Chapter 6

Chapter Six

I ’m not a social media guy.

Sure, I have the apps. And I’ve got profiles. But every single one of them shows nothing but my highlights and awards. There’s nothing social about any of it for me. It’s recruiting business.

Yet here I am, staring at a follow request from Peyton Johnson. And yeah, I’m thinking about accepting it. Not so she can poke through my shit, because everything I post is public. But hers isn’t. I get why. She’s probably endured her fair share of online bullying just for being a famous athlete’s daughter. Hell, I’m curious about what things look like behind that curtain. I’ve seen the Johnson Ranch. Getting glimpses of their family room or vacation pics has nothing to do with why I’m considering clicking accept. Fuck if I don’t want to look at more pics of her. Maybe a few in that goddamn bikini, too. Forty-eight hours has done very little to erase that visual from my mind. If anything, it’s only grown more vivid.

“You’re up next, Wyatt!” A heavy hand slaps my upper back, and I shut off my screen before turning to face Jody.

“I’m ready. How was the interview?” I ask.

Jody shrugs, wordless, then starts dressing out for his first class.

It’s media day, which means the entire team showed up for the first day of school at five in the morning to get through photos and give interviews to the local press before class starts. A few of the bigger outlets are here, too, because apparently, our new high school is embroiled in an instant rivalry thanks to our cross-town opponent and its famous coach. Plus, a lot of our players wore the other team’s colors last season. Whiskey’s one of them, and I bet he’s getting grilled by reporters. Jody’s an outsider, like me. His family lives deep in the desert. His old high school barely had enough to field a team last season, and Jody was worried the program would get cut this year. He’s too good to lose out on his senior year.

I grab my helmet and head into the gym, where the photographer is set up. Whiskey is standing off to the side, his arms folded over his massive chest while he rocks back and forth in his size-twelve sneakers. His eyes are intense as he nods to whatever the reporter is asking.

“Wyatt?”

“Huh, yeah. Sorry.” I draw my attention away from my teammate and to the photographer.

“Nice to meet you. I’m Cora.”

We shake hands.

“You’ll be featured in a few places in the program, so if you’re up for it, I’d like to try a few different poses so we have a lot to choose from. We’ll need something strong for the cover?—”

“Oh, no. I’m not the cover,” I say, my attention still split between her and whatever Whiskey is saying to the reporter. I can’t tell for sure, but I think I heard some talk about Coach Johnson. This season is going to be hard for him.

“But it says here . . .” She flips through a stapled packet until she finds a page with a mockup of the program along with a bulleted list of shots. I lean toward her as she holds it out as proof.

My stomach knots seeing my name so prominent, on top, typed often. It’s not that I mind being used to sell ad space or to promote our program. It’s that I don’t want my teammates to be shafted on credit. And when we’re all so new to playing together, at least with me at QB, I would really like to start the season with us all on the same pedestal.

“Can we just try some with a few of the guys?” I glance up and meet her anxious expression.

“I mean, I shoot the shots. That’s really all they hired me for.” Cora shrugs, and I think she’s hoping I’ll drop this idea. I’m making more work for her, but if it means our boosters have to throw an extra hundred bucks or two her way, I’m willing to wash cars by myself all weekend to make those photos happen.

“Just a few shots. I’ll get the players together. I’ll handle the pitch to the boosters.” She blinks twice, slowly, but caves.

“Whatever. It’s all the same to me. But I will need to get the ones of just you to make sure I did my job.”

“Deal,” I say, grabbing my helmet and getting into place in front of her backdrop.

We run through a few poses, some with me in my helmet, some with it tucked to my side. I do a few tosses of the ball as well, and we finish with a shot of me holding it out in my palm toward her lens. I’m sure the shots make me look tough. My mom will love them. The guys at the station will too. But I can’t be the cover. That’s the wrong first step. I feel it in my gut.

“Hey, Whisk!” I wave him over before he has a chance to head into the locker room after his interview.

“What’s up?” he asks.

“We want to do a group shot or two. I need to get Jody back. And some of the other guys.” I pull my phone from my pocket and send a message in our group chat.

“I thought the team photo was before practice?” He glances to the photographer, and her shoulder hikes up.

“Yeah, this isn’t that,” I explain.

Within minutes, I’ve managed to gather seven of us for a few group shots, and Cora seems to be getting into it. She spends nearly thirty minutes having us set up tight formations, various poses, and even more individuals for a few of the guys who really get into the whole “growl at the camera” concept.

