Chapter 24

Chapter Twenty-Four

I t’s nice being back on our home field. For the first few weeks of practice and the first couple of games, this place still felt impersonal. It’s new, so the personality of Vista isn’t really baked in yet.

But something about having our field branded by the old guard in town did something to the place, something all the banners and paint in the world couldn’t.

“This is our house!” Whiskey shouts as he struts—shirtless, but thankfully in pants—around the locker room.

For whatever reason, our team has taken up barking. It doesn’t make sense because we’re the Mustangs, but Whiskey started calling this the dog house, and then Jody started barking. It took about two minutes for it to solidify into a tradition. It’s pretty cool that we get to start it.

“Gentleman!” Coach claps his hand against the back of his clipboard as he steps up on one of the benches.

I whistle with my fingers in my mouth—one of the best things my dad taught me—and everyone settles down to give Coach their attention.

Coach pulls his reading glasses from his pocket and slides them on his face as he peers at his phone. He glances around the room then back to his screen, lifting his chin as if he needs to adjust his focus on something.

“St. Mary’s, sixteen!” He’s telling us the Coolidge score. Everyone hushes, and the room gets even more silent, though only briefly.

“Someone got a safety!” Whiskey shouts.

The locker room booms with our laughter. St. Mary’s probably kicked three field goals to get to that score, but it’s a whole lot sweeter to imagine Coolidge getting sacked in their end zone.

“Coolidge High Bears!” Coach’s volume quiets us back down.

He draws out the tension, studying his phone screen, then making random eye contact with one of us. I smirk at him when his gaze lands on me, and he instantly glances back at his screen.

“Seven,” he finally announces.

We literally erupt.

“That’s what I’m talking about!” Jody bellows, now matching Whiskey stomp for stomp as the two of them pound on their chests as they howl, faces up at the ceiling.

The vibe is infectious. And it’s impossible not to feel the electricity, most of us branded with smiles that stretch ear to ear. You’d think we were in the playoffs already and waiting for opponents to get knocked out, but it’s this rivalry that has fueled that. And that can be good. But we have a whole lot more to do, and while I love to see the guys celebrate getting a game up on them, I don’t want them getting complacent.

My gaze meets Coach’s, and he nods for me to step into his office. I hug Jody as he passes me and slap hands with a few of the other guys before slipping through his door and leaving it open a crack.

“Next week is going to be the real deal,” Coach says, eluding to the hometown rivalry that threatens to erupt on the field. “They’re going to be coming for us.”

“I know.” I think he can tell from my serious tone that I’m not under any false pretenses about how next Friday night is going to go. Coolidge likely lost tonight because Bryce was benched. I may hate the guy, but he’s a strong quarterback, and the backup is a sophomore. It’s actually pretty telling that the game was as close as it was with a young arm slinging for them.

“This week is going to require spectacular focus,” he says.

I nod.

“I agree.”

He sits in his chair and leans back with his eyes on me, every second uncomfortable. My gut is trying to prepare me, but in the back of my mind, I’m holding out hope that this meeting isn’t about what I think it is.

“You think right now is a good time for you to be hanging out with Reed Johnson’s daughter?”

Fuck.

I twist my lips, mostly to keep myself from telling him to do something to himself that will likely get me benched. Coach Watts holds respect over winning. Hell, that rule is posted above his office door.

Respect Comes First. Winning Comes Second.

“Do you think there is a problem with that?”

He laughs under his breath and moves his hands behind his head as he studies me. He twists side to side in his chair, almost like he’s waiting me out. But if Reed himself couldn’t get me to leave his daughter alone, there’s no way Coach Watts is.

“You’re probably going to break another record next Friday,” he says, switching topics. Kind of.

I breathe in slowly through my nose.

“I know.” I’ve been dreading it, though I should be excited. I’m one touchdown away from tying Reed’s record for TDs by a quarterback in Arizona. If I carry it in twice, that record is mine. I’ve honestly been thinking about only passing and handing off when we’re in the red zone, but I keep coming back to how unfair that would be to the team.

“If you need to, can you do what needs to be done?” Seems Coach has been reading my thoughts.

I nod.

He holds my gaze for a few more silent seconds, the locker room clearing out behind me.

“Okay,” he finally says.

He stands and holds out his hand. I shake it.

“Good win. Let’s get one more.”

