Chapter 16

Chapter Sixteen

I wasn’t sure everyone would be on board for my whole Sunday team swim thing, but every single guy showed up for this morning’s session. The pool was brisk, too. It’s still hot as fuck out here by noon, but six a.m. swims don’t give the water much time to heat up. The cold, however, is half the point.

“Your dad’s polar plunge lives on, I see?” My mom picks up the soaking towel I left on the wood floor on my way from the front door to the bathroom.

I grimace.

“Sorry, I had tunnel vision on the hot water,” I admit, taking the towel from her and hanging it on the bar in my bathroom. I pull a clean one out of the cabinet and dry the floor.

“I’m about to make some pancakes if you want some,” she offers over her shoulder on her way to the kitchen.

“Oh, I actually . . . have breakfast plans.” I hold my breath behind a tight-lipped smile. My mom spins around and studies my face, a slow smirk growing on her face.

“You have plans, huh?” She’s using that teasing voice.

“Yes, I do. And no, you can’t come,” I say, a little prevention warning.

Her knowing grin lingers as she turns around and continues into the kitchen. I trail behind her, running my hand through my wet hair a few times before snagging the Vista ballcap I left by my phone, my wallet and keys.

“Would this happen to be about that girl who was parked in our driveway the other night?” She pours herself a cup of coffee, and I swear the only reason she did was so she could eye me suspiciously through the steam.

“It may,” I answer, backing my way toward the door. She’s not done, but she’s also likely happy to see me, well, happy. Things like dating haven’t really been on my radar since my dad died. I’ve been going so hard at football, partly to drown out the hurt. My mom has brought up me needing balance a few times, but she never pushes.

Of course now that there is a real girl involved . . .

“And may I meet her?”

I just turned around to face the door and was almost out of here. I was so close. Squeezing my eyes shut, I recognize that strange tingle in my belly, the adolescent embarrassment that comes with a meddling, though loving, mom. I’ve missed it.

“You may. Or you may not. Time will tell,” I tease, leaving her with a wink, the same way my dad would when he was being coy. Or, as she would say, being an ass.

I shut the door and hear her call out from the other side, “I have eyes everywhere, Wyatt!” I chuckle on my way to my truck but pause when I realize how true that statement is. I always thought I didn’t hide things from her by choice, but maybe I simply know it’s not really possible.

By the time I get to Jack’s, most of the booths are full, so I take a seat near the register, the same stool her dad sat in the day I met him.

“Hi, sugar,” Maggie says, sliding a menu in front of me. I wouldn’t say I’m a regular here, but I guess I have been in a few times since I met Peyton. Those first few trips were in hopes that I’d see her again. The last visit, though, I hoped I didn’t, but only because she was with her dad. And I can’t seem to right the ship with that guy.

“I think Maggie likes you,” Peyton says, squeezing my shoulder as she passes behind me with a tray filled with short stacks and bacon.

I indulge in being an overt spy while she doles out everyone’s order. She’s quick to compliment the two little girls at the table on their high ponytails. They both peel out of their booth seat to show off their cheer uniforms, and Peyton squats to give them high-fives.

“She’s a good soul,” Maggie says, catching me in the act.

I twist in my seat to set my legs straight ahead and own the bashful smile crawling up my cheeks.

“Seems like it,” I agree.

“It’s been hard on her, growing up with the spotlight always ready to turn up the heat. It’s not as bad as being a movie star’s kid, but around here, her daddy is a pretty big deal. Lots of people were rooting for her to screw up as a teen. Lots of people rooting for her too. But those negative voices are so much louder than the good ones.”

“ Hmm .” I nod and recall the few times I felt the pressure of my dad’s reputation, and he was just a local firefighter. He was a hero to a lot of families, though, and there was always this subtle expectation that I be the perfect kid. I nearly failed my freshman year of high school out of some weird rebellion that overtook me. Football was the only thing that saved me—you can’t fail and still play.

And then my dad died, and football saved me again. It’s the one place where I swear he’s still with me; where I feel him. Always.

After Peyton finishes her rounds, she stops at my end of the counter, leaning across it and propping her chin on her hands.

“I’m not sure which I think is cuter, by the way,” I say.

She quirks a brow.

“The cheer uniform or the waitress one.”

I shrug when she scowls at me, but when she drops her palms on the counter, I take her hands in mine and lead her around the counter until she’s standing between my legs. When she rests her hands on shoulders, I straighten her name badge clipped on the right side of her chest.

“Come on, don’t tell me you don’t like me in the uniform,” I tease.

She slides her hands down and grabs the front of my shirt, clutching it as she leans her head to the side.

“Can’t say for sure. I haven’t seen you in it.”

I give her side eyes, and she leans her head back with an exasperated sigh.

“Okay, sure. I’ve seen photos and maybe a few videos here and there. You’re, like, constantly playing on my dad’s laptop, just so you know.”

I flinch a little at that fact. I figured he was scouting me for our match-up, but I have to admit, I’m a bit honored to be on such high rotation.

“I think I need to see you in person to really make a fair judgement, though,” she says, and I feel a sudden jolt of hope tickle its way up my chest. It’s a bye week for her school.

