew works.

“You must be Wyatt,” his wife says as she approaches. I direct her oldest boy to run deep and toss the ball to him.

“I am. Nice to meet you, Mrs. Watts,” I say, taking her hand.

“You can call me Jamie.”

I nod, but I don’t think I’ll ever be able to do that. My dad taught me to always respect coaches and their families. Jamie feels much too casual.

Coach walks over with one of the police officers who showed up at the scene. My stomach drops in anticipation of his questioning, but it seems he’s got things pretty sorted without me having to give a statement.

“Hey, Wyatt. Officer Caldwell,” he says, shaking my hand and pressing his card into my palm. I scan it, then slip it into my pocket. “We anticipated some of this might happen. Coolidge High has been all alone out here for years. And I’m sure you’ve learned that people in this town take their football pretty seriously. It’s some pretty extensive damage, I’m afraid. But the district has a policy for this stuff. No one will want to throw the other guys under the bus, given that half of the administration graduated with Coach Johnson over there. So I’d expect things to get swept under the rug pretty quick.”

I’m baffled how nonchalant he’s being. I’m also kind of pissed at the clout Coach Johnson apparently has. Mostly, I’m mad that he made me feel like an idiot yesterday in front of his daughter and now he’s screwing up my practice.

“I should take off. My mom probably heard about a fire and I don’t want her to worry,” I say, using my mom as an excuse.

“Yeah, sorry, Wyatt. We’ll figure this out in a few days and start working something out. Me and you, okay?” Coach holds out a fist and I tap it, relieved that he doesn’t seem to be blaming me. Of course, if he knew I was driving straight to the Johnson house to lay into our rival coach, he probably wouldn’t be so calm.

I give knuckles to his two boys and thank his wife for being nice enough to bring us dinner. She insists I take my order with me, so I plop the container on top of my truck’s cupholder before speeding off to the Johnson Ranch.

The driveway is filled with cars when I pull up, so I leave mine near the roadway. I’m still fuming enough to power my march up to the house, but when I realize Reed’s truck isn’t among the vehicles puzzled together on their property, my nerve wanes.

“Wyatt?” Peyton’s voice behind me pretty much zaps whatever courage is left.

Caught at her front door with her walking up the path behind me, essentially blocking me in, I spin around and force what I hope is a casual smile on my face. I must be failing in my effort, though, because she’s setting down the gallon-sized containers of fruit punch she was hauling in either hand and is moving closer to me with a serious look of concern weighing down her cheeks.

“You smell like a BBQ,” she says, moving in to me. Her arms swing around me without warning, and suddenly we’re hugging.

None of this is happening the way it should with her.

“We had a fire,” I blurt out.

“Oh, my God!” She takes a step back to look me in the eyes. “Is your mom okay? Did it burn your house down? Where?”

“Oh, shit. I meant at the school. Well, the field. The end zone, to be precise.”

Her arms slowly cross over her chest. She’s wearing a white T-shirt with bear paw prints and her short black cheer shorts. As my head clears and I begin to recognize the squeals coming from inside, I realize why the driveway is so full.

“Cheer meeting?” I point my thumb over my shoulder.

Peyton nods, but her eyes are still dim, and her mouth is a taut line.

“The guys burnt letters on the field, didn’t they?”

I laugh out once, and hard, but quickly control my expression. I’m shocked at how exact her guess is.

“I thought they were kidding with that shit,” she says, moving past me and opening her front door. She waits for me to enter behind her, so I timidly step onto the rustic wood floors and into a home that smells like pumpkin spice and popcorn.

“Oh!” a woman says as she steps from what I think is the kitchen to peer into the foyer.

“Mom, this is Wyatt,” Peyton explains.

Mom. Yeah, I figured that from the other night. They look so much alike other than the color of their hair. And I kind of think if Peyton lost the highlights, she’d practically be her mom’s twin. Well, younger twin. I suppose it’s more fitting to say daughter. I shake my head to clear my scattered thoughts as her mom wipes her hand with a towel and moves to shake my hand.