“Yes, sir,” I answer, leaving his office with a new mountain of pressure on my shoulders, the kind that won’t be easy to explain but that I’m hoping Peyton can help me parse out tonight.

Whiskey found a new spot near the dry riverbed, and it’s become the party place of choice. Most of the guys are heading there, and I’m sure they will wake up with the sun, massively hungover and regretting that they have to drag their asses in for film. If we get a playoff win in a few weeks, that’s when I’ll go. But until then, my mind and my heart are better served somewhere in the middle of the desert at the end of a ridiculously long driveway.

I make it to the ranch twenty minutes later and text Peyton from her driveway. The heart-to-heart with Reed went a long way in making me feel less like the enemy when I’m at her house. But I’ve got a long way to go before I can just barge through her front door and make myself at home.

My phone buzzes in my palm as I hover on the stoop.

PEYTON: Vanilla or chocolate?

My face puzzles.

ME: Is this a trick question?

The door opens a second later, and she’s standing there in my Bills sweatshirt and super baggy sweatpants, her hair pulled into a braid. She giggles as I step inside.

“Not a trick question. Grandpa is making sundaes to celebrate.”

I pause a few steps in front of her, all of that comfort her dad built erased with one word—grandpa. I’m almost more afraid of meeting him. Then another thing about what she said hits me.

“Celebrating? But didn’t you guys lose?” I noticed her dad’s truck wasn’t in the driveway. I’m guessing he’s with his staff, probably working out how they’re going to take Bryce off the bench but still teach him a lesson. Good luck with that. I think there are some things that dude can’t be taught. Right and wrong are at the top of that list.

“We did,” she says, stepping around me and moving her arms around my neck.

“We’re celebrating your win.”

Her hands are cold against my skin, but it feels nice. Besides, her lips warm me a second later. Of course, when I hear an older man clear his throat just beyond her shoulder and I pop one eye open to see her grandfather giving me an evil stare, all of that warmth turns into a sudden need to vomit.

I pull my lips away, but Peyton holds on to my bottom lip with her teeth, somehow making the whole scene feel even more inappropriate.

“You Wyatt?” the man snarls.

I fucking suck at first impressions.

“Yes, sir. I am. You must be Mr. Johnson.” My mouth feels like a desert. And my tongue feels fat. Yet, somehow I push forward and shake his hand. He leans forward as he laughs, but doesn’t leave what looks like a mobility chair. There’s an oxygen tank fixed to the side, but the cannula isn’t on his face.

“My son said he tried to break you of that Mr. Johnson bull crap. I’m Buck. Everybody calls me Buck. You go around trying to get my attention with the mister business, I’ll never turn around. You got it?”

He drops my hand and laughs again.

I think he means to set me at ease, but my muscles are cramping from shoulder to toe, I’m so tense.

“Vanilla or chocolate, Wyatt?” he says. His chair is pushed up to the table and two giant tubs of ice cream sit in the middle along with various toppings and whipped cream cans. Clearly, he isn’t worried about overdoing the sweets.

“Can I have both?” I say.

He pauses with the scoop over the chocolate and gives me a wink before looking at Peyton.

“I like this kid. Good choice,” he says.

And finally, I breathe.

The next hour is passed with too much ice cream and stories about Coolidge High’s greatest team of all time, which—despite what history says—is actually Buck’s senior year, when the school was a hundred and forty students strong. I don’t dare challenge him. And frankly, after learning the details of just how crappy the playing conditions were and how lax the safety rules were, I think he might be right. His team was certainly the toughest.

Peyton’s gaze bounces between the two of us while we swap tales of our favorite moments from his son’s career, and I think I score a few points by being able to rattle off his Super Bowl stats from the top of my head.

By the end of the evening, which borders on turning into the next day, I earn a hug from Buck Johnson. And I call him Buck twice, to his face. Peeling myself away is hard, but I can tell he’s getting tired. Plus, the front windows of Peyton’s house are lighting up with headlights, which probably means Reed is home.

“You better skedaddle. He won’t want you making a habit of spending the night here. Now, what goes on in college . . .” He quirks a brow and my face heats up. Peyton is practically cherry red.

“Oh, my God! Grandpa!” She covers her face with both hands.

As embarrassed as I am discussing anything having to do with me, Peyton, and sleeping—which really means not sleeping—in front of Buck, the idea that we might be in the same place next year makes my heart kick extra hard.

