Chapter 3

Chapter Three

I know I should live for football season. It’s part of the family, as in football basically has its own seat at our Thanksgiving table. But honestly? I hate when we get pulled out of the gym from our stunting work so we can whip up some cheesy dance for Friday nights.

When I was a freshman, I was more into the hype of it all. Game night. Practicing on the track while the guys ran through their plays. That was when Bryce was my first crush. My first kiss, first boyfriend. All my firsts. Maybe I’ve changed—grown faster than he has. Not physically, but emotionally. I’m less enamored with the glory of the game. Perhaps I’m jaded, having grown up with so many stories. My parents are the football fairytale. My dad, a literal football legend. I guess I’m just over it.

“Okay, let’s take it from the top one more time,” Coach Nelson shouts through her bullhorn before pressing play on her phone’s music app. The song pipes through the crackling speakers on the field and our school principal scurries up the bleachers to the press box to see what’s wrong with our AV system. Nothing but the best for Coolidge High.

My family basically rebuilt this entire stadium—from the sprinklers to the scoreboard. Well, we didn’t actually build anything. We wrote a check. But still, my grandpa’s name is on the field. And as embarrassing as the opulence feels to me sometimes, I do like that my grandpa’s name will live on for years out here—at home. Our home.

The music cuts out about ten seconds in and our coach groans.

“He has to fix that now? Ugh. Fine, let’s break for the day. I’m sure we’re fine for the scrimmage game. Bring it in. Peyt? You got this?”

I nod to Coach and usher the squad in.

“Ladies and Jordan!” It’s the first year we’ve had a guy on the squad, and Jordan has been a game changer for our stunts.

Everyone gathers around me and I do my best to psych everyone up for a Friday night game that doesn’t matter except in the minds of the local football purists who eat, live, and breathe for their Coolidge Bears.

“Look, we do our jobs out here and they will show up for us when we need them. And I don’t mean in the stands at competition, but with their credit cards and spare cash when we need to fund our trip to nationals. So, let’s say it loud and proud, guys, and we can tumble inside this weekend. Ready?” I meet my friend Lexi’s stare across from me in our tight circle. She nods and counts us down.

“One, two, three?—”

“Bear Down!” we all shout.

The whistles from the football team come about a half second later, and some of our younger members blush and giggle. I don’t even bother glancing over my shoulder. I know Bryce was the loudest of them all. He wants my attention, for me to melt that he’s noticing me. Last year, I melted. And just like that we were back together again. I spent the season right by his side, feeling his ups and downs, especially when our football team was knocked out in the first round of the playoffs thanks to his last-minute interception. I lost myself in him, and I didn’t even flinch when he flirted with other girls in front of me. I was used to it. I bought in to the easy excuses—date the most popular guy in southern Arizona and deal with the attention he gets . . . needs.

Somehow, I don’t find him as attractive as I used to. Sure, he’s good looking. But that feeling I once got in my stomach when he smiled at me or slung his arm over my shoulder has morphed into a different kind entirely. I think my mom was right when I talked to her about it. Bryce and I have grown apart. At least, I’ve grown apart from him. My dad, however, still sees us as together. And that’s half my battle—shedding my dad’s expectations for who I date. Funny how hard I fought to get him to approve of Bryce in the first place when we were freshmen.

“Hey,” Lexi says, bumping her hip into mine. I glance at her and avoid looking anywhere beyond her. “We’re thinking of heading into the city for the night. Tasha’s mom said she’d get us a suite in Scottsdale so we can maybe go to a salon. You know, do the hair and nails thing before school officially starts. You in?”

I chew at the inside of my cheek. I haven’t had a lot of friends’ time this summer, so maybe my mom will be on board. I’m almost eighteen; a week shy. She has to trust me at some point.

“Yeah, let me run it by my dad,” I say, knowing he’ll be the easier one to sell the idea on.

“Awesome. I’ll swing by your house to pick you up in an hour. Tasha will make our appointments for the morning.” My friend holds out her pinky and we shake, a ritual the three of us have done since first grade. We’re inseparable—Lexi, Tasha, and me—and the pinky promise carries a lot of weight. We use it for everything from silent good-byes to secret promises.

“Hi, Mr. Johnson,” Lexi says as her eyes peer over my shoulder. She bats her lashes, an annoying thing she’s done to my dad since we started getting into boys in sixth grade. I suppose to many females my dad is handsome. But he’s my dad, and Lexi is eighteen. And my parents are so in love it’s nauseating. And gross. I don’t want to even think beyond that.

