Chapter 22

Chapter Twenty-Two

E veryone in this damn town drives a truck nicer than mine. It isn’t hard, I suppose; mine’s sixteen years old, and it needs parts that require special ordering because nobody keeps them on hand. Not in a town this size, at least.

I’m not sure whose red Ford is parked in Peyton’s driveway tonight, but I’m pretty sure I can match every Coolidge coach with what they drive, and this truck . . . it’s not a coach’s.

I stuff my hands into the front of my hoodie. My hair is still wet from my shower, and this beanie isn’t doing much to keep the chill at bay. It’s finally fall in the desert. Or maybe it’s because it’s midnight. Either way, I’m cold. But I have plans tonight, and no matter how cold Peyton might say she is, she’s going to have to tough this out. A lot of work went into this surprise.

I send her a text to let her know I’m waiting in the driveway, then promptly shove my phone and hands back into my front pocket, blowing out to test whether I can see my breath yet. Nothing there. All right, maybe I’m being dramatic. But sixty degrees out here feels different. There’s nothing but stark desert in all directions, a massive field of barley down the road. The wind cuts.

“I’m pretty sure that was you who broke Dad’s MVP trophy! Besides, we both know you threw the ball in the house a lot more than I did.” The guy shouting over his shoulder as he steps through the front door with a bag of trash pauses on the stone step, his mouth hung open and head askew.

I raise a hand.

“Hi. I’m here for Peyton.”

His spine straightens, and he pulls the front door shut behind him, wrapping the band for the trash bag around his wrist and taking deliberate steps toward me. The thought that he might swing that thing and knock me out with it crosses my mind. More than once.

“You must be the boy,” he says, jutting his palm out but not quite smiling.

“Boy, uh . . . yeah, I suppose I’m the boy,” I say, smart enough to know this guy can call me whatever he wants. He looks a lot like Reed. I’m pretty sure they’re related.

“Boy, you got a name?” His brow quirks, our hands still gripped, his hold tighter.

“Wyatt, sir. I’m friends with?—”

“Ah ah, don’t do that,” he says, finally letting my hand go. I flex my fingers because fuck! He waggles a finger at me.

“I’m sorry. What was I doing?” I shove my hands back into my pocket, mostly to hide that I’m working feeling back into my right one.

“You were lying. You aren’t friends. I know my niece, and she was telling me and my wife Sarah about how you broke my brother’s record tonight, and she had that thing. You know, the thing?” He whirls his finger around the front of his face.

I shake my head in a quick, tiny burst. I have no idea what thing he’s talking about.

He snaps his fingers, then looks over his shoulder at the woman who just opened the door.

“Babe, what’s the thing Peyt had when she was talking about this fool? You know, like her face? Glow! That’s it; she was glowing.” He turns back to face me, pointing and smiling a bit more, though I think only because he remembered a four-letter word.

“Ugh, I’m sorry for this. They’ve been drinking, and they’re in their forties now. One of us is getting up there,” she says, weaving her fingers into his free hand.

“It’s fine. I’m just waiting for Peyton. I’m?—”

“Oh, we know. You’re Wyatt. The boy,” the woman says, her half smirk pushing a dent into her right cheek. Boy. I’m still the boy.

“I’m Sarah, and this is my dumbass husband, Jason. Peyton’s on her way out. She had to grab a jacket. She thinks it’s cold.” Sarah rolls her eyes. I don’t dare mention I’m a little chilly too. I don’t know why I feel everyone in Peyton’s family can kick my ass, but I do. I believe there’s fact woven in that theory.

“Nice to meet you,” I say, nodding but keeping my hand right where it is. I don’t trust her grip, either. Not on my throwing hand.

“Uncle Jason, are you trying to ruin my love life?” Peyton says, pushing through the door as she zips up a light pink jacket and pulls the hood up over her hair.

“Of course I am. It’s my job. And you’re too young to have a love life,” Jason says, slinging the trash bag over his shoulder. Bottles clank inside.

“You ready?” I say through a toothy, freaked-out grin.