“Wyatt, it’s so nice to meet you finally. I’ve heard?—”

Peyton coughs and her mom snaps her mouth shut and glances in her daughter’s direction.

“It’s nice to meet you, too, ma’am,” I say.

“Oh, yeah . . . no. Don’t do that. I’m Nolan. Please, I’m begging you. Never say the word ma’am again. Like, ever.”

I chuckle and nod, noting that I now have two women who insist I use their first names. I think maybe my dad missed out on being progressive. Still, it’s going to be hard not to call them something formal.

“We’re just finishing up with the board meeting for the trip to nationals. You’re welcome to come in and grab a bite,” she says, nudging me toward the kitchen.

“Oh, thanks. But I have dinner in the car, and well?—”

“You have dinner in the car?” Nolan’s brow furrows and she glances at her daughter.

“His mom works a lot. And he just got done with practice.” It’s nice to have her make the excuses for me, but also, hearing it said out loud like that, the obvious void of my dad in the conversation cuts inside.

“Is Dad on his way? Do you know?” Peyton asks.

“I think it’s a late night. You know how they are when they get to talking.” Nolan rolls her eyes, then mouths, “Coaches,” to me.

“You don’t have to make this a thing, Peyton,” I plead. All of that bravado and hot-headedness I had about five minutes ago has turned into wanting to run out of here and join the golf team. I can’t possibly be the source of more strife for her dad. Not when all I want to do now is kiss her. I’m not going to have many chances to kiss her if I keep pissing off her dad like this.

“I’m not making it a thing. And you didn’t make this a thing. Childish fools made this a thing, and it’s about damn time some of them felt consequences.” She’s fired up, and her mom’s interest is piqued in that way only an involved parent’s can be.

“Nobody needs to do a thing. I’m sorry I came here. I was just in my feelings and needed to rant about it to someone.”

While I’m doing my best to dismiss everything, Peyton is busy filling her mom in on the actual details. When she gasps and meets my gaze, I drop my chin to my chest.

By the time I look up, the shock seems to have faded. But now Peyton and her mom, who is married to my rival coach—the coach of the guy who lit my field on fire, no doubt—are making plans without me to take things up a level.

I grab the officer’s card from my pocket and flash it to them, and thankfully, it seems to get them to stop.

“It’s being handled. As best as things in this town are handled when it comes to football, I mean.” We all get silent for a moment, and I think they both understand the politics involved.

“Just maybe mention this to your dad,” I say when my eyes meet Peyton. “So he’s not surprised. And maybe if there’s a way that it didn’t come from me?” I shrug, already feeling a foot shorter around Reed, thanks to the hole I keep digging myself into.

Peyton nods, then leans into her mom’s shoulder, whispering something.

“Wait here. I’ll walk you out,” she says.

I agree, but my twitchy muscles are aching to sprint out of here before one more cheerleader peeks around the corner and giggles about something. About me. They are giggling about me.

I shake her mom’s hand one more time and pretend I don’t notice the knowing smirk on her face. The fact her daughter has talked about me didn’t get past me. I’d love to know what she said.

Peyton comes back after a few seconds, a salad bowl filled with popcorn and two cupcakes balanced on top. Rather than argue with her, I let her carry them to my truck as she walks me out. I presume she’s about to hand the treats to me as she sends me on my way for the night, but instead, she hops into the passenger side of my truck and buckles up. I pull the door open and gawk at her, kind of impressed with her audacity.

“What? If you’re not coming in for dinner, I’m coming out to eat mine with you. But if you don’t want my dad joining us again, I suggest you get in and drive.” She pinches a kernel of popcorn and tosses it at me. I catch it in my palm, then pop it in my mouth. It’s kettle corn. Sweet and salty. And amazing. Of course it is.

“Well, all right, then.” I slide into my seat, buckle up, and crank the engine as she eyes the takeout my coach’s wife brought me.

“Where to?” I ask her.

“Anywhere,” she says, a playful smirk on her lips. “Anywhere but here.”