“Lex, good to see you. Say hi to your dad for me,” he says, careful to use that parental tone he reserves for when he wants to be taken seriously. Or when he wants my friend to stop flirting with him.

“Will do. See you later,” Lexi adds, giving one last batt of her lashes before skipping off toward the parking lot.

I shake my head and roll my eyes.

“You need a lift tonight, old man?” I poke my elbow into my dad’s side, then turn to lift up on my toes so he can kiss the top of my head.

“I’m not sure when exactly my Jeep became your Jeep, but yeah, I’m gonna need a ride home,” he says, chuckling.

“Okay, just let me pack this stuff up and we can go.” I take our team prop bag from the bench and unzip it wide to stuff in our pompoms and the foldable CHS letters we use for dance routines. I turn to scoop up the few remaining pompoms at my other side and halt when I’m met by a bare-chested Bryce, who kindly picked the stragglers up for me.

“Thanks,” I say, trying not to sound annoyed. I hold the bag open and he drops the pompoms inside, then quickly takes the bag straps from my hand. He zips it closed and slings the bag over his arm. I think he assumes he’ll be walking me to my car.

“Oh, I got it. Dad and I drove together, so?—”

“I thought maybe we could get a bite?” Bryce shrugs, an innocent-looking gesture that I know he’s rehearsed. That used to work on me too.

“Uh, I . . .”

“I can take the Jeep home. You go on. I’ll let your mom know you’ll miss dinner,” Dad says. I know the two of them didn’t plot this together, but it still feels that way. I almost give in, then remember Lexi—my savior.

“Wait, no. I can’t!” I grip my dad’s wrist before he has a chance to walk away. His face scrunches up as his eyes draw in.

“I told Lexi and Tasha I would hang out with them. Tasha’s mom paid for a hotel suite in the city, and?—”

“Whoa, whoa. I’m sorry, but what? No. You are not going to party in the city and shack up in some hotel. Did you run this by your mom yet? Because I’m sure she’s not on board.” He’s shaking his head at me and my shoulders deflate. He wouldn’t have cared if I didn’t have an alternative set of plans with his ideal match for me.

“Right, I know. I was going to ask Mom when I got home, but it’s just that Tasha’s mom already paid,” I say, having no clue whether that’s true or not. “And school starts in a few days. I’ve spent the summer working and haven’t really seen the girls much.”

“They’re at our house almost every night,” my dad responds.

I sigh.

“Yeah, I know. But that’s not the same. I come home tired from a long day of work, and all we do is stream some show and fall asleep.” I stop to let my dad finish his sudden fit of laughter.

“I’m sorry, but you come home after a hard day’s work? You . . . are exhausted?” My dad holds his gut as he laughs out hard, then holds his side as if it’s given him a cramp. I cross my arms over my chest and purse my lips.

“Jack’s is hard work. Stop making a joke out of it. And I’ve taken my responsibilities very seriously. Remember? Building character?” I blink a few times and hold my frown firm. My dad stifles his laughter and finally composes himself, clearing his throat enough to utter a short, “Sorry.”

“I mean, she did have to serve pancakes to Wyatt Stone,” Bryce pipes in.

My stomach instantly tightens. Why? I have no clue. Maybe because of the way Bryce is trying to redirect my conversation with my dad. Or perhaps it’s because of the interaction I had with Wyatt yesterday at the car wash. Or possibly it’s the fact I have not stopped thinking about the way the ripped T-shirt stuck to his chest and stomach while he washed cars.

My dad’s quick stare washes all of those thoughts away. I’m about to be grilled. I can feel it. I shoot an annoyed look Bryce’s way, then roll my head back to face my father.

“He came in once for pancakes. I didn’t even know who he was. Bryce had to tell me. I swear you both have a crush on the guy, though. Now, I’d like to get home and ask Mom what she thinks about me spending the night with my friends in the city. If you don’t mind?” I’m pushing it with the attitude, but I refuse to be bullied into a date I don’t want to go on. And now I have leverage. My dad wants to ask me questions about Wyatt—questions I could not possibly answer but that he will ask anyway. Because he’s obsessed!

“Fine. If your mom agrees you can go. Bryce, you looked great out there today,” my dad says, patting my ex-boyfriend on the chest twice to placate his need for constant praise.