“We can’t leave fast enough,” Peyton says, her expression much the same. She skips down the stone porch and takes my hand, leaning in to kiss me. My eyes remain on her uncle the entire time, and I swear he’s making threats without speaking.

I lead her to my truck, opening the passenger door and blocking her view of what’s in the back. I fumble my keys and drop them on the ground outside my door, and by the time I get situated in the driver’s seat, Peyton is having a good laugh at my expense.

“What? The men in your family are intimidating! I thought your dad put me on edge. Your uncle is just plain direct,” I laugh out, checking my mirrors and half expecting him to pop up in one of them.

“Wait until you get to know my grandpa,” she warns.

I adjust the rearview mirror, then glance at her profile. Her lashes are like butterfly wings batting wildly with her laughter, her smile, the way she fidgets with my vents to adjust the heat, then sits on her hands to keep them warm.

“I’d like to get to know your grandpa,” I say, my eyes on her. She sneaks a short glance my way and a faint smile puckers her lips.

“He’s going to love you,” she says, and for some reason, that little tip of confidence is enough to get me to go full out tonight and be the corny romantic my dad always said I’d be one day. When I knew. When I met that person who was . . . different.

I let Peyton pick the music as I drive us to the main square in Old Town. I promised her hot chocolate at the late-night coffee shop, but we have a little pit stop to make first—the real reason I’m dragging her out at midnight.

The downtown area is basically rolled up for bed when I stop in front of the library, the storefronts all dark, small parking lots empty, and the blue glow of security lights shining on the front book displays of the library. The statue of an old man feeding birds is just where Jeff, my dad’s old captain, told me I’d find it, so I shift into park but leave the motor running as I dash around the front of my truck while Peyton eyes me suspiciously.

“Give me one second. I promise it will be worth it,” I shout over the grind of my engine.

Her brows lift, and she mouths, “Okay.”

I dip behind the statue and feel around the base for the electric panel Jeff said would be there. His cousin is a captain with the Coolidge Fire Department, and he called in a favor for me when I came up with this crazy idea at about eight o’clock this morning. I guess that’s yesterday by this point. I only wanted Jeff to hook me up with a little ride-along, but once his cousin Dale got involved, he wanted to do things up right. Because, as it turns out, Dale happens to be a big Reed Johnson fan. Doing a solid for his daughter? No brainer.

Does this guy have any haters?

I pull my phone out to text Jeff and Dale that I’m in position, and then I shine my phone’s light on the panel so I can type in the twelve digits that Dale sent me earlier tonight. In a blink, the sleeping downtown turns into a winter wonderland of sparkling trees and candy cane light poles. It’s still months until the holiday season, but instead of paying to put lights up every year, Coolidge invested in a sort of permanent installation that they can use year round for events like, well, parades.

“Wyatt? How—?” Peyton’s gotten out of the truck, so I jog around to kill the engine. I only wanted to keep it running to keep her warm.

I step up behind her, my hands at her hips while she spins in a slow circle, taking in the trees I’m sure she’s seen many times. I hope they look different tonight, though. I hope they look like a surprise, like a stupid boy in love. Because that’s what they are. A really cheesy gesture that maybe will make all the shit she’s put up with for me worthwhile.

“Your chariot, my queen,” I say, nudging her to turn to her right, where the fire truck is pulling around the corner and driving our way.

“Wyatt? What did you do?” Her skeptical tone is also flush with giddiness, so I reach into the back of my truck for the crown, robe, and scepter that I borrowed from the Vista theater department.

“I officially ordain you this year’s pre-fall festival parade queen. Your crown,” I say, taking a knee and holding the plastic gold headpiece in my palms.

“Are you serious right now?” She giggles and takes her crown from my hands, placing it on her head as I stand and unfurl her robe. I swing it around her shoulders, my eyes meeting hers as I tie the purple ribbon below her chin.

“I’m very serious, Peyton. You are not missing out on being someone’s queen.” My hands drop to my sides, and I take a step back. She sucks in her bottom lip, and I nearly tell her I’m falling in love when the oh-so-romantic sound of air brakes spoils the moment.

“Your scepter,” I say instead, handing her the brass pole with what looks like a glass curtain rod finial on the end.