We finish up just as the first bell rings, so we don’t have time to look through more than a few over Cora’s shoulder. I’m confident there are multiple winners in the bunch, however.

While most of the guys take off for algebra or English, I hang in the locker room with Whiskey since we both have advanced weight training for our first hour. It’s a perk of being a senior, and I was glad to see that the tradition is the same here as it was at my old school. It’s sort of a cheat to the system—a way for coaches to get extra time with their team leaders and not have it count as practice.

Whiskey and I dress out for lifting and head through the doors at the back of the gym that lead to the weight room. Coach has been in there most of the morning. I’m sure I could have run my idea by him before I coerced the photographer into shooting my idea, but a lesson from my dad rang in my head the second I thought of it.

Do what’s right, and you won’t even have to ask for forgiveness.

“You gonna tell me what that was all about?” Whiskey tugs open the weight room door and steps to the side as I pass through.

“Come with me. I’ll tell you both at the same time.” I lean my head toward the back of the room where Coach is straddling one of the benches and reviewing charts.

Whiskey lets out a low chuckle.

“Why do I feel like I’m being used as a human shield?”

I stop hard and pivot to look him in the eyes.

“Dude, that’s literally your job. Lineman. Human shield.” I pat the center of his chest, shoot him a smile, and turn to head to Coach.

“Wyatt, I think I’d take a hundred high school athletes coming at me at once over whatever the hell you’re walking me into,” he mumbles behind me.

I glance over my shoulder.

“And yet you’re still with me.”

“Bro, you’re my only friend in this place. I ain’t got a choice.”

I laugh hard. That’s not even remotely true. At least half of our line came over from the old school with Whiskey, and I don’t think there’s a damn human in town who isn’t his friend. But I like that he sees me as more than his quarterback. I like that we’ve moved to friends. If anyone in this scenario only has one of those, it’s me.

“Gentlemen. You trying to score bonus points for being early?” Coach Watts glances up over the golden rims of his glasses. He might not have the pro pedigree Reed Johnson has, but he’s paid his dues in high school football. He’s been coaching a small school up north for the last sixteen years, and he’s managed to win six state titles with a group of guys who habitually play in a division above their size. My dad would have loved him.

“I wanted to make a proposal about the program, sir.”

He blinks at me a few times, his mouth a hard, indiscernible line. After a few seconds, he pulls his glasses off and folds them before setting them on top of the clipboard resting on the bench. He folds his arms over his chest, and a deep grumble emanates from him. Whiskey takes a step back, and I shoot him a glance.

“What?” he whispers.

“Chicken,” I utter back.

“Wyatt, do you know how many hours of my life have been spent on this program? With a committee of twelve booster parents? All with very different opinions?”

I’m no stranger to the politics and big personalities on a booster club. I know what a pain in the ass every single project is. It’s half the reason my mom didn’t want to step into the board elections when we came for orientation.

“I do. But this is important,” I say.

He blinks at me again, then sighs before rolling his palm out toward me, urging me to continue. I swallow hard.

“We need to have a group shot on the cover. The leaders on the team. Guys from each platoon.” I was thoughtful when I sent out the plea for guys to come back for the extra shoot and made sure to ask for a leader from special teams, defense, and offense.

“I agree.” His quick response surprises me, and the relief that drops my shoulders is instant. But it’s short-lived. “But Don Atkins wants you on the cover. He bought a sponsorship because of it.”

Coach’s frustrated tone gives me pause, but it’s not really me he’s frustrated with. It’s the fact ads and photos are taking up his time.

“I’ll talk to Don. Joey’s dad, yeah?” I should know this by now, but there are a lot of new names for me to get down.

Coach nods.

“If you can sell him on the idea, and if I don’t have to be involved, like, at all ? — ”

“Yes, sir,” I say, nodding with a tight smile. I turn to face Whiskey and give him the full toothy grin along with a thumbs up kept close to my chest.

“Hey, one thing,” Coach says as we begin to walk away. Whiskey stops with me, and we both turn to face Coach. I lift my brows.

“Why is this important to you?”

I’m not sure if Coach is truly curious or if this is a test. My answer is the same, regardless.

“Because I can’t be the only one on the cover. Not when it’s the team brochure.”

His nod is slight, but the approval is obvious. He goes back to his charts, slipping his glasses back on and not glancing up again. Whiskey pulls me into the side of his body with a massive one-armed hug, his other hand busy rubbing my hair from my head.