“Thank you for the amazing calories,” I say, rubbing my stomach with one hand and taking Peyton’s in the other.

She grins at her grandpa, then twists her head to gaze up at me and mouths, “You did great.”

She walks me to the door, and I’m about to ask her if she’ll walk me out to my truck so I can kiss her like I really want to when Reed flings the door open. His eyes are wide, his jaw flexed, and his mouth is set in a hard line. My stomach drops in an instant.

“Good. I’m glad you’re here and not out in the river bottom with the rest of those jackholes!” He stomps through the house, answering a call on his cell phone as he digs through a kitchen drawer.

My eyes flash to Peyton’s, and she shrugs before following after her dad.

“What’s going on?” she asks. He holds up a finger, answering whoever is on the other line first.

“That’s right. Tell them I said their asses better be running up and down the home stands when I get there.” He pulls out a crinkled notepad and flips through a few pages, seeming to find the one he needs and folding the pages back.

“Yeah, and if Watts’s guys are there, tell them they can run too. Their coach said so. I’m over this shit.”

Reed flattens his phone on the counter and rests his palms on either side. His chin drops into his chest as he mutters a few choice words, then pops his gaze up to meet mine.

I shake my head, the ominous feeling growing in my belly like a bad bowl of chili.

“I’m about out of favors with the Sherriff’s Department. We’re lucky the guys who pulled up on them tonight were former teammates of mine and they called me instead. But someone at the district found out about this shit. And now I have to call the superintendent at . . .” He flips his phone over and huffs out a laugh. “One in the morning. God dammit!”

“What shit did the district find out about?” I swear, if Whiskey was playing with matches . . .

Reed’s eyes flutter slowly, either from exhaustion or frustration. Probably a little of both.

“Apparently, our teams decided it was a good idea to settle their differences by playing chicken in the river bottom. Whiskey’s mom is going to lock that boy in their basement when she sees what he did to his car, which now has a fucking cactus wedged into the front fender.”

My eyes shut lazily the same way Reed’s did.

“Bryce flipped his truck on its side. I guess it’s a blessing the two of them didn’t ram each other head-on. I mean, of course it is, but what the hell? What is wrong with these stupid numb nuts?”

“Reed?” Nolan peeks around the corner, her eyes swollen from the rude awakening. Her husband was far from quiet.

He moves over to her and wraps his arms around her, holding her against him as he kisses the top of her head, his rage level instantly softening from a ten to maybe a four. His head is still sunk in his shoulders, and his hands . . . still fists.

“Boys being boys. Well, more like boys being idiots. But I’m gonna be out all night. I need to nip this now before someone gets killed.”

Nolan steps back a hair and looks up at him with concern, her eyes suddenly more awake.

“Nobody got hurt. Miraculously,” Reed says. “I’ll fill you in tomorrow. Get some sleep.”

She slides a palm along his cheek and holds his gaze for a few seconds, seeming to right his mood with just a look. He waits until she heads back upstairs before turning to me.

“You should probably be a part of this. I need someone your age to have their head on straight.”

“I’ll come too,” Peyton says, instantly rushing to the door where her fuzzy boots lay on their sides.

“Peyt, I love that you want to help, honey, but?—”

She drops her shoe back to the floor, seeming to understand her dad’s concern. Her mouth pulls up on one side.

“You got a whole town of adolescent males fighting over you,” I tease, trying to make her feel better. As much as some of Bryce’s beef with me is centered on her, though, she’s not the root of what’s going on. Testosterone is. And ego.

All thanks to a bunch of board members who got together when Vista opened and decided to carve the town’s beloved football team in half.

“I’ll follow you,” I say to her dad. He grabs the notebook, and from a quick glance at it I see what looks to be a phone number. I’m guessing he’s calling the superintendent during his drive.

“Call me when you’re done?” Peyton says, squeezing me tight and kissing my cheek.

“It’s probably going to be well into the morning,” I warn her.

“I don’t care. I’ll be up.”

I nod and agree. She’s probably right. This isn’t the kind of thing you forget about and fall blissfully asleep.

There’s a line of traffic waiting to get into the parking lot when we pull up near the school. I recognize a few of the cars as my teammates’, and I also recognize some of their parents behind the wheels.

One of Reed’s assistant coaches finally gets the gate open, and the vehicles file into the lot. I park a few spots away from Reed and wait in my truck for a moment so it doesn’t look like I’m walking in with him. Given the climate that led to this, the last thing we need is to show up together.