Drawing it to her chest, she lowers her chin and hits me with a serious stare.

“Sir Stone, I hereby knight thee,” she says, tapping each of my shoulders with the prop.

“I think I’m supposed to kneel for that,” I whisper in her ear as I lead her toward the truck.

“It’s okay because this is pretend. You aren’t really a knight,” she teases.

“Hey, Wyatt. I’m Dale,” a towering man says as he climbs out of the passenger side of the fire truck and heads toward me. His handlebar mustache is thicker than Jeff’s, but the roundness of their faces and the red cheeks are family traits.

“Thank you so much for doing this,” I say, shaking his hand. He covers the back of my palm with his other hand.

“Absolutely, man. Your dad was an amazing guy. He and I went through the academy together. You ever need anything, we’ve got you, son.”

A flame fires in my chest, but it doesn’t burn. It warms me to my core, leaving behind a lightness in my heart, a strong beat in my chest as if my life was somehow renewed through this small degree of separation.

“I appreciate that, Dale. Thank you,” I say, glancing to Peyton. Her soft smile twitches, and she gives me a tiny nod.

Dale introduces us to DJ, his engineer, then leads us to the back of the truck, where a built-in ladder leads to the top. We sit in the hose bed and promise not to move while they steer the truck slowly around the town square.

“Cross our hearts,” Peyton says, gripping my hand when Dale climbs down and leaves us up top alone.

“Is the queen afraid of heights?” I tease.

“I never said I was a flyer in cheer. To be honest, I don’t love heights,” she admits, a small tremble in her hand when the brakes release and the truck begins to roll.

“You should try climbing up a roof with Whiskey,” I laugh out.

“Just so we’re clear, I am never agreeing to an idea Whiskey has—ever.” She’s making a joke, but her nerves make her voice come out wavery and serious.

“Okay.” I chuckle, putting an arm around her and holding her tight against my side.

By the first turn, her body relaxes against me and her eyes light up. The canopy of white lights strung throughout the trees casts a warm glow on her face, her lashes like flecks of gold, her lips like candy. An older couple pulls their car over across from the town park, getting out to take photos amidst the lights.

“Happy pre-fall festival to you!” Peyton shouts from above. The couple waves as Peyton blows kisses, throwing them into the air as if she’s the goddess of rain.

“You’re really something, you know that?”

She sinks down, nestling close to me again, and resting her head on my shoulder.

“You’re the one who’s something, Wyatt Stone.”

I rub my palm along her arm, keeping her warm as we finish the last quarter turn, and I brace her for the stop.

Her smile beams all the way to my truck, where I lift her just outside the passenger door, swinging her around and holding her up so she can fly among the lights one last time before turning them off. I set her in the passenger seat as the fire truck pulls away, our hands tangled and, I think, both of us anxious to touch one another.

“Hi,” she whispers, a nervous tilt to her mouth.

“Hi,” I reply, my eyes locked on hers while our fingers slip in and out of one another’s.

She scoots to the edge of the seat, her legs wrapping around my thighs and her feet hooking behind my legs to pull me closer. I run my palms up her cheeks, then straighten her crown, my gaze drifting to hers, and then to her mouth.

“Kiss your queen,” she says, her tone teasingly demanding. It’s sexy.

“As you wish,” I say, my smile hovering over her mouth for a few extra seconds, long enough to let my gaze roam from her mouth to her chin and then the place where her legs have spread around me.

My mouth drops to hers and my hand curves around her hip to her ass, pulling her against me so she can feel what her teasing does. She unties the royal robe’s ribbon from under her neck as she slowly leans back. Her palms grasp the dash and the back of the seat for support and I follow, leaning over her as my teeth graze her bottom lip before breaking our kiss.

“Do you know how fucking hot you are?” I say, looking down at her, my flexed arms holding my weight up just enough.

A coy grin paints her lips as her right hand lets go of its grip on the seat, her back fully arched over my console now. She grabs the golden pull tab of her jacket zipper and drags it down the middle of her chest, stopping between her breasts when it becomes obvious that she did not wear anything underneath.

