Chapter 7

Chapter Seven

T hursday night before the first home game is always a big deal in this house. Even when my dad was playing professionally and not home for it, he always called in for the early September Thursday night “meeting of the genius minds” to talk to Grandpa and a few of the other old-timers who eat, live, and breathe Coolidge football. Now that my dad is actually the coach, though? Those whiteboards and game charts that my grandpa kept around to throw in his two cents—that never went beyond this house—have been elevated to actual foundations for the season.

My mom brings a fresh batch of bacon rolls into the family room and swaps out the new pan for the now-empty one on the coffee table.

“Nolan, you’re an angel,” Coach Jacobs says, kissing my mom on the cheek. My dad eyes him with that jealous look, and he holds up his hands as he backs away.

“Just appreciating a good woman,” he defends. My dad grumbles.

“ Mmm , yes. I am. And Saturday morning, I expect I’ll see you all back here to help me clean up the mess,” my mom jokes. Well . . . half-jokes. I think she’d revel in the help. She refuses to hire party planners and help for anything other than the charity. She may love the horse rescue and rehab ranch, along with the neurodivergent therapy program she’s built more than my father. It’s at least a close second.

“You don’t want help tomorrow?” The new special teams coach, Cory Lumis, grabs one of the cocktail napkins from the top of the stack, then glances around a room of suddenly stunned faces.

Everyone exchanges glances while poor Cory stands in the middle of our house with his piping hot bacon roll perched on his napkin-covered fingertips. He spins slowly, his brow arched, probably desperate for someone to clue him in. My grandpa is the first to break the quiet with his signature laughter. He even pulled his oxygen from his nose to really belt it out in all its gravelly glory.

“It’s okay, honey. You’re new and still sweet. Don’t let these guys ruin that about you, but you are going to be pretty busy tomorrow. You know. Friday and all?” My mom pats Cory on the shoulder, then gives it a quick squeeze as she moves to leave the room.

“Dumb-ass!” My dad tosses a pen at Cory from across the room.

“Hey, don’t get mad at him for showing you up and being a gentleman,” Grandpa piles on.

“ Pfffft , whatever. I’m a gentleman,” my dad defends, catching my mom by the waist before she scurries out of the room. He pulls her onto his lap and tips her back before basically lip-tattooing her in front of us.

“Gross,” I protest, slapping my laptop shut and packing up my homework from the dining table.

“Oh, don’t pretend you don’t love how romantic your parents are,” my dad teases. My mom giggles as she pushes up from his lap, taking care to wipe the hint of red lipstick she left behind on his mouth.

I glare at my dad but stop short of rolling my eyes because he’s kind of right. I do love how much my parents love each other. But I also remember how hard the last few years of his career were. There were nights when my mom cried because she was tired of being alone. Others when she dreaded the next week’s game, praying that my dad made it through without getting knocked out of the game. So, while the romantic gestures are kind of sweet, the heartache along the way makes me wonder if that kind of life is worth it.

“I need to get supplies for the bonfire. I’m taking the Jeep,” I announce. My mom has my baby sister on her hip, and Ellie tries to hand me a half-eaten chicken nugget. It’s wet, probably from her mouth.

“Oh thanks, El, but I’m full,” I say, rubbing my tummy. She persists though, and the threat of crying breaks my resolve. I take the nugget and pretend to eat it— and love it— then promptly duck into the kitchen where I can throw it away.

“Drive carefully,” my mom warns over her shoulder. Our eyes meet, and I cross my heart to let her know I heard. My mom doesn’t love me driving through the desert while the sun is setting. It gets the darkest of darks on the roads to our house, and my parents survived a pretty nasty accident with a distracted driver when they were my age. While I think my mom’s worries are overboard, I also respect the reality they’re based on.

I grip the keys and snag my CHS hoodie from the counter on my way out the door. It’s still a hundred degrees out, but I’m manifesting fall weather. And something about wearing an oversized hoodie makes me feel safe.