I spot Whiskey after about a minute, so with Reed already heading toward the home stands, I jog over to give my friend some words of my own. I’m not sure how he got here, given his car is probably totaled.

“What the hell, man!”

Whiskey turns around to face me when I shout at him. There’s dried blood on his nose and visible bruising under one eye. I step up so our chests touch and breathe hard through my nose, my molars grinding together.

“I fucked up, man. I know it. I fucked up. I let him get to me, and I just?—”

I push his chest, somehow moving this massive man back a step. He lets me because if he wanted to, he could flatten me on my ass. It’s how I know he’s reached regret.

“Fuck, Whisk,” I mutter, pinching the bridge of my nose and pacing a few steps ahead of him before spinning around again.

“Are you sober?” Please at least be sober.

He nods.

“We started messaging about racing the minute I left the locker room. I never even made it to the party. Nobody did. Shit, Anthony has a truckload of beer ain’t nobody drank.”

I hold his stare for a beat, then urge him to walk with me again.

“Good. No more partying this season. If we still have one,” I mutter, just loud enough to perk his ears.

“Fuck, Wyatt. I’m sorry.”

I nod as we walk and finally utter, “I know.”

Bryce is sitting in the front row when Whiskey and I step up, and I make sure he feels the heat coming off my glare. His hands stuffed in his pockets and hoodie pulled over his head, his lip snarls as he leans forward and spits on the footing in front of him.

“Come on,” I say to Whiskey, nudging him to keep moving with me to the other end.

It takes about ten minutes for everyone to pile onto the bleachers, nearly two teams’ worth of us packed in tight in the cold air. The lights were shut off hours ago, but Reed had his grounds crew guy turn one on. It makes the world seem dim, which is fitting. Because right now? It is.

Coach Watts steps up after a few minutes and shakes Reed’s hand before walking over to stand in front of Whiskey and me. Our eyes meet for a breath, and all I can do is grimace and shake my head. Surely, he knows I wasn’t involved in this after that talk in his office; after he suggested I cool things off with Peyton.

There are a few guys not here, mostly the younger players and the ones who don’t really get into the after-game scene. The smart ones. They might just be all that’s left when this meeting is done. Football in this town might be done.

Reed leans his back against the railing and crosses his arms over his chest, his black polo shirt pulled tight across his muscled torso. His forehead wrinkles are heavier than normal, and I bet if we were in a silent room we’d all be able to hear his teeth grinding. His posture manages to quiet everyone, and after a few long seconds of nobody saying a word, his head pops up and his gaze lands right on his prized quarterback.

“Standing out here at two in the fucking morning is not something I ever expected I’d be doing, I’ve gotta tell you,” he says, an irritated chuckle sliding out.

“Never expected to be standing in front of you gentlemen with this much disappointment in my heart. And I mean that for all of you. Both schools. Because I know most of you well. I know your families. I’ve watched you grow up. I coached most of you at some point. And I gotta say, standing up here right now and looking many of your parents in the eyes, I’m pretty sure my disappointment is shared with them. Racing? In a river bottom?”

His head falls back and he stares at the sky, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows down anger.

“I know not everyone here was directly involved. Believe me, I know everything. ” His gaze moves to Whiskey, and my friend drops his chin to his chest and wrings his hands together. At least this speech is getting through to someone.

“I don’t know what to do. I knew this season would be hard. I knew there would be bumps in the road. Some hurt feelings. And a lot of the usual bullshit that comes with good, clean competition. But boys, you’ve taken things way past shit talking. You’re flirting with getting someone killed with what you’re doing. Makes me want to quit. Makes me want to sell my home and move my family out of this place I love. Makes me ashamed.

“I don’t want to feel ashamed. I’m proud of this town, of where I came from. I don’t care what color your jersey is, we’re all Coolidge. This place means something in our world. When you’re in football circles and you tell folks this is where you play, this is where you come from? Ears perk up, boys. Coaches write down names. Colleges open up checkbooks and start doling out scholarships. And that . . . that is what this should be about. That’s winning at life.

“Getting butt-hurt because someone broke a record you wanted? That’s childish.”

Most of our eyes are on Bryce at this point, and my stomach clenches with a touch of sympathy for the guy, though I doubt he deserves it. Reed isn’t pulling any punches. He’s laying this on him, and it should only be on him.