“Well, fuck me,” I groan.

“Okay,” she says through a playful smirk, her voice soft and full of want.

My eyes flash to hers to gauge the seriousness of her tease. She scoots back a little more and her legs widen as I step out of the truck to scan the quiet empty streets one more time to make sure we’re alone.

Satisfied enough, I unzip my jeans to give my cock relief, stroking myself a few times before resting my right knee on the edge of the passenger seat to hold myself over her. She pulls her jacket zipper down completely, her nipples barely hidden by the jagged edges.

“My queen,” I say, drawing a soft laugh from her before I lean forward and drag her jacket edges open to expose her breasts to the cool night air. I suck the hard pink tips and she arches more over the console, her body scooting back a few more inches to lift her breasts higher, pushing them into my mouth. My tongue swirls one then the other, her hips writhing beneath me.

I step back to pull her leggings and panties down her hips and over her knees, leaving them around her ankles so she has to spread her knees apart for me to take her. Gripping myself with one hand, I reach into my jean pocket with my other in search of my wallet. I hand it to her and she pulls out the foil packet, tearing it open with her teeth before handing me the condom to slip on.

Gliding over her in the tight, cramped space, I brace myself with one foot on the passenger floor. Peyton lifts her hips and I support her with my hand under her ass as I guide my tip between her legs. She scoots down a few inches, enough that I can enter her, and the moment we connect, her head falls back as she lets out a moan that makes my cock flex inside of her.

My hips thrust, pushing into her, pressing her into my palm, into the truck seat, her breasts shaking with every push of my body into hers. I pull her into me, my hand digging into her soft, round ass cheek with every pump, and my mouth drops to her raw, pink nipple again to give it the attention it needs. My tongue flicks the tip as I hold it between my teeth and Peyton’s hands grip my back, holding on through every thrust. She begins to whimper under my weight, so I move in and out of her faster, drawing out her orgasm just as I fall over the edge with her.

We cling to each other for several quiet minutes, our out-of-breath laughter filling the cab of my truck as we make jokes about the older couple driving by and seeing the windows fogged up now that I’ve pulled the door shut behind me.

“You really need a bigger truck,” she jokes as I fumble with the zipper of her jacket.

“Ha! Or maybe you spend more nights at my house since your dad scares the shit out of me,” I laugh out.

The condom disposed of in a nearby trash, Peyton runs her fingers through her hair and straightens her clothes and crown, pulling her royal robe back over her shoulders as I climb back into the driver’s side and crank the engine.

It’s nearly one by the time I get her back home, and it’s the end of a painfully long week. I walk her to her front door, laughter bellowing from the other side, and I can’t help but laugh softly along with them even though I didn’t hear the joke.

“You should come in,” she says.

“Ah, I don’t know,” I say, my heart wanting to, desperately. To spend more time with her, but also to soak up the sound of family.

“Really, it’s okay. My mom gave me permission to be out tonight, not that I need to ask for it?—”

“But I like that you do,” I say, kissing her nose as she steps into me and stuffs her hands into my hoodie pocket.

“I’m not sure I’m your dad’s favorite person,” I lament.

“Why? Because you broke his record?” She snorts out a short laugh but I wince.

“I actually hadn’t thought of that yet. The interview was . . . awkward. Your dad had a prepared monologue for me, and he patted my shoulder with the stiffness of a Ken doll.” I can feel the tapping sensation on my shoulder simply thinking of it.

“Don’t let that stop you from coming in. Honestly, you’re kind of my uncle’s favorite person right now because it gives him something to give my dad shit about.”

“Ha, sure. I doubt that,” I say with wide eyes. “I’m pretty sure if your aunt didn’t come out to save me, your uncle was figuring out a way to stuff me into the trash, too.”

“ Pfft , no way,” she says, tugging my sweatshirt toward her, her hands now clutching mine inside the pocket.

“Your dad doesn’t really seem too hip on me, Peyton, and while I’m willing to work to win him over, I just don’t know?—”

“Please,” she says, her hands giving mine a gentle squeeze as she looks at me through her lashes.

