Chapter 26

Chapter Twenty-Six

F ootball is my life. It’s been my life from the moment I was born. I expect it will be a part of my life for the foreseeable future.

Of course, cheering in college means I’ll be bound to football in an auxiliary sort of way; it’s always in the background of this sport I love. Stunts and tumbling. Choreography with strength. A sense of team that I can call my own. But maybe I care about the game a little more than I used to. Perhaps there’s something else I love about it, beyond just a setting for me to cheer.

I think I love the boy. And nobody is more surprised by that than I am.

The air is thick with the scent of grilled turkey legs, kettle corn, hot dogs, and sugar. It’s a fall Friday night in Coolidge, Arizona, and this stadium was built for this. I’ve been shaking my hands with glittery blue poms for the last hour as the marching band plays the fight song on constant repeat. My cheeks hurt from smiling. I’m pretty sure the entire town shut down for this game. And the news trucks parked behind the south end zone lead me to believe there are people from outside our boundaries here tonight, too.

“You ready?” I say to my dad as he passes behind our cheer line. We’ve greeted every guest on their way into the stadium, Vista Mustang and Coolidge Bear fan alike.

“Born ready, sweetheart,” he says, kissing my cheek as I jut it toward him.

My father jogs toward the locker room while I continue the stomping and spinning, pom poms glittering at my sides to the rhythm of the drumline.

“One more time,” our drum major shouts, his finger spinning in the air to repeat the fight song again.

“Jesus,” Tasha mutters at my side.

I laugh, but as painful as the smile on my face is, I can’t help it. I’m happy to be here. To have this. Because, unlike my best friends, I know how close it all was to falling apart.

There are some things I can’t talk about outside the family—football business I’m privy to—though I told Wyatt everything. Some of the shadiness that happens behind the scenes makes me uncomfortable because there are always politics involved. If we were in the Valley, part of a bigger school system, or in a big city, both of our seasons would have been wiped away this week. We’d maybe have gotten to play this game, but most of the players would have been suspended. And the game wouldn’t have counted for shit.

My dad got the superintendent on his side with a lot of assurances that things like fires and desert parties would stop. I have my doubts about the partying part. I don’t think adults can control that, and given the stories I’ve heard my father tell—and my grandpa, for that matter—about post-game desert parties out here, that tradition is pretty entrenched.

This is our time to be young and stupid, as my mom always says. Just maybe a touch less stupid.

Moving forward, I think a standard of conduct might have been set that night my dad called everyone to the home stands. Wyatt didn’t tell me the details. He said he didn’t want me to stress out and called himself a corny optimist. But my dad told me enough. Apparently, Wyatt made a grand speech, and the fact my dad said he was proud of him feels like a miracle. When I tell my dad I’ve decided to go to Arizona in Tucson, that should enshrine Wyatt in his eyes for a lifetime.

I’m not doing it solely to follow a boy to college. If anything, I like to think Wyatt is going to commit to Arizona for me. Two more D1 offers rolled in for him this week, both impressive schools in the Midwest. Powerhouses. But something about the way this season has unfolded—the way it changed this town and changed me, has tethered me to it—and I want to remain close.

The shrinking time I have left with my grandpa has something to do with it, too. He isn’t the healthiest fool on the planet, though he keeps defying odds—and strokes. But I’d miss the ability to drive home after a bad day and sit on the porch with him. There are benefits to living ninety minutes from home. To attending yet another school where the Johnson name carries weight.

I want to learn more from my mom, too, and maybe build on her dream with one of my own. I have no desire to shovel shit as much as she does, but the way she helps families with children on the autism spectrum navigate a complicated system intrigues me. It seems rewarding, yes, but also so damn necessary. That’s what I want out of life—to matter beyond myself.

And if a certain boy happens to be in the place where I do that, well . . .

The pre-game clock behind me is now under three minutes. The band wraps the final run-through of the fight song— for now— and we all get a short break before locking in for the first high school game I remember actually being nervous for.

“Is it bad that I’m rooting for your boyfriend’s team?” Tasha says, her hand on my shoulder as we weave our way through the crowd to make one last stop in the restroom.

As soon as we duck through the ladies’ room door, I glance around to make sure we’re semi-alone, then lift the bottom of my form-fitted Bears sweater to show off the maroon Vista practice jersey I stole from Wyatt.

“You rebel,” Tasha teases.

When the bathroom door opens, I shift quickly and stuff my sweater back into my waistband. It’s only a group of younger classmen trying to sneak quick puffs off the same vape pen. I’m about to lecture them when Tasha asks for a hit, too, so instead, I roll my eyes and tell my friend I’ll meet her outside.