“Thanks, Coach. Just doing my job,” Bryce says, stepping into my path after my dad’s back is turned. His breath is hot against my bare shoulder as his chin lifts and his eyes meet mine. More moves that would have affected me differently a year ago.

“Text me later. Maybe I’ll drive up too,” he suggests, his eyes lingering on mine, waiting. I hold his stare for a full second before a sharp laugh slips out and my mouth hangs open.

“Yeah, okay.”

Bryce backs away with a careful smirk on his face, his tongue caught in his front teeth. It’s cute—he’s cute. He’s also arrogant and annoying. And has zero sense of sarcasm. There’s no chance I’m texting him anything.

I get to the Jeep before my father, who gets caught talking with a few of his players on the sideline. I turn the engine on so I can blast the air at my face. This area is an inferno until well into October. I shoot my mom a text to prep her for my request to go into the city with my friends.

ME: Dad is trying to push me into a date with Bryce tonight. Lexi and Tasha are going into the city. Tasha’s mom got a suite. I said I would ask you if I could go. Please, Mom. I’m begging.

I can tell she sees my message right away, but the dots that indicate she’s answering disappear and reappear about a dozen times before my dad gets to the Jeep and ushers me out of the driver’s seat so he can drive. My phone vibrates with my mom’s response as soon as I climb into the passenger side.

MOM: You can go. But be responsible. You know that you get attention, and you don’t want the wrong kind.

I sink back into my seat with relief and turn to my dad.

“Mom said yes,” I say, holding up my phone screen to face him for proof. My dad shakes his head and blinks rapidly, no doubt shocked that I got her permission. He doesn’t know about my conversations with Mom about Bryce, though. At least, I don’t think my mom has shared them with him yet. I am certain that’s the only reason she’s loosening her rules. My mom might be strict, but she is also incredibly sympathetic to the plight of her teenage daughter.

“And she knows it’s Tasha?” My dad is throwing out a Hail Mary. Tasha is a lot like my Aunt Sarah, always up for a party, and definitely attracted to the wild side.

I nod, leaving my dad to huff out a short laugh in disbelief. His eyebrows rise as he shakes his head.

“Huh. Didn’t see that coming, but okay,” he says, shifting the gear into reverse and peeling us backward in the school lot.

I grab the handle as the Jeep jerks forward and the familiar smile inches up my face. My dad flies from the parking lot and crosses the paved road to take to the small stretch of open desert next to campus. I howl with laughter as the tires kick up dust and spit bits of rock in our wake while my dad twists and turns over the rugged land. It’s a silly joy ride he’s been taking me on since I was a kid, a lot safer than the off-roading he does with Uncle Jason and some of their friends. It’s a good thrill though, and he ends it the same way he always does, with a perfectly timed fishtail that adds dirt to the berm he’s been creating on this open land for years. We own it, and I doubt anything will ever be built here as long as my dad can drive this Jeep.

I brush the stray hairs from my face as my dad and I idle amidst brush-covered mounds. We laugh like kids until my dad shifts back into drive and weaves us toward the main road home. He doesn’t broach the topic of Wyatt until we’re halfway there. But I am ready. I knew it was coming.

“So . . . you know Wyatt.”

I laugh at his poor attempt to segue.

“I have to ask, Peyt. I mean, you didn’t tell me you met him. Did he slide into your DMs or?—”

“Ugh! Dad, no! And don’t say things like that. It’s . . . creepy. People don’t say that anymore.” Heat crawls up my neck and into my cheeks. This conversation is going to kill me.

“Hey, I see the memes. I know sliding into DMs is a thing,” he argues.

I flatten my palms over my face and growl.

“It’s not really a thing you say— except in memes! ” I drop my palms to my lap and glare at him.

He holds up a palm.

“Okay, fine. I get it. So he didn’t hit you up on social media. Then, how did you meet?” My dad’s hands grip the steering wheel. Of all people for the universe to literally throw into my life this week, it had to be Wyatt Stone.

“It’s like Bryce said, Dad. He came in for pancakes. Once. A couple nights ago. He said something about finishing moving into his family’s house. I didn’t even know who he was until Bryce walked in and told me. That’s it.”

And really, that is. Of course, then there was the car wash altercation, when apparently Wyatt figured out who I was. After which I drove through a median, taking out a lot of nice landscaping just to get away. Peyton Johnson, always up for a grand exit. I think I’ll leave that part out.