I think this may just be one of those moments for me, one that I’ll etch deep inside and hold on to forever. This is when I learn that I will never be able to say no to Peyton Johnson.

“Okay,” I say, watching in wonder as her smile spreads across her face.

She bursts through the door before I have a chance to change my mind, her family all gathered around a large wooden table covered in cards and cash. Her mom is sitting on her dad’s lap, and her aunt is filling a glass with wine.

“Hey, it’s the new state passing record holder,” her uncle proclaims, standing from his chair and approaching me as if he’s about to bow.

“I don’t think you need to?—”

I stop talking when he drops to a knee in front of Peyton, and she promptly knights him just as she did me. Her uncle winks at me as he stands, then slaps my bicep with a heavy palm. My body quakes from the swift force. I thought I had put on enough weight, but these Johnson men are making me question that.

“Relax, boyfriend. We’re all drunk, and I’ve come around to liking you. My brother will get over it eventually.” He rushes over to Reed and play-punches his shoulder several times.

While everyone else seems loose and relaxed, Reed still has an edge. And as Peyton leads me to a giant sectional in the family room just beyond the table, his eyes follow me like one of those creepy paintings in a haunted house.

I think it’s Peyton’s plan to have me sleep here. Right here, on this couch. She’s pulling out extra blankets from a trunk and fluffing a pillow for me to lie down. Thankfully, she puts a movie on while her family starts a new round of whatever weird version of poker they’re playing. But she lays her head on my thigh, and every time I glance over my shoulder, Reed’s glare is there waiting for me. I leave my arms up on the sofa back and guard my expression for the next two hours until Peyton’s fallen asleep next to me and Reed and Nolan are cleaning up the mess left on the table.

When the lights switch off behind me, I exhale. There’s no way I’m sleeping a wink here. But maybe now I’ll be able to breathe. And I can watch Peyton. I’d fight off a dozen sleepless nights to watch the way her top lip curls up when she’s like this.

“Hey.” The whisper from behind me jacks my heart rate up about a thousand, and for a moment, I think I might throw up.

I crane my neck and spot Reed standing near a small light he’s left on behind a massive kitchen island. He calls me over with his hand, and I slowly slip out from under Peyton’s head, resting it on one of the pillows.

All the way to the kitchen I pray for aliens to abduct me, and when that doesn’t happen, I brace myself with one hand on the counter as I stand about two feet away from my idol.

Then Reed holds out his hand, his gaze fixed on mine, his eyes pretty clear for a guy who had several beers. I take his palm and wait for the vice grip I got from his brother, but that’s not what he gives me at all. His shake is firm, brief, and seemingly tinged with respect. I’m so on edge that I half expect it to be followed up with a punch to the face. But it isn’t. Instead, he pulls a stool out and takes a seat, then gestures for me to do the same.

“You like cookies?” He quirks a brow.

“I . . . are you tricking me?”

He chuckles softly, his whisper more like a growl thanks to the alcohol and the fact he’s the manliest man I’ve met other than my dad. He gets up and snags a container sitting next to the fridge, then slides it on the counter between us, pulling the lid off to reveal about a dozen massive chocolate chip cookies.

“My stepmother bakes all damn day. She loves to cook, but she’s going to make me fat. Eat up,” he says, nudging the container closer to me. I take one out and break off a piece, the chocolate literally melting with the butter the second it hits my tongue.

“Oh, my God,” I praise.

He laughs silently and breaks off half a cookie for himself.

“Right? Now you see my problem.”

Reed leaves me with the cookies while he fills two glasses with milk and sets them next to the decadent treats. For a few seconds, we gush over the cookies and enjoy a few bites in uncomfortable silence. The television is a low hum with some afterhours B movie playing that I hope like hell doesn’t have a sex scene right now.

He takes a big swig of his milk, then runs his hand across his mouth, erasing any hint of a ’stache. Then he says, “Congratulations.”

I blink a few times while I swallow my last bite.

“Thank you, Coach,” I basically croak.

A breathy laugh slips out, and he smirks on one side.

“You know, if you’re going to date my daughter, you should probably start calling me Reed.” He lowers his chin and gives me a direct stare.

