Chapter 4

Chapter Four

I ’m not sure how long I’ve been standing outside the firehouse staring at my dad’s name, but it’s been long enough for the tip of my nose to feel the burn of the bright afternoon sun.

“Wyatt! Hey, good to see you,” the burly man with the full-gray handlebar mustache says to my right. I shake out of my daze and hold out an arm to give Jeff a sideways hug.

“Hey, old man,” I tease as I give him a squeeze. Jeff was my dad’s captain. They’d been riding the same truck for seventeen years and were on track to retire together.

He shifts his gaze to the wall where my dad’s name, Todd Stone, is carved into a thick piece of copper. This firehouse was named after him three months ago. The gesture means a lot, but my heart aches every time I read the epitaph. It’s a somber poem about brotherhood and trust.

“He would have preferred a knock-knock joke,” Jeff says, and my shoulders shake with quiet laughter.

“Maybe I’ll run for mayor one day so I can get it changed,” I say.

“Kid, you get to be mayor, I hope to hell you focus on our pensions rather than dad jokes,” he coughs out.

I smirk and nod, agreeing to a deal I likely will never be in a position to fulfill. I’ve learned a lot about public safety pensions over the last six months, mostly about how hard it is to prove a correlation between job duties and a lung cancer diagnosis. Those details matter when it comes to spousal benefits. We’ve managed all right, though, thanks to the guys in this house. The fundraisers covered the medical deductibles, and the extra funds made it easier to eat the loss on my dad’s truck, which we sold, and the move to Coolidge from the Valley. Cost of living was on par with playing time when it came to reasons for us to make this move. It was down to three rural towns, and Coolidge was the first one where Mom landed a job offer. She started last week with the municipal water department. I wonder if everyone will be as welcoming when they find out that their town water bill is processed by Theresa Stone?

“Hey! Baby Stone! What are we buying, and how much do you need?” Alan, the guy who was promoted to Engineer in my dad’s place, pushes the foot rest in on his lounge chair, propelling him to stand. I can tell he feels guilty for taking my dad’s position. He’s always the first to donate to my football fundraisers, and he made the biggest contribution to our online fund before the move. He doesn’t have the means to be so generous. He has three young boys at home. But I know it puts his mind at ease to do it.

“Let’s see,” I say, pulling out my phone and checking the latest spreadsheet of numbers Coach texted the team. “We basically earned enough to cover snacks for one road trip with that car wash, so I need to sell . . .” I pull the stack of restaurant gift cards from my back pocket and snap the rubber band against them. “All of them.”

I’m actually not exaggerating. I have sixty of them, and at forty bucks apiece that would just about cover our road trip needs for the season.

“I don’t think I can swing that, but put me down for ten. I’ll give them out as gifts for the holidays,” Alan says, fishing out two hundreds and a lot of twenties from his wallet. He prepared for this, and I feel guilty taking so much from him.

“You sure? I was expecting to sell maybe five today,” I say, wincing as I clutch the stack of cards in my palm. I’m hesitant to go through with this.

“Screw that! Give me my cards, and you assholes better act surprised when you get these in your stockings for Christmas!” Alan jokes. The rest of the guys join in with his laughter, and my shoulders ease back down to their natural position.

“Shit, man. Guess I’m gonna need to buy one to give to Alan, then,” Shane pipes in from the kitchen. He has a towel slung over one shoulder and a splash of marinara on the center of his shirt. He’s lucky he’s at this station. Some of the other captains take dress code rules extremely seriously. Jeff has always given the guy who volunteers to cook for the day some slack. That guy used to be my dad.

“Thanks, Shane,” I say, slipping a card from the stack to hand to him.

He pockets it and nods toward the sleep quarters.

“My wallet’s on the bunk in three. Grab the cash.”

I nod as I finish my business with Alan, counting out his cards and marking the numbers on the small paper Coach gave us to keep track. I didn’t expect the guys to give this much. I’m a little overwhelmed by it.

I head down the corridor at the back of the station to the sleep quarters for the crew. It’s the first time I’ve walked this hallway since I came with my uncle and gathered my dad’s things from his locker. Dad didn’t keep much here—the basic necessities like shampoo and toothpaste, along with a few pictures of me and Mom. But his locker was covered top to bottom in news clippings about me. Our trip to state. My record-setting sophomore season. The national rank list that projected me at sixteen overall this season.

“He was so proud of you, you know that?” Jeff’s soft voice breaks the careful balance I’ve been maintaining, and the tear I’ve been fighting to keep inside finally slips down my cheek. I dash it away with the back of my hand and breathe out a quick laugh.

“Yeah. Wish he could have seen this year,” I choke out, coughing in a sad male attempt to mask how I really feel. I know I don’t have to, and these guys are like family. But it’s one of those things my dad was better at that than me—vulnerability. I missed the opportunity to learn from him.