The sun is positioned between the jagged tops of the western mountains as I open up the Jeep on the back roads into town. Our city is growing. It’s not quite a suburb of Phoenix yet, but the edges are definitely meeting. Still, our main downtown feels special. And our hardware store is still run by one of my grandpa’s oldest friends, Cliff Norman, and his wife, Bitsy. I pull into the space right in front of the entrance, the giant windows already painted for the season’s home openers. There may be a new school in town, but it’s clear where Cliff’s allegiance lies amid all this blue and gold.

The bell dings as I push through the door, and Bitsy pops her head up from behind the register.

“Ah, she’s here, Cliff!” she shouts toward the back of the store.

“He’s expecting me?” I draw in a full breath. Cliff’s a talker, so I may be here a while.

“Your grandpa called in a special order. It’s a big season, you know.” She winks, and my head falls back with a sharp laugh.

“Oh, I know, Bits. Believe me, there’s no escaping it for me!” I head toward the back of the store and find Cliff pulling together a few massive boxes of lord knows what.

“I only brought the Jeep, Cliff. Should I have asked for Dad’s truck?”

“Oh, no. This stuff isn’t yours. Jeep should be fine for the bonfire kit and what your grandpa added on.” He climbs a ladder while he’s speaking and I move to hold it, not really liking the idea of him scaling this rickety thing back here unobserved.

“Is the kit up there?” I ask.

“No, no. Just getting the last of the clearance down. Bunch of leftover stuff from the years.” He snags a long, skinny box and balances it on his shoulder as he moves down. The box begins to teeter before he reaches the ground, so I abandon my ladder post and grab it before it crashes to the floor.

“What is all this?” I say, peeling the already disintegrating box top open. I recognize the yellow posts just as the acrid scent of old plastic tinges my nose. I back up a step and wave it away.

“Yeah, got to let this breathe before that kid comes to pick this stuff up.”

That kid?

Oh. Oh no, this is not happening to me again.

I swallow hard.

“You donating this stuff to Vista or something?” His back is to me, so he can’t see the way my eyes flutter with hopeless hope.

He lets out a heavy sigh, hands on his hips as he stares down at the pathetic pep rally leftovers he’s culled together.

“Yeah, I mean. I can’t really give them the shaft and refuse to do business. That’s not the kids’ fault they live in the wrong end zone.” He snickers at his joke and I put a smile on my face.

“Right, right. ” I step forward again and slide the stacked boxes apart so I can look inside the other two. I recognize two small cans of paint that were our returns at the end of last season. The wrong color. Of course, they aren’t really the Vista colors either.

“And they want this stuff?” I set the orange paint can back in the first box and peek inside the third. It’s mostly plastic sheets, a few rolls of butcher paper, and two wheels. I lift one and Cliff shrugs, taking it from my hand.

“Kid I talked to said he knows a guy who can make them a gear cart or something. He came by the other day to scope out my stuff, and I pulled together what I could. I guess they don’t have a budget for much yet, and you know the district doesn’t give any of you all shit.”

I nod in agreement about the district, but my cheeks feel heavy with guilt because I know there is a massive order somewhere around here that didn’t cost our booster club a penny. My family paid the bill.

“You got room for the wood tonight? Or you sending one of the guys over tomorrow morning?” Cliff asks over his shoulder as he heads through the stock room door.

“You talking to her or me?” Wyatt’s voice startles me, even though I knew in my gut this order is for him. He’s “the kid.” Some kid. He looks like he’s ready for the NFL draft today.

“Oh, hey! You’re here too. Perfect. I got those donations boxed up for ya. If you hold on, I can help you carry it out. And if you’ve got room for your wood order, we can load that up, too.” Cliff scratches his head, glancing from us to the back room.

“I got it. I’ve done my share of stock inventory,” Wyatt says through a crooked smile. His gaze slips to me for a second, and I suck in my lips, my cheeks suddenly warm.