“I’m going to try, Coach. But you have no idea,” I say through nervous laughter. I take a drink of milk to coat my suddenly dry mouth, then rub the chill from my palms after setting it down.

“Try me,” Reed says.

I look back toward the TV, checking to make sure Peyton is still asleep.

“She’s fine. Girl slept through a hurricane once in Florida. Like, the whole-ass hurricane. For thirty hours straight.”

I nod, impressed.

“Okay, well, I’m not sure how much you know about me, but?—”

“I could probably tell you every play you’re going to try against us in two weeks. And how fast your forty is. The launch angle of your throw, and which side is your weakest per quarter.” He squints when he’s done, and I get the distinct impression that this man keeps a database in his head.

“Yeah, that’s . . . flattering?”

We both laugh softly.

“I mean more of my story. Like, how I got here, why football, all that?”

His mouth tightens, and he crosses his arms while leaning back, seeming to ready himself for it. I’m sure he knows my dad died. Those stories were in the regional papers, and if he kept tabs on my stats, surely he made a note of my dad.

“My dad died of cancer in January,” I begin, waiting while he shifts his weight and drops his gaze. I’ve gotten good at this part. What a terrible thing to be good at.

“I’m sorry,” he utters.

“Thank you, yeah. It was . . . it is pretty shitty.” I shrug, no other way to put it. “My dad taught me everything. I mean, yeah, I’ve had coaches refine things here and there, and I put in a ton of work with strength and conditioning, but the foundation? That’s all him. I get up at five every morning to run. I eat so much protein I actually don’t like steak anymore. I study film on my own and try to mimic the greats. I watch you.”

He leans back and lifts his brows, and I can tell he thinks I’m just kissing ass, so I solidify it for him.

“No, I’m serious. You can tell me all those things about me, but I can probably do the same with you. I know every game. Every playoff comeback. The passes that missed and sent you throwing your helmet at the bench?”

His head tilts a notch.

“I know those too. And I read your thoughts on what you think went wrong. Mr. Johnson, you were literally my idol. My dad had your jersey. Hell, I bet my mom kept it. When she realizes I’m dating your daughter, puts it all together, she’s going to flip her lid. And my mom, Mr. Johnson? She’s one cool character. She can handle a lot. Nothing rattles her. Life has tried its damnedest.

“But our lives somehow weaving into yours? You’re the guy my dad respected most in this game. The coach he always wanted me to play against just so he could show me off. The guy whose record my dad and I talked about beating, even weeks before he died. I’m sorry if I struggle to call you Reed.

“But also, you need to know that I had no idea who your daughter was when I met her. And she pretty much had me from the first breath she took in my presence.”

“You know, for a minute there, I thought you were going to quote that Tom Cruise movie,” he says, holding a serious face for about a second before laughing and flattening a palm on the countertop between us.

“I’m not that cheesy,” I reply.

“Nah, you are. You’re that cheesy, Wyatt,” he says, and I sink into my stool a little. “But you’re also that good. And I don’t just mean at the game, which you are really fucking good at.”

“Thank you,” I croak, my heart beating so fast from hearing such a massive compliment I feel like I might throw up.

“But you’re better at being a man. That’s where you excel. That’s the stuff that’s going to get you through this season, through some really hard years ahead. Your character is exactly why I’m actually relieved you’re the one my daughter seems to have fallen for. Just don’t fuck it up.”

He slides his palm an inch or two toward me and holds my stare for a beat before nodding as if the silent contract is done. He pats the granite surface twice, then stands from his seat, taking the container of cookies, slipping out the half he left behind before putting the lid on and placing it back in the corner by the fridge.

“Good night, Wyatt,” he says, turning the soft light off from under the upper cabinets. “And by the way, your bed? It’s down that hall, through the double doors. The sofa in the den pulls out. You’ll be way more comfortable there. And I’ll be way more comfortable with . . . this.” He circles his finger in the air between me and the couch where his daughter is fast asleep.

“Understood,” I say. And just to prove to him that I can, I add, “Good night, Reed,” before he heads up the stairs.