Chapter 14

Chapter Fourteen

I f I’ve learned one thing about towns like this, it’s that secrets have a way of spreading like wildfire.

Fire.

Ironic that’s the thought I have given that just about everyone at Vista High knows about the CHS burnt into our end zone. I didn’t say a word to anyone, and it was only me and Coach out there to discover it. He made it pretty clear to me, as did the police officer, that this was getting deemed an accident. Rivalries like ours tend to get amped up when talk about retribution gets involved. I know Peyton didn’t say anything on her end either. Keeping her mouth shut was actually her mom’s idea, so I’m sure things are buttoned up in their house as well.

Her mom agreed that giving this more attention will only add fuel. Petrol in the form of a two-hundred-twenty-pound former NFL quarterback who doesn’t put up with bullshit in his hometown. Or with his team. And as much as I want Bryce to get his due, I want to be the one to give it to him—on the field.

Someone talked, though. Just enough. And the conversation is still going on in hushed tones across the bus aisle as we head home from our big win tonight against Marcos.

“What do you think? Coach said he just saw a fire, but someone posted this photo,” Whiskey says, leaning over the back of his seat and showing me his phone screen.

I take his phone in my hand and zoom in to get a better look. Someone was watching Coach and me that night. Luckily, I’m out of view. I must have been dialing nine-one-one at the time because otherwise, I would have been right behind him. Regardless, it’s pretty clear in this shot that the burn was in the form of Coolidge High’s initials. I’m not sure how Coach scalped it clean after the fire department put it out. I’m sure he got help from a few of the firefighters. Hell, maybe even the cop.

I hand Whiskey back his phone.

“I don’t know, man. People can do a lot with Photoshop, and you know how AI is now.” I swallow down the lie.

“Yeah, I guess. But there’s a lot of talk. And it wouldn’t shock me after the way Bryce acted at the desert party. Speaking of, you up for a little repeat tonight?” Whiskey arches a brow.

My chest puffs with a short laugh.

“Uh, no. I was pretty sure it was a bad idea before I got punched in the face, and now that my stitch is out, I’m certain of it. You shouldn’t provoke them.” I lower my gaze and hold his stare to make my point clear.

“Ehh, I think that was a one-time thing. He was jealous and shit, you know, because of you and?—”

“And nobody,” I fill in for him. My eyes flit to the seats around us and Whiskey covers his mouth. Somehow his goofy smile still sticks out the sides.

“Dude, I didn’t know it was a big secret.”

I sigh.

“It’s not. But I don’t think it’s a thing either of us are talking about with a lot of people yet. And I’m pretty sure her dad hates me, so . . .”

“Coach J? No way! If he gets to know you, he’ll love you. You’re his perfect player. You throw so much like him, man.”

“Yeah, I don’t know. I think he’s pretty committed to Hampton.” My stomach turns at the thought of Bryce with Peyton. I don’t begrudge her for her past, but I hate that he got to have anything with her. He doesn’t deserve the memories.

“That’s just ’cause Bryce wins. I promise you, if they drop more than a game this season, that guy’s status will dive big time in Coach J’s eyes,” Whiskey says.

“Hasn’t he only lost, like, two games in three years?” I don’t know why I qualify that. It has only been two. I know exactly the ones. When a guy constantly bumps you out of the top QB ranking for the state, you pay attention to everything he does. You use it for motivation.

Whiskey shrugs and drops down into his seat.

“Yeah, but he doesn’t have the team he had around him before. You have that team, plus some.”

His phone begins to play music a second later, so I don’t bother arguing with him again. And anyway, he’s kind of right. I do have Bryce’s old team—half of it. And the pieces we have are committed and full of heart.

I scoop my bag from beneath the seat and dig out my phone. My mom sent me her videos, which I appreciate, but she’s still not great at following the action. I’ll get the video clips from our assistant coach next week, but I text her thanks anyhow. I hope she left in the fourth like I told her to. It’s a long drive from the Valley back out to Coolidge.

The next message is from my dad’s old captain, Jeff.

JEFF: I smell a new record, kid! Your dad is looking down proud.

I heart his message and silently read it over a few times. My dad predicted I’d close in on some state records by now. God, he would have loved to be here for it.

I swipe to my contacts and hover over Peyton’s picture. I stole it from her socials, and I’m sure she’ll be pissed that I took one of her in her cheer uniform, but I am not ashamed. She’s hot. And the cheer uniform? Yeah, it does it for me. Big. Time.

As if somehow the universe whispered to her that I’m thinking of her, my phone buzzes in my hand with a text from her.

PEYTON: I saw the score. Nice win!

Ours was a much closer game than theirs. Fourteen to three compared to their thirty-six to zero. Coach Watts told me Coach Johnson likes to stack the schedule that way to build his team’s confidence, but I don’t think it’s the right move. I think that route gives false confidence. And when the real tests come, how can they know if they’re really up to the job?

ME: It wasn’t a shutout like yours.

PEYTON: Shutouts are boring.

I laugh out loud, then sink down before anyone notices.

ME: I wouldn’t mind one.

PEYTON: Maybe you should practice more.

I smile at her comeback. We were up, probably too late, last night talking about my schedule and practice regimen. My dad instilled me with my discipline. It definitely does not come from my mom, who is habitually about five minutes late to everything in life.