“How ’bout you, Peyt? Take the wood too?” Cliff asks.

“Oh, uh. Hmm .” I mentally run through the square footage in the Jeep, and even with the back seat pushed down, I don’t think I can haul our lumber for the fire. My dad usually picks it up in the truck anyhow.

“I can take it for you if you want. I’ve got my pickup,” Wyatt says as he hoists the three boxes of random hardware and junk into his arms.

“Sure would like to sleep in tomorrow instead of meeting your dad at my back door, Peyt. You sure don’t mind?” Cliff’s gaze passes over me and goes right to Wyatt. Not that I have the guts to say no, but it would be nice to have the chance. Perhaps he simply saved me the embarrassment of more stammering.

“Nah, I got it. I’ll pull around and make life easy for both of us. I can load your order, too, if you have something.” Wyatt’s back is to me as he strides through the center aisle of the store with his boxes.

I look back to Cliff, who simply shrugs, then disappears through the back door to gather my s’mores roasting sticks, metal mini-bonfire tubs, fuel, torches, and the large vinyl banner sheets I added to the order on a whim.

Wyatt doesn’t even have the right color paint.

Overcome with awkward nervous energy, I scurry down the same aisle as Wyatt and jog to the Jeep, which is parked right next to his pickup. He’s feeling for his tailgate latch with his left hand as I step up, so I unlatch it for him.

“Thanks,” he huffs out, dropping the boxes into the bed of his truck. He pushes them back then jumps into the back himself, his movement smooth and easy, as if the weight of his body on his bicep is nothing. I maintain focus on the spot where his muscle fills the sleeve of his black T-shirt. He squats to shove the boxes against the back of the cab, and my gaze shifts to his ass. Could I be any more predictable?

“Hey, I didn’t mean to butt in or whatever. If it’s weird, me helping you out, I get it. I was really just trying to make it easy on the manager guy.” He shoots me a glance over his shoulder, and I’m pretty sure he catches me staring. I suck in my bottom lip, and Wyatt lets out a deep chuckle. He doesn’t say anything about my gawking, thank God, and I back up a few steps to make room for him to jump down.

“My dad usually picks the lumber up in the truck, or he has one of the guys?—”

“Like Hampton?”

My head snaps up, and Wyatt bites the tip of his tongue. His mouth forms a faint, bashful smile.

“Sorry, I shouldn’t say things like that. Your relationship with him is your business,” he says, taking a step toward me.

The ground crunches under the weight of his sneakers. I shove my hands into the front pocket of my hoodie but stand my ground, my legs peppering with goose bumps from the slight breeze, or perhaps it’s the company. I’m in my shortest workout shorts, and with the length of my hoodie, it probably looks as if I’m not wearing shorts at all.

“Bryce and I don’t have a relationship. I told you. We have a past.”

I hold his gaze as he moves another step in my direction. He stops when we’re maybe a foot apart and reaches forward with his right hand, tugging my hoodie string.

“You did say that.” His voice is soft, low. Pretty fucking sexy. He grabs the other string and twists both around his fingers, gently pulling me toward him. I give in—mostly because I want to—and have to look straight up at him as he towers over me.

“So, what do you say, Miss Johnson. Can I carry your wood for you?” His smirk is so intentional. I’m hit with a minty scent from his gum, and he snaps it against his molars behind his smile.

“Sure, Wyatt. You can carry my wood.” I back away and fish my keys from my pocket as I amble toward the Jeep. “But you’re going to have to meet my dad, just so you know. Because he’s at the house—with the entire coaching staff.”

His Adam’s apple shifts in his throat.

“That’s not a problem,” he says, his voice cracking just a little—a tiny betrayal that pleases me.

“Meet you ’round back.” I turn my back to him and round the Jeep to the driver’s side. We both rev our engines. Wyatt follows me around the storefront to the back loading dock, where Cliff has already switched on the flickering bulb he has dangling above the garage-style door. It’s finally getting dark.