“You big softy, you,” he teases.

I’m pretty sure he’s the one looking soft here. Or at least we both are. But it feels good to have won him over completely. A friend.

I ’m used to practices kicking my ass. I thrive when facing physical adversity. But Coach Watts takes practices in the high heat of the Arizona desert to an entirely new level. We went hard for two hours straight. Tomorrow we go for three. Then four after that. I’m starting to see why the southern schools are so much tougher when playoffs roll around. The lungs can’t help but step up to the task.

Of course, the gallons of water I ingested are probably just as key.

“It’s definitely hotter down here,” I say as my head falls back against the cold metal of my locker, the bare skin of my back sticking on contact.

“Yeah, somehow the city feels cooler. Always has. You’re going to be shocked when you never get winded again, though.” Jody slaps his arm across my chest after sinking down on the floor to sit next to me.

My chest is still huffing pretty good, and it’s been twenty minutes. I roll my head along the metal, my pads and helmet piled next to me.

“You mean this feeling of death will eventually end?”

“Ha! Yeah, you’ll see,” Jody laughs out. He draws his legs in to make room for Whiskey to pass. For a big guy, he doesn’t seem nearly as wiped out as I am. He doesn’t bother sitting before ripping his way out of his pads and practice uniform.

“The fuck? How have you recovered already? We had the same practice out there,” I say.

Whiskey’s head rears back with his coughed-out laugh. He slings a towel over his bare shoulder and toes off his cleats.

“Today,” he says, bringing one foot up to rip away a soaking sock and then the other.

I widen my eyes and shake my head.

“Uh, yeah. Today.” I glance to Jody, hoping he can decipher what Whiskey means. He simply chuckles, then gets to his feet to finish stripping down to shower.

“You know what? I’ll show you. Get your ass showered, then come with me.” Whiskey grabs a protein bar from his locker and rips it open on his way to the showers.

I linger behind my teammates for a few seconds, mostly because my calf muscles are twitching from sprints. Knowing I can’t just sleep here, though, and wait to shower in the morning, I drag myself to the shower after peeling off my pants and leaving a reeking pile of clothes for the equipment manager. That’s one perk we get, at least.

After ten minutes of standing under a stream of steaming hot water, I almost feel human again. My muscles feel spent, in a good way. But I’m going to hit the pillow hard tonight.

I talk Jody into going on this excursion with Whiskey and me. On our friend’s direction, we follow him from the school lot to the nearby grocery store so we can pile into Jody’s car for the rest of the trip. I’m not sure why Whiskey insists we take Jody’s compact hatchback that can barely contain our massive bodies, but he’s adamant about it, so we go along. However, his reasoning becomes clear when the glow of the Coolidge High lights comes into view like a set of suns against the darkening pink swatches of sky. For such a new facility, there’s a comforting vintage quality about those lights.

“I’m not spying, Whisk. We should go,” I say as Jody pulls up to the stop sign right before the parking lot entrance.

“Nah, we’re not spying. But you should know what you’re up against. Just . . . trust me. Turn here, before the lot.” He reaches between Jody and me from the back seat and points to a back entrance that appears to lead to the maintenance area.

Jody makes the turn, guiding us around a few temporary buildings and into a space tucked between two dumpsters. We get out and follow Whiskey into a nook between what looks like the gym and maybe the library. He tugs a metal ladder extension down and latches it, then immediately begins scaling his way up.

“Sorry, but how is this not spying?” I whisper shout as he climbs away from me.

All Jody and I get for a response is Whiskey’s annoying-ass laughter. After a few seconds, I give in and start my climb, with Jody a few rungs behind me. We get to the flat roof and follow Whiskey to the far corner, crouching about a dozen feet from the edge and basically army crawling the rest of the way.

“Whisk, I’m not so sure about your vocabulary skills, man. Because this ? It’s fucking spying,” I growl at him.

He bobs his head side-to-side, still wordless, then nods toward the edge, urging me to look.

I glance to Jody, who is making what I imagine is the same WTF face I am. My glare shifts back to Whiskey, lips pursed, and eyes narrowed as I shake my head. I give in anyway and move to the edge, lifting myself enough to peer down at the football field from across the tennis courts. It’s basically a sea of bodies, everyone moving non-stop in matching compression pants, shirts, workout shorts, and shoes. It’s like the world’s biggest Cross Fit studio, from the timed sprints up the bleacher steps to the clapping pushups on the track to the sand pit with massive tractor tires being flipped by one lineman at a time.