The thunder of the drumline reverberates off the building and the nearby stands, so I push up on my toes and scan the dark open space between the locker room and the field where the players are piling up. When Tasha comes out, I tug her sleeve and urge her to jog back to the track with me so we can grab our poms and head out to the field. It’s all starting to hit me how few of these moments we have left, and while I spent so many games complaining about forming a tunnel for the team to run through, it turns out I’m going to miss it. Sure, they do the same at the university, but that’s the thing—it’s at a university. The smallness will be gone. The personal touch. The hometown flavor of things that are not quite perfect, which somehow makes everything even more so, like the crooked letters someone painted on the paper spelling out CHS Bears, or the way our cheer squad is uneven in height and numbers, so we can never hold the banner up quite right.

These imperfect perfects. Three more games, then playoffs, and that’s it for me. All the more reason to stay close. To come back.

Lexi sits on my shoulders while a younger cheerleader, McKenna, balances on Tasha’s, and we help steady the banner as the drumline approaches. Our home stands are overcrowded, fans standing along the fence line and on top of trucks and cars across the street just to get a glimpse of kickoff. Everyone’s eyes are on us, and this hand-drawn banner and the team pooling up on the other side about to break through.

But not me. My attention is across the field, on the six-foot-plus dark-haired dream throwing passes along the sideline to keep his arm warm. His helmet by his feet, he barely strides as he slings ball after ball to his assistant coach. His focus is unwavering, and his body is ready for every hurdle and hit coming for him. He promised it was.

Our team bursts through the tunnel, Bryce and a few of the other seniors racing across the field with the large flags spelling out CHS. One of the booster parents takes them over and plants them into the stands near the end of the home bleachers, and my dad jogs along the field behind his team. How many times has he run that same path? Sure, it’s different grass. But the spot is the same.

Within seconds, the crowd falls silent as our band plays the national anthem and we all face the bright new flag that hangs just to the right of the scoreboard. The flag was a gift from the class the year before, our previous one retired and donated to the local veterans’ retirement home where it is on display behind glass.

“I’m nervous,” Tasha says, briefly linking our arms.

“I want to vomit,” I laugh out. I’m not sure which I’m more anxious over, Wyatt doing well or my dad getting a win. I wish ties were a thing out here. Never have been in this town, though, so I’m going to have to find a way to survive the next two and a half hours.

My poms are up for kickoff, and one of the Vista players manages to run the ball back to the fifty-yard line. I start to jump in place but quickly quiet my heels, not wanting to show my true feelings on the wrong side of the stadium.

Any hope I had for a Vista blowout is dashed within minutes as Wyatt is able to get the ball fifteen yards before running out of downs and our guys force a kick. The play goes on like this for the entire first quarter, the score by the second three to three. Our kickers are the only stars on the field it seems. Well, and both of our defenses, I suppose.

With thirty seconds on the clock before the half, Vista gets the ball back on a fumble, and Wyatt rushes onto the field, putting his helmet on as his team huddles around him. They break fast, and I’m sure I imagine it, but I swear Wyatt looks right at me as he moves into position.

“I love you,” I say silently, not wanting to be heard by my friends—by anyone. I just wanted to put it into the universe, to feel how the words felt on my lips. I smile because they felt nice.

“Blue, thirty-three, blue, thirty-three!” Wyatt backs up to take the ball from the shotgun, and it zings into his hands a heartbeat later.

His feet work to find the pocket, the Coolidge offense coming for him like rabid animals out for blood, and eventually, he has to spin out and rush to the sideline. He’s able to pick up seven yards and get out of bounds, but now he’s left with twenty seconds to make it down the field.

“Let’s get some defense, guys,” Coach Nelson shouts through her bullhorn, snapping my mind back to reality.

I count down for our cheer, and we begin shouting words I don’t feel in my gut at all. I don’t want the defense to succeed. I don’t want anyone to “push them back,” especially not “ wayyyyy back.” Turns out Wyatt doesn’t want that either, finding an open receiver about twenty yards down the field and putting the ball right in his hands. That guy manages to get out of bounds with twelve seconds left. Meanwhile, my body sways side to side, poms banging on my hips then clapping above my head as we lead the crowd into chants of defense. The play goes off behind me, and I crane my neck to see, but there are too many players and fellow cheerleaders in my way. When the Vista band sounds off with their fight song, I know in my gut that Wyatt found a way in, and it’s confirmed when the scoreboard clock runs down to zero and the score changes to ten to three.

I rush over to the small bench where we keep our gear and water bottles to get myself a drink. It takes me a few seconds to realize that the Vista band has stopped playing. And when the quiet sweeping across our fans in the stands washes past me, my heart sinks into my gut.

“What’s wrong?” I step up on the bench to look out on the field.

Somehow, before I see it, I know. The way my mom always knew when my dad was flat on his back on the field, even when she refused to watch the TV.