“I’ve got a pretty good dolly if you think that will help, but I’m afraid you’re gonna have to handle most of the lifting. I’m not the young lad I used to be,” Cliff says through a laugh.

“I think Peyton and I can handle it,” Wyatt says, glancing my way.

My eyes widen at first, but then I size up the lumber bundles and do some quick mental math. I’m actually flattered he considers me an equal in strength.

“Yeah, we got it,” I say, pushing my sleeves up over my elbows and moving to the opposite side of the first pallet.

“Well, wait a second. Let me at least get you gloves,” Cliff says. I don’t fight him on the offer because the pallet is pretty rough, and the bundles of lumber are rather jagged.

Cliff comes back with gloves in a flash, and I slip them on before squatting to lift my half in sync with Wyatt. It’s a little heavier than I expected it would be, but I maintain my composure. It helps that Wyatt doesn’t ask me anything while we carry the wood from the storage space to the back of his truck. I move in next to him, our biceps touching as we both shove the wood deeper into the truck bed.

“Pretty impressive,” he acknowledges while I clap the sawdust from my gloves.

“Well, you did scout me at practice the other day, so you must have some idea what I am capable of,” I tease. His gaze snaps to mine, and his cheeks dimple with his tight smile. I think he’s embarrassed.

“I knew you saw me.” He shrugs, trying to play it off, but the fact he trips over his own feet as we make our way to the second pallet gives me a nice little ego boost.

“Yeah, I saw you guys. You know, my dad would lose his mind if he knew you were up there spying,” I say, lining up to lift with him. We both squat and get our grip.

“We weren’t spying. Whiskey just wanted to show me why he was in such good shape. I gotta admit, your dad’s conditioning routine is pretty impressive.” He grunts as we lift, and I focus on the way his jaw works as he strains. He’s on the heavy end, and this time he is definitely doing the bulk of the lifting.

Once I get my edge on the tailgate, I let him take over. Taking a few steps, I marvel at the way he easily climbs into the truck bed again, then pushes the massive pallets together and off the tailgate enough to close it.

“You know, losing Whiskey was really hard on the team,” I say. What I mean is my dad. Something about that guy had him burrowed into my dad’s heart.

“I bet,” Wyatt says. I wait for him to lay on another comeback, something like, “He’s with a better team now.” But that part never comes.

“Don’t forget these,” Cliff says, jogging out to where Wyatt and I linger between his truck and my Jeep.

He hands me a plastic bag that’s wrapped around a flat stack of boxes. I give him a sideways look.

“Am I smuggling cigars to my grandfather again?” I begin to unravel the plastic but maintain a slight scolding expression as I stare at Cliff. He drops his hands into the pockets of his saggy jeans.

“Oh shoot, Peyt. You know I won’t buy him any more of those. I’m just as interested in him sticking around as y’all are.” My Grandpa Buck snuck a lot of extra smokes after his first heart attack. And he got away with a few more after the first stroke. One batch was delivered by me, but in my defense, I was six and thought it was a box of chocolate. Not that he should be eating that, either.

The bag finally drops with the weight, and I reach in to pull out one of several boxes of sparklers. A sea of memories tickles my upper lip, and I’m smiling before I’m aware of it.

“What is it?” Wyatt scooches in close. Mint again. Warmth.

I hand over one of the boxes.

“Sparklers? You know, the fourth was . . . “ He glances up under his lashes, and his head bobs with his silent counting. “Three months ago?”

“Buck asked me to keep some from the holiday stock.” Cliff winks at me, and I can’t help but feel this sudden urge to tear up for all sorts of happy reasons. I stave off the full unloading of emotions by giving our old family friend a hug.

“Thanks. It will make my day,” I say softly.

“Good,” Cliff responds. “Oh, and don’t forget your order.”

“I got it,” Wyatt says, rushing into the storage space before I have a chance to make the move myself. He stacks my boxes and carries them in pairs, loading the back of