Jeff steps around me and dips into Shane’s room to grab the cash I was sent for. He folds the two twenties but holds up a finger before handing them to me.

“How many left?” he asks.

My head falls to one side, and I suck in my top lip.

“Don’t pull that shit with me. We both know I’m gonna get my way, so cough it up. How many left?”

My chest tightens, my dad’s voice echoing in my head. Be gracious, and let good people be good.

I pinch the bridge of my nose and squeeze my eyes shut as I work through the math in my head. It feels like pity. And on some level, it is. Jeff is like family.

“I have nineteen on me. Another stack of thirty at home.” I hold my breath, not sure if I want him to balk at the amount or call it good.

Jeff pulls a fat roll of cash from his pocket, a stash he clearly had ready and planned to send me home with no matter what. He doesn’t have any kids, and he and his wife have their house paid off.

“Jeff, I don’t think I can?—”

He plops the wad in my palm, then closes my fingers around it.

“You can and you will. Keep that second stack at home and use them to take your mom out for dinner from time to time, okay?” He winks at me and keeps my hand enclosed in both of his.

“Yes, sir,” I relent.

The mix of relief and shame is making me drunk. And I’m sure my expression looks sick enough to discourage Jeff from giving me a hug. He opts for a heavy hand on my shoulder.

I stick around the firehouse for about an hour, long enough to stuff my face with one of Shane’s stuffed bell peppers. I’m supposed to meet Whiskey at this BBQ place called The Pit, about halfway between the city and home, but I’d rather not indulge in whatever it is he expects us to get away with. He has a fake ID, and I guess they’re pretty loose about rules out there. I’m not looking to give the state a reason to revoke my transfer variance, or force me to sit out the first five games, either.

When I reach the service station near the freeway entrance, I shoot Whiskey a quick text and let him know I’m not going to make it. We don’t know each other super well yet, just from summer practices and some seven-on-seven games. I hope he’s not the kind of guy who’s going to badger me into coming. When he simply sends back a thumbs up, I let out the full breath I’ve been holding, and the tension in my chest eases.

I step out of my truck and swipe my card at the pump while a group of girls break into laughter on the other side, just out of my view. I smirk to myself and try to listen in on their conversation.

“So, you two are really done now? You aren’t going to do that thing where you pretend to ignore each other for the first week of school, then the next thing we know, you’re making out at the bonfire?” The girl’s question lingers for a second without an answer.

“You roll your eyes now, but that’s been the story of you two for the past three years,” the girl adds.

I lean against my truck bed and push the nozzle into the tank, my curiosity growing.

“Why are you so interested, Lexi? Is it because you want to take your shot with him?” another female voice says.

“Uh, no! I think I had enough of the Bryce Hampton soap opera living vicariously through our friend,” the original girl says. My ears prick.

No fucking way.

“More like nightmare,” the second girl says, and they all laugh.

My gut says that third person, the one yet to speak but whose white skirt I can see blowing in the wind through the small space between the gas pump and the advertisement for $8.99 12-packs of shitty beer, is Peyton.

My eyes scan for a better view, but without fully moving to the back of my truck, I don’t have a clear shot. I spot a squeegee and water bucket a few steps away, so I snag them and make my way to the front of my truck. The view from here isn’t much better, but as I run the wiper across my windshield, the other side of the pump clicks, and the girl in the skirt slides off the back of the car and skips toward the vehicle’s gas tank. I abandon my window, leaving it streaked with soapy water, and toss the bucket to the side as I rush to my side of the pump. Our eyes meet instantly, about a half second before the water bucket I threw rolls around a concrete pillar and splashes dirty water onto Peyton’s white shoes.

“Seriously?” she bites out as her gaze drops to her feet.

I put the nozzle away and peek around the pump, my chest tight with guilt and maybe a touch of panic. I’m outnumbered here—I clearly didn’t think through the one of me and three Team-Peytons.

“Yeah. Sorry about that,” I say, letting my brow sink as my hands drop into my pockets.

“I literally just bought these,” she says, lifting her right foot and pulling the now muddied shoe from her foot. Her ankle is wrapped in a thin pink string, one of those friendship bracelet things, I’m sure. She rips her no-show sock off too, and tosses it in the direction of the trash can. I stop myself before making a joke about littering, instead stepping over the gas hose still linking their car with the pump, and picking up her discarded sock. It’s sopping wet.

Shit.

I throw it in the trash and turn around in time to catch her cursing under her breath as she pulls her left shoe from her foot. I catch the second sock—which she threw at me—against my chest.

“That’s fair,” I say with a chuckle.

“Uh, you think?” Peyton’s gaze snaps to mine with her words, a bit of fire in her eyes.

My low, nervous laugh lingers as my gaze drifts to her friends, who are both obviously holding back laughter as one covers her mouth with a closed fist and the other hides behind the thirty-two-ounce soft drink clutched in both hands.