Wyatt is surrounded by the training staff, his coach, my dad, and several players. I drop my poms to the ground and sprint from the bench onto the field, pushing through the line of our players who have all taken a knee. My heart is pounding so hard I can feel it in my head as I race toward my dad, Wyatt’s mom rushing in from the other side.

“Give him room, guys, give him room,” our trainer says. When Wyatt sits up on his own, my body deflates of all strength and energy like a power surge that leaves me utterly deflated. My legs grow numb so I sink down and sit back on my heels while my arms wrap around my stomach.

“Peyt. You have to get out of here.” A voice breaks into the steel dome that’s shrouded my head.

“Peyt, come on,” the voice says, a little clear now.

I shake my head and look up as Tasha tugs under my arms. I glance back to Wyatt, his gaze fuzzy but on my face. His helmet is off and his coach is kneeling next to him, speaking at his side. Wyatt nods as his gaze seems to come even more into focus on me. And then his lip pulls up on one side, and that asshole actually winks.

“Damn you, Wyatt Stone,” I mutter, my voice only loud enough that Tasha can hear me. I jog back to our side with her, my cheeks now burning with embarrassment. I can’t believe I reacted that way. I’ve watched Bryce get knocked out cold before, and I stood on the sideline holding hands with my teammates the entire time. Was I worried then? I pretended to be, I suppose. I certainly told myself I was. But I never felt anything like that. The fear. The rush of adrenaline.

The love.

I take some ribbing from a few of the players as we pass through our sideline. I purposely avoid eye contact with Bryce. But I do glance into the stands to the spot where my mom usually sits with my sister. Grandpa gets to sit on the field behind the end zone, but Ellie is too adventurous. She’s apt to race out onto the field in the middle of a play just to get to her daddy. Or to get the ball. She’s destined for women’s rugby, I swear.

My brow lifts high when my eyes meet my mom’s, and she rests her hand on her chest, patting it a few times as her way of telling me to relax. I nod and turn my attention to my squad, but the last five minutes have changed me. I watched my mom worry, and I always knew it was hard. I worried, too. My dad getting hurt was scary. But nothing has ever hit me quite like seeing Wyatt not look invincible. Scary as it feels, I never want to miss watching him on the field. Because if there ever comes a day—a play—when he doesn’t sit up on his own, I want to be there to help him. Whether I’m supposed to run out on the damn field or not.

Halftime and the second half seem to fly by. Or perhaps I’ve become a zombie. I know I’ve cheered. My shoulders still hurt from the spot where Lexy climbed to a stand on them. And my throat is hoarse from screaming for the last hour. Still, I would swear that Wyatt was on his back only a second ago.

The game ends with a Coolidge win, twenty to seventeen, thanks to one hell of a field goal from our kicker. Vista scored two touchdowns, both taken in by Wyatt, which means he’s now erased another of my father’s records. That feat won’t be celebrated out loud on this field, but my dad knew it was coming. And Grandpa made sure to lay in extra ice cream for a celebration later tonight. As proud as Grandpa Buck is of my dad, I think he also enjoys ribbing him about getting old.

Knowing my dad will be in his office for the next hour or two rehashing every play—each weakness and opportunity missed—with his staff, I send him a text to let him know we’ll save him some ice cream, then wander to the opposite end of the parking lot where the Vista players are slowly making their way to their bus from the away locker room.

“Hey, doc!” Whiskey says as he walks across the small grass hill and onto the pavement, coming toward me.

“Nice game, Jack Olsen,” I say, rubbing in his real name because I can. “Why am I doc?”

He swallows me in a sweaty hug and laughs.

“I figured you were one now, or an EMT or something. You know, the way you sprinted out there to give Wyatt mouth-to-mouth.”

I shove him in the center of his chest and he laughs out the last few words.

“Really, though. It was sweet. You two are sweet. I like him for you.”

“Thanks,” I say through a crooked grin, my eyes dimmed a hint. “Not that I need your stamp of approval, but I’ll take it.”

“Hey, if you see Bryce, tell him I said he played a good game. I’d like us to be okay. Not friends or nothin’. Probably never friends. But okay. You know. Civil and shit,” Whiskey says.

I nod, but we both know I probably won’t be talking to Bryce anytime soon if I can help it.

“I’m gone for like five minutes, and look at that, Mr. Smooth Moves tries to horn in on my girl,” Wyatt’s voice utters behind me.

I flip around and land with my hands on his chest. He clutches them around the wrists and looks at Whiskey over my shoulder.

“Just keeping her warm for you, son,” Whiskey says.

“Eww! He was not,” I say, shooting a scowl at him over my shoulder.

Whiskey chuckles as he leaves us alone and climbs onto the bus. I step up on Wyatt’s feet and let him walk me backward a few steps away from the bus entrance, though to not nearly as private a place as I’d like.