I lower my gaze.

“Should I reserve a seat for you?”

She glances up playfully, then drops her gaze to mine as she nods.

“Do not expect me to wear your jersey or anything like that, though. I will remain utterly neutral.”

I tip my chin, luring her closer so I can press my lips to hers.

“Now, you in my jersey . . . that is an outfit I haven’t explored.”

She kisses me again, then steps back, a coy expression on her face.

“Yes, you have, and you know it,” she teases.

I shake my head, but she’s right. I’ve fantasized about her wearing a lot of my clothes, and being in my bed, and taking off my clothes.

Before I carry our flirting on, I notice her gaze get hijacked somewhere beyond my left shoulder. I glance behind me and spot the blue jerseys right away. The two guys wearing them avert their eyes the second I look their way, suddenly overly interested in their plates of food. When I return my attention to Peyton, she’s busied herself by wiping down the counter.

“Are some of them bothering you?” The thought of people giving her a hard time because of me makes my stomach sick, yet at the same time, it fills my fist with blood.

She shrugs.

“It’s fine. Sometimes, people take high school football way too seriously.” Her lips form a curt smile as she tops off my water and sets up my place setting.

“Tall stack? Extra syrup?” she says, predicting my order but also changing the subject.

“Hey.” My head tilts as I implore her with my eyes to let me help.

She swallows and glances at my menu for about a half second before snagging it and uttering, “I’ll get your order in.”

I wait for her to disappear into the kitchen before I turn my attention back to the table of Coolidge players. I wish Whiskey were here. Other than Bryce, he seems to be able to bridge the gap between our teams. The one who I caught snickering before glances up and meets my gaze. Unlike him and his friend, though, I’m not ashamed of getting caught staring. In fact, I think I’ll settle in and make myself comfortable while doing it.

He mouths something to his friend, gesturing my way, and the bigger guy glances over his shoulder. I lift my palm in a wave, but we all know I’m not really waving. I keep my periphery alert in case Peyton pops back out of the kitchen, but until then, I plan to make these guys as uncomfortable as they were making her.

Without the aid of checking my phone for the time, I’d say I get a solid five minutes of gawking nosiness in before one of them walks up to the counter with their check to get Maggie’s attention. His friend gets up to wait behind him while they settle their bill, and I turn in my seat to make certain they know I plan to watch their asses all the way to whatever vehicle they came here in.

The taller one who paid slides his credit card back into his wallet, then turns to face me while he puts his wallet away.

“How’s that field of yours, Rebound?” His smug expression really pisses me off, but I manage to swallow my desire to blow up at him.

“Cute nickname,” I say, instead of the line of insults I want to spit out.

He glances down at the floor as he slowly makes his way closer, his friend behind him wearing a massive grin. They’re such a stereotype. Bulldog and his terrier.

“You know she’s just trying to make Bryce jealous. That’s why?—”

“Yeah, it’s why you called me Rebound. Clever. I got it,” I interject, taking some of the power out of what I’m sure he’s been practicing in his head the entire time I stared at him.

He chuckles and glances to the kitchen door, where my periphery picks up a flash of Peyton’s blue apron. His chest puffs with a bigger laugh as his attention returns to me.

“You better get those yards in before we play you. That’s all I’m saying.” He sniffles and gazes out toward the parking lot as if he’s one of those gangsters in the movies. It’s comical. And sad.

“Noted. Just one thing?”

My smart mouth. This is how I get myself into trouble. This is why I’ve been hit before.

“Yeah, Rebound?”

“What if . . . I don’t care?” My mouth rests in an easy, flat line, and my pulse is right as rain. I actually think I mean those words. I don’t care that these guys don’t like me. I don’t care if they call me a rebound, mostly because I know I’m not. The more I get to know Peyton, the more I learn just how honest and genuine she is. And high school cafeteria drama bullshit? That’s not in her wheelhouse. But I’m guessing it is in theirs.

The big guy leans in, placing a hand on my shoulder. It’s offensive, and my hand balls into a fist along my thigh, but I leave it there.

“You care. And she should too,” he says at my ear. When he pulls away, I catch Peyton’s eyes on me from across the dining room. She looks pissed, but I’m not sure at whom.

Rather than tag along behind them and keep this conversation going, knowing full well I’d probably end up getting myself into trouble, I stick to my seat and simply grin as they turn and head out the door.

Maggie sets a plate of pancakes in front of me, and Peyton strolls in my direction with a pitcher of syrup dangling from one hand. Her lips pursed, she holds the syrup hostage as she levels me with a cautious look.

“You don’t have to fight my battles, you know,” she says. I reach for the syrup, but she pulls it into her chest and holds my stare.

I breathe in deep and exhale through my nose.

“I know. And I’m not fighting yours, at least not entirely. I’m fighting mine.”

She blinks slowly but seems to buy my response, setting the syrup down and nudging my plate an inch closer to me.

“You better eat up. You’ll want to be full of energy so you can impress me when you take the field Friday.”

A sheepish grin tugs one side of my mouth up, and I unwrap my knife and fork while I gaze at her.