“Peyton, who’s your friend?” the one behind the giant cup says. The girl’s eyes dim, her lashes heavy and unusually long, and I feel a little bit like prey under her scrutiny.

“He’s nobody. Literally,” Peyton throws back.

“Wow.” My eyes widen with shock. I wasn’t expecting her to be that blunt, and mean. I guess I started this. And it’s not exactly her fault that her school’s football team is bathed in gold.

Determined not to let her get at me, I move to the open driver’s door, where the first girl I heard is leaning with her elbows resting on the opening. I hold out my hand, and she slides her palm against mine as she blows a bubble. It snaps, and I’m hit with a watermelon scent.

“I’m Wyatt. Nice to meet you,” I say.

“Tasha,” she says with a quick nod toward her friend.

I glance across the roof of the car where the long-lashed huntress still has me in her sights.

“Lexi. Single,” she says, and even reading her signals, I’m still surprised by her boldness.

“You can do better than this guy, Lex. What he’s not telling you is his last name,” Peyton pipes in. I drop Tasha’s hand and sink my hands back into my pockets as I face my new nemesis.

“This is Wyatt Stone. He’s the quarterback at Vista,” Peyton reveals.

“Damn! Wyatt Stone, you are fine!” Tasha says, dropping her chin to her throat as she peers through her lashes, which are not quite as long as Lexi’s but are dusted with gold.

“Yeah, but I heard he’s a cheater. Didn’t you pull some strings to avoid transfer rules or something?” Lexi seems to know a surprising amount about transfer protocol. A quick glance inside their car reveals why. A blue and gold cheer bow hangs from the rearview mirror. Of course they’re cheerleaders.

“We submitted my transfer request the same way anyone else would.” I shrug but don’t offer more. I know I got special consideration due to my circumstances, but I’m not in the mood to talk about our tight finances now that my mom’s a widow. Not with them, anyhow.

“You all headed to a party or something?” I glance down and to the left, noting the gold heels Tasha is wearing with her white shorts and black tank top. They’re all hot. I’ve counted at least half a dozen guys ogling them as they wandered from their vehicles into the gas station while we’ve been out here chatting. But there’s something about Peyton that has an extra pull on me. She’s curvier, and she seems kind of free-spirited. Her makeup is done up the same as the other girls, but her hair is down in wild waves, and she seems perfectly fine standing barefoot in a parking lot while her canvas shoes dangle from her fingers. Her nails are painted blue with yellow tips, probably for her school’s first day and spirit week. The cheerleaders did that at my old school, too. Kiera, the girl I dated my junior year, always painted my number on her thumbnails. It was sweet, even though Kiera wasn’t. She moved on quick when the season ended.

“We’re heading back to the resort to spend some quality time in the hot tub. Too bad you can’t come with,” Lexi says, winking. She slips into the passenger seat, and I turn my attention to my other side, where Peyton is tightening the gas cap, her shoes now tied at the laces and slung over her shoulder. She doesn’t seem bothered at all that dirt is getting on the white sleeves of her dress.

“Resort, huh? Sounds fancy.” My tone is purposely acidic, but when her brown eyes zip to mine, I’m hit with a twinge of guilt.

Her lips part, and I think she’s about to speak, but then they snap shut. She dismisses me with an eye roll and opens the back door.

Fifteen minutes ago, all I wanted to do was get home and flop into my bed while I played my dad’s favorite songs on my phone. But now, fuck it. I’m up for a dip.

“I could go for some hot tubbing. I’ve got shorts in the truck,” I say, my head ticking toward my ride just a hint.

Peyton’s eyes flash wide, but only for a blip. She bites the tip of her tongue, a faint smirk teasing one side of her mouth.

“You coming?” Lexi says from inside the car. She’s leaned into the back seat, over the console.

“Depends,” I say, still holding Peyton’s stare. “Am I invited?”

Lexi says yes right away, but that’s not the invitation I’m interested in. And Peyton isn’t so keen on letting me off the hook. She shifts her head, her gaze glued to me, even as it turns into side-eyes.

“Sure. You can come . . . if you want,” she finally relents, her lashes batting once in slow motion before she slips into the back seat and closes the door with enough muscle for it to almost count as a slam. I feel drunk from her final glance, the mental picture of her tongue grazing her bottom lip right before she spoke. That was so intentional. And so effective. I’m not sure the shorts in my cab are going to be thick enough to hold down my reaction to Peyton, especially in a swim top.

“We’re at Canyon West. Say room one-eleven, and the last name Malone,” Tasha says through the open driver’s window.

I nod as I punch the hotel name into my phone for directions. I was pretty sure I recognized it by the name, but the directions that guide me halfway up one of the nearby mountains clinches it.

When the guys at the gate get a look at my truck, they’re going to think I’m there to clean the pool. But that’s not what’s taking up the real estate in my head right now.

You can come . . . if you want to.

Fucking hell. I just might.