“You know, I’m going to get the wind knocked out of me sometimes,” he says, his annoying smirk also adorable. The damn dimple helps.

“I know,” I say, dropping my forehead into his chest. He wraps his arms around my head and kisses the top of it.

“It’s okay. It was sweet.”

I shift so my chin is in his chest and I’m looking up into his eyes. I squint so one of mine is smaller than the other.

“Was it? Sweet, I mean?”

He nods, then drops his mouth down to mine for a chaste kiss.

“I guess I’ll need to get used to seeing that stuff,” I continue, my mouth brushing against his as I talk with our mouths close.

“Oh, yeah?” he utters against me.

“ Mmm hmm ,” I say, nipping at his bottom lip before pulling back enough to gaze at him again. “Since I’ll be on your sideline next year. And the year after. And?—”

“What? For real?” His hands move to my face, palms on my cheeks as he looks at me with wide eyes.

I giggle and nod.

“I maybe decided to go to Arizona. But it’s not for you. It’s for me,” I say, as he’s already swinging me in circles and holding me to his chest.

“Yeah, yeah. I don’t care. You’re going? To U of A?”

I nod and laugh.

“Damn, if only we had won, this would be the best day of my life!” He sets my feet back on the ground and kisses me so hard that our lips smack when we part.

“But it’s for me. Because I want to be there,” I reiterate, not wanting to add layers of pressure on what I already know is hard. Taking a relationship from high school to college comes with challenges. I never want either of us giving up parts of ourselves just to fit the other. I think it’s why we work so well. We are strong on our own. And because of that, we can be strong for each other.

“So, not even a tiny bit?” He holds up pinched fingers and squints. I push his thumb and index finger closer together.

“Maybe that much for you,” I joke.

He widens the gap and I quickly shrink it again.

“I mean, of course I love you and all, though,” I let slip out, and my heart stops as I realize those words were out loud.

My wide eyes are glued to the pinched fingers Wyatt is still holding up in front of my face, and I blink, wondering if I broke him with that confession. He’s not moving. A quick glance at his chest doesn’t seem to show any signs of breath. I pull his finger and thumb apart more, then look up at him, his eyes on mine, waiting. The grin on his face stretches from ear to ear, and my pulse rockets in my body.

“You love me that much?” he asks.

I glance at his finger and thumb again, then back to his face.

“Eh, that might not be to scale,” I tease, my voice wavering with nerves.

He moves his hands back to my face and rests his forehead against mine, the tips of our noses touching as his lashes kiss the ends of mine.

“I love you more, Peyton Johnson. So much fucking more.” His mouth crashes over mine before I can take a breath, and his kiss nearly leaves me faint.

When the bus honks, we both jump and look up, spotting a laughing Whiskey in the driver’s seat. It takes about fifteen seconds for the actual driver to climb on board and shoo him away.

But it’s obvious that other than the coaching staff, Wyatt is the only one not on board.

“So, I can expect you in an hour for ice cream?” I remind him as our hands slip apart. He takes the first step.

“Forty-five minutes, tops,” he says, his grin still etched on his face.

The Vista coaches have made it to the parking lot and are headed toward me, so I let Wyatt climb the rest of the way up the steps and walk along the side of his bus, ignoring the smooching sounds Whiskey and a few of his other teammates make through open windows. He takes a seat near the back and pushes his window open, resting his arms on the edge so he can peer down at me.

“Hey, so do I get to call you Bub now?” I ask, harkening back to when we met that older man Terry in the hot tub.

Wyatt’s gaze lingers on me for several seconds, a knowing smirk playing at his lips when he finally utters, “Depends.”

“On what?” I shout back, the sudden rumble of the bus making it hard for either of us to hear.

Wyatt’s smile still firmly in place, his eyes dazzle against the football lights.

“You’ll see,” he says, winking and falling back into his seat and out of my clear view.

I squint at his window, my lips puckered with fake frustration and, somehow, even more love. I walk away, repeating his words under my breath— you’ll see —and wondering what they mean. He can be so cryptic.

When I reach my Jeep, I gaze across the grass hill to the propped-open home locker room door. My mom is kissing my dad good-bye for the night as my sister tugs at the back of my mom’s shirt. They laugh, I assume about how hard it is to do something as simple as kiss each other sometimes, and I’m suddenly hit with a glimpse of my future.

“I’ll see,” I say to myself as I climb into the Jeep and stare at the taillights of Wyatt’s bus as it pulls away. My mouth hangs open, a smile teasing the corners as I let myself imagine. As scary as the thought is of a future far from now—one where I’m in my mom’s shoes, Wyatt in my dad’s—it’s also strangely comforting. It makes me hopeful. Happy.

And whether it comes true, well, I guess I’ll just have to wait and see.