“We need to find a field first. Ours isn’t ready yet.” I laugh out, then dive into my pancakes, slicing up a few bites, then dousing them in syrup.

“Well, wherever it is. I’ll be there. And I guess I could wear your sweatshirt or something. Just no jersey. I’m not that girl.”

I smirk as I glance up at her mid-bite.

“You’re definitely not. You’re something else entirely.”

She taps my nose, seeming satisfied for now that I’ve let the beef with those two CHS players go. But I’m not letting her leave this place alone. I’ll dig out my homework from my truck and set up camp in the corner until she’s off. There’s just something about that guy’s threat that rubs me wrong. They can fuck with me, my field, all they want. But when people start coloring outside their lines, I can’t let that go unchecked. At the very least, I can make sure she gets home safely.

By four in the afternoon, I’ve written notes for a history paper and studied for my economics quiz. I pack up my backpack while Peyton clocks out, and I take her hand when she slips out of her apron and rounds the counter.

“You didn’t have to stay all day,” she says when I hold open her Jeep door for her to climb inside.

I shrug.

“I wanted to. I don’t like you walking out to the parking lot by yourself.”

She laughs and reaches for her door, but I hold it in place until her eyes meet mine.

“The gesture is sweet, Wyatt, but I’ve been walking to my Jeep alone for a while, and I’ve been fine.”

“Doesn’t mean you shouldn’t have someone watching out for you, though. Just means”— I shrug—“You haven’t.” It’s a dig at Bryce for sure, but also maybe her dad.

She sucks in her lip and nods, and I let her pull her door shut on her own. She turns the engine over and rolls her window down as I walk to my truck.

“You might as well see me home, then,” she shouts.

I chuckle and lift up my hand.

“Planned on it.”

Peyton’s out of the parking lot by the time I get into my truck, but I catch up to her by the first light. I keep her within a few car lengths for the entire route home, catching her gaze on me in her rearview whenever we pause at stop signs and lights. I pull up behind her in her driveway and rush out in time to take her hand as she gets out of her Jeep. She rolls her eyes because, yeah, I’m being a little corny about it now, but also, I just really want to give her all my attention.

Her dad, however, seems pretty tired of seeing me. I saw him shining his truck when we pulled in. He tosses the shammy into a bucket near his front passenger tire and heads our way.

“You’re starting to seem like a stalker, Wyatt. You two dating or something?” There’s no humor in his voice. He’s dead serious, and I’m not sure how to answer him. Peyton seems uninterested in answering at all.

“I was just making sure she got home safe, Coach. Seemed like no one else was.”

Fuck, that second part wasn’t supposed to be out loud.

His short laugh isn’t the amused kind. He’s wearing boots, and for some reason it makes him feel even more dangerous. His belt buckle is a Super Bowl brag, probably a replica of his ring. His first ring.

“I’m going to his game Friday, Dad. If you want to come,” Peyton offers.

What the hell? I didn’t know he was part of the package.

I give her a sideways glance, and I swear she chuckles.

“You don’t have to come, sir. I’m sure you have better things to do on a bye week, and I’m not even sure where we’re playing yet, you know . . . with the field.”

His eyes dim, and I’m not sure by his expression, but I don’t think he’s fully aware of what happened to our end zone. I’m sure Coach Watts didn’t call him up and tell him, but given how many of our guys know the story, I figured one of his old players would have said something.

“Field’s not playable, huh?” He studies me for a moment, then shifts his gaze to his daughter. “I thought we didn’t know about a fire.”

Shit. I hope I didn’t make trouble for Peyton.

“We don’t,” she says, her tone clearly saying otherwise. Her dad’s focus remains on her for a few seconds, and all the while he continues to chew at the inside of his cheek. But in a flash, his gaze is back to me.

“You’ll use ours. I’ll call Watts. It’s settled.” He heads back to his truck, and I can’t help but feel like I lost something just now. I’m not sure what, and maybe it’s simply the sense of home field advantage, but there’s definitely a hole in my chest. The wind is blowing right through it.

“Guess that means it will be an easy trip to make,” Peyton says, sliding her hand down my arm and circling my wrist.

A nervous titter vibrates from my mouth, which is still hanging open.

“Yeah, there’s a silver lining. But maybe the sweatshirt thing isn’t such a good idea.” I squint, mentally replaying the possessive move those guys made in the diner.

“We’ll see,” she says.

My nervous laugh ticks up a notch. I’m about to remind her that she just invited her dad to watch the game with her when she moves her palm against my cheek and steps up on her toes. Her lips find mine, and my face goes numb. Suddenly, wearing my sweatshirt in front of her dad feels like a kindergarten move.

“ Mmm ,” she hums as our lips part. My tongue slips through my lips, chasing the ghost of our kiss as she skips her way toward her front door.

I’m not sure what hits me first, the snapping sound of a plastic bucket bouncing along the driveway or the droplets that splatter across my calves after Reed literally throws in the towel on his truck cleaning. His engine roars to life a second later, and he’s down his driveway before my stomach fully drops into my feet.

There goes my idol. Somehow, in five days, I need to have the game of my life in front of him. And he couldn’t possibly hate me more.