“What is this?” Jody asks as he finally slides up next to me.

“Second practice,” Whiskey explains.

I sit back on my heels, feeling the soreness in my lower calves. My eyes shift to him, and he shrugs.

“Second. Practice? As in, they had a first practice?”

“Now who’s the one with the vocabulary problem?” Whiskey responds.

“They do this for season prep?” I move back to my space and look over the massive team. We took half of them, and there are still so many.

“They do this every day. And on Saturdays. Coach Baker started it around the time Coach Johnson was a senior, and well . . .”

“Coach Johnson kept it up,” I mutter.

No wonder Whiskey’s in such good shape for a big guy. Until three months ago, he was following this regimen. Shit, he’s probably backslid under our current plan. And here I thought it was tough having the occasional two-a-day at my old school.

“We should be doing this,” I say, expecting resistance from my teammates. But instead I get two yeahs .

“You think we can get some tires like that?” I ask and Jody nods toward the sand pit with a quiet laugh.

“Don’t see why not. They came from my uncle.”

I scan the grounds, looking for my rival, and find him doing footwork through an obstacle course in the far end zone. As amazing as this facility is, with its huge stands and all-weather track painted in the school’s blue and gold, it’s the simple stuff happening on the field that will make the difference. It’s the respect the guys have for the program—the way they’re all bought in. I catch sight of the large figure pacing around the middle of the field, checking in with every platoon and assistant coach, pulling individual players aside.

“Reed looks like he could step right in behind the Arizona O-line and take snaps tomorrow,” I admit.

“Ha, yeah. Probably,” Whiskey says.

The longer we sit up on that roof, the more resolved I am that starting tomorrow, we’re going to be doing double practices, too. And when Coach Watts takes us to four hours, we’ll be putting in the extra one all on our own. I think I can get Jody and Whiskey on board, and if the three of us set the tone, it will make it part of the culture.

The blast of music from the speaker anchored closest to us hits me like paddles to the chest, and I fall back on my ass along with Jody. Whiskey, however, finally gets closer to the edge.

“Now, this is what we should be spying on,” he says.

I roll my eyes but find myself moving back into position just as the cheer team finishes a tumbling pass across the track. They’re dressed in blue leggings and yellow sports bras, matching shoes for practice, and their matching bags all hung on the fence. But there is one that stands out.

Peyton’s stronger than the others. Her jumps are twice as high, her extensions perfectly straight. I don’t know much about dancing and stunting or whatever this is, but I can tell that for Peyton, this work is serious. She leads, nodding to teammates when they form bases and throw other girls in the air. Peyton isn’t the one who flies, but she sure lifts. And dances. Her body moves like a serpent at times, hips undulating as her palms trace her own curves. They’re getting to do everything I’ve been dreaming of since the night we met.

“This music sucks,” Jody says, though he sure doesn’t seem ready to stop watching.

“It’s the worst,” I add on. After a few seconds, he and Whiskey laugh. We’re all so painfully basic and predictable.

I have a feeling I’m the only one zeroed in on the dirty blonde in the center. I better be. Especially as she drops down on her hands and knees to toss her hair around like some hypnotic weapon. I could literally stand here all day and never get bored. I’d need my own ear pods because this music is truly terrible, but I could handle it. Security detail for Peyton Johnson has a nice ring to it.

I snap out of my own fantasy when I realize the music has stopped, and Peyton’s gaze is fixed right on mine. I drop down behind the wall and bury my head under my hands.

“Oh, fuck!”

Whiskey and Jody follow me.

“What? Coach Johnson see us?” Whiskey sounds panicked. I knew this was a bad idea.

“No, but Peyton did,” I admit.

“Oh, ha. She won’t care. I mean, she might about you, though, since she hates you after the car wash thing.” I scowl at him, but he laughs right through my hard stare. He’s the reason I’m here in the first place. And he’s sort of the reason I snapped at her at the car wash.

“Let’s go,” Jody says, crawling his way back to the ladder.

Whiskey follows.

But before I join them, I take one more peek over the concrete. Her hands are linked and resting on her head as she walks slowly in my direction. She’s not making it obvious, not rushing over here, or calling us out. But she sees me. And she wants me to know it. If I had any doubt of that, she erases that with a simple smirk and a nod. And a goddamn wink.