“Okay, so they moved in. They have an address, then,” my dad says, chewing at the inside of his cheek as he rests his wrists on the top of the steering wheel. It’s pretty much a straight shot the rest of the way home.

“I’m afraid so, Dad. Looks like you’re going to have to actually beat the amazing Wyatt Stone on the field instead of through bylaws and loopholes in the state’s high school athletic association code.”

My tone is a bit snarky, but it’s warranted. My dad has been cooking up ways to not have to deal with Wyatt ever since the new boundaries were drawn. He wore his welcome out with the state office by trying to keep his offense intact. Honestly? I think they might have grandfathered a lot of the guys in on our team if my dad weren’t so damn hot-headed about insisting they do it.

“Oh, trust me, Peyt. We’re ready for him. The passes your boy Bryce was dealing today are hands down the best in the state. Maybe the Southwest region. Kid has a cannon.” My dad beams with pride.

“He’s not my boy, Dad.”

He blows out and flaps his lips, waving his hand.

“Whatever. You know what I mean. I can’t keep up with you guys. One day you want to follow Bryce to college, the next you don’t even want to have dinner with him. So much drama.”

I cringe at the drama word.

“It’s not drama, Dad. We broke up when he went to camp, and I’m kinda over it all.” I shrug when my dad glances my way.

“Over Bryce? Ha! Nah. I give it two weeks.”

“Gah!” I groan, immediately turning my attention to the view out my passenger window. Resting my elbow on the ledge, I pinch the bridge of my nose and wonder if my dad was this relentless with my mom when they were in high school. I know they broke up a few times. And I know it was basically always my dad’s fault. But my dad? He owned it all. Every fuckup he ever made. And that’s the difference between him and Bryce. My dad grew up. He evolved. Bryce . . . he is stuck in patterns.

Our wheels hit the driveway just as the sun is starting to set. My friends will be here any minute, and I really want to get a shower in before we leave. I grab my gym bag from the Jeep and race into the mudroom where I kick off my shoes and toss my bag on the laundry counter. I’m almost free and clear, stopping to give my mom a kiss on the cheek before mouthing a silent thank you to her, when my dad hits me with one more question.

“So, this Wyatt kid . . .” he starts. My eyes shut and I hold my breath for a beat.

“What about him?” I brace myself for my dad to butcher another thing from my generation. I open my eyes to catch my mom’s puzzled brow. I didn’t mention any of the Wyatt stuff to her because there wasn’t anything to it. Until . . . right . . . now.

“What’s he look like? I mean, in real life.” My eyes scan the expanse of our kitchen as my lips part in search of words.

“I have no idea, Dad. He looks like your basic eighteen-year-old guy who throws a football.” I shift my gaze to my dad’s and hold my open-eyed glare on his.

“Peyt. Throw me a bone. I need every inch I can get this season. Is he big? Is he as tall as they report in the stat book? How does he stack up against Bryce? Come on, kiddo. You know how this works. Give me the rundown.” My dad slides into a stool next to my mom, who is now amused as well as slightly confused.

I take a deep breath and let my shoulders drop on my exhale.

“Fine. He’s tall. Definitely taller than Bryce. Not as bulky. He was in jeans so it’s hard to say for sure, but he seems pretty solid head to toe. His arms looked strong. He has those forearm veins like you. And he held his fork like a caveman when he ate his pancakes. That’s all I’ve got.”

My lips tingle while I maintain my dad’s stare. I win the bluff, though, and am dismissed to rush up the stairs and into the safety of my bathroom. I pull the tie and pins from my hair while my mind mentally flashes through visions of Wyatt Stone standing in this room with me. I focus on my own eyes in my reflection, slowly peeling away pieces of clothing and imagining that it’s Wyatt’s fingertips grazing my bare shoulder instead of my own. And when I finally step under the stream of hot water, I drown myself in all the other features I’ve somehow memorized about Wyatt Stone’s body, his face, his eyes, his hair.

His voice.

I shut my eyes and look up to let the water pound my face. I shouldn’t indulge. And I’m sure I’m remembering him better than he really is. He’s definitely an asshole. But if Wyatt Stone is going to be the star of every single one of my dad’s nightmares this season, what’s wrong with letting him make an appearance or two in my dreams?