Not my dad. My grandpa, his dad, was a former Marine, and growing up in their house there was a strict respect for sticking to a schedule. My dad loosened up a little over the years, likely from never being able to convert my mom to being a time-obeyer, but when it came to reaching my goals in my sport, there were definitely charts involved.

ME: I did skip my morning run. I was sleepy for some reason.

I was exhausted because I stayed up until two talking to Peyton. I fought through sleepy eyes just to keep her on the phone. My ass paid for it tonight, too, because I was definitely gassed by the fourth quarter. On fresh legs, I probably would have made it into the end zone on that last drive. Twenty-one to three is definitely a bigger statement win. But we won. And I’m not in the hunt for rushing yards. I’m chasing throw touchdown numbers and passing yards.

PEYTON: Was it worth it?

I don’t even have to think about it.

ME: Absolutely.

In fact, I’d rather spend tonight learning more about her over the phone than sitting on the outskirts of some desert party where my presence is clearly not wanted. Unless, of course, she’ll be there, and I can learn things about her in person. While touching her. And kissing her.

ME: Whiskey plans to show up again. FYI

PEYTON: Really?

ME: He insists it’s no big deal.

The flashing dots indicating she’s typing last for several seconds, then stop. Maybe she’s already back at the school. Their game wasn’t quite as far away as ours, and the cheerleaders travel in a van, separate from the bus. I wish quarterbacks got the van treatment. Not that I don’t love bonding with the guys on the way there, but damn, I’d really like to get to the showers faster on the way home.

I’m about to check in on her and ask if she’s planning to go to the desert tonight when Whiskey pops up over the seat back again, his brow pulled in like an angry bear. Maybe it’s the eye black smeared down his cheeks that makes him look so mean.

“Dude, you fucking snitched on me? What the hell?”

Nope, he’s mad.

I sigh and fall back into my seat, bringing my phone up to read the message I just received.

PEYTON: I forbid him.

My gaze shifts to my friend’s disappointed expression, then back to my phone screen.

ME: So he says. Can’t we just put him on a leash or something? He looks so sad.

“Is that her you’re texting? Can we call her?” He reaches over the seat to grab my phone, and I twist to keep it away from him.

PEYTON: Good luck with that. I’m going with the girls. I have to drive. We have a regional competition tomorrow, and I need them to stay sober-ish. Tell him I’ll be watching.

It stings a little that she didn’t ask me to come, but I get it. Things between our schools are rough right now, and after seeing that photo Whiskey showed me, putting me and Bryce in the same vicinity anytime soon isn’t a good idea for either of us. My resolve is only so strong. I don’t need to tempt my worst instincts to the point that I fuck over my future.

I glance up and meet Whiskey’s eyes.

“She said you’re to behave. And stick by her. Can you do that?”

His stupid big grin says he’ll try his best.

“I’m serious, Whisk. Coach Watts doesn’t want us starting shit,” I plead with him.

“You mean shit they already started?”

I grumble and level him with a serious look.

“Yes, Dad ,” he bemoans, disappearing behind his seat and immediately shouting across the aisle. “It’s party time, boys!”

Fuck.

I start to write back to Peyton to warn her that she may need to babysit more than one of our players, and that maybe I should come too, when someone behind me rips my phone from my hand.

“What the fuck?” I shout, spinning around and stepping on my seat. My phone gets passed back through a few hands, the first set from our backup center, who thinks he’s being funny. I shove him into the corner of his seat, ignoring the shouts from Coach at the front of the bus warning us to sit the fuck down.

“You updating your dating profile, pretty boy?” This time the barbs come from Noah, my defensive back.

“Ha ha. No, but my phone is my business, so give it back.” I dive for it but Noah quickly flicks it behind him to Ransom, my back-up who would probably love to see me get my ass sat for a game. He’s shit, though, so I’m pretty sure he’s the only one rooting for him to step foot on the field during a game.

“Your business, huh?” he says, holding his foot up and pressing it into my gut as I lurch into his seat. His eyes scan my phone, and my chest tightens. I know what he’s reading.

“You got business with Peyton Johnson?” He drops his foot and I snatch my phone from his hand but stay close enough that he has no choice but to smell my breath. I hope it’s rancid.

“I said, my phone is my business,” I bite out, lunging at him so he flinches.

I go back to my seat and hold up my palm to Coach, who is now standing in the aisle.

“Sorry, Coach. Won’t happen again,” I growl.

My eyes meet Whiskey’s, though I doubt he can read my thoughts. I would give anything for him to stay away from that desert party tonight, and keep the other guys away, too.

“Your girl there know anything about the fire on our field, Wyatt? You let her in to set it?” Ransom is provoking me, and I squeeze my eyes shut, willing myself not to respond.

“Should we ask her ourselves?” he continues, and I snap.

“You don’t say shit to her. Ever. Got it?” I point at him, but keep my ass in my seat. I hold his stare, and his smirk turns into garbage laughter. I fantasize about smacking it from his face.

I return my focus to the front of the bus, and my phone vibrates in my palm. I expect Peyton, but instead it’s Whiskey.

WHISK: I get it. We’ll start our own tradition tonight.

My shoulders drop a hair in relief, but my body is still tense. I type back, Thank you .

I should probably go with him if it’s something just for our team, but now I’m really not in the mood. Plus, I’m sure I’d get more questions about Peyton, which would only fuel more rumors and questions about the fire. At this point, I want to throw Bryce Hampton to the wolves—or rather, the Mustangs. Let them have him.