“We need to do better,” I say, standing up with my words and meeting Reed’s wide eyes. I glance to my coach, and he nods, urging me to keep going.

I step up on the first-row bench and scan the stands. There are at least a hundred and fifty people out here, half of them the parents who look exhausted and sad. The other half? Fuming.

“I know you said we aren’t all involved, Coach, but I have to disagree,” I say. I glance down at Whiskey, his neck craned as he looks up at me.

“We’re a team. Two teams, but like Coach said, one town. We should be holding each other accountable. I take full responsibility for not speaking up sooner, for not making it clear the standard I set for myself and expect of you guys. And Bryce . . .”

I stare at him, waiting for him to lift his head and meet my eyes, but his stare remains fixed straight ahead. Still posturing, putting up his tough-guy front. I don’t know how to help him.

“You gotta do better, too. You’re a hell of a quarterback, dude.”

“Yeah, I am,” he mutters, his words just loud enough that I mostly make them out. If anything, I get the gist.

I hop down from the bleacher and walk over to him, and a few players shift, some starting to get up. I hold out my palm to urge them to relax. I’m not going in to start something. I’m trying to lead.

Stepping into his sightline, I leave him with no choice but to look me in the eyes. He sits up tall and rolls his shoulders back, his lips pursed and his head tilted with disrespect. It’s fine. I don’t need his respect. I need to give him mine where I can.

“You are,” I repeat.

He blinks, but his posture remains stiff.

“Fuck, dude. When I found out we were moving out here and I’d be facing off with you at some point, I got excited. Like, heart pounding, lightning running through my legs, can’t sleep, night-before-Christmas excited. You know why?”

He tips his chin, barely.

“Because facing you will make me better. Holding myself up to you puts my goals in focus. It’s like a barometer for how hard I’m working, where I need to improve to get where I wanna be. Where I know you want to be.”

He shrugs and his eyes flutter as if my words are no big deal, but I know he’s glowing a little inside. Bryce soaks up compliments like a hungry kid with a cookie jar. He should have a tummy ache with everything I just said.

“I can’t wait to play you Friday. Assuming . . . we still have a game next Friday?” I turn to meet Reed’s eyes.

“Working on it. Some of you are going to get tickets for tonight. And some of your parents might think it’s time for you to quit the team and focus on learning how to be a man. At least one of you is getting a job on my ranch where you will be shoveling shit for my wife until you leave for college next year. And you won’t complain a lick. Because you are going to pay your mom back for the insurance claim she’s going to need to file for wrapping her damn car around a saguaro, am I clear?”

“Yes, Coach,” Whiskey says, his voice bold and loud. His eyes are heavy with regret, his mouth a hard line. And as much as I want to kick his ass for all of this, I’m proud of him for owning his mistake.

“I heard Coach Johnson say something about running bleachers tonight. And I think that’s a good idea. I think we all should. Every last one of us. I mean, not you, Mrs. Olsen. Or you, Mr. Hampton. But us. I’m holding myself accountable starting right now. Starting right now, everything I do will have purpose. And I expect the same of my teammates.”

My gaze lingers on Bryce for a few seconds, but when it’s clear he’s not going to soften in front of others and give in to me, I move back to Whiskey and hold out my hand. He grasps mine as I pull him to stand with me.

“You ready?” My head leans to the right, to empty rows behind me that are about to be pounded with feet for at least an hour.

“Yeah, I’m ready,” he says.

Whiskey and I are the first to take the bleachers a row at a time. It’s a steady pace, nothing fast but not lazy. I wish I were dressed differently, not in the jeans I put on after the game and headed to Peyton’s house. But it is what it is, and if I want to really make a difference tonight, I have to see this through.

By the time Whiskey and I are heading back down the fifty or so rows, more players have joined us. Bryce finally starts his jog after my second full trip. The thunder of shoes stomping up and down is almost deafening. Both Reed and Coach Watts have moved the parents together on the other end to talk through whatever is going to happen next.

I meant what I said. I’m looking forward to next Friday. And I hope like hell we get to have our game. All of this rivalry stuff is pointless anywhere but the field. That’s where I’ll make my statement. Bryce can show up or shut up. But I sure as hell hope he shows. Because if we do it right, this game is going to be one for the ages. The tone-setter for every future town rivalry game to come. We get one shot. And I know how I want Vista to be talked about over ice cream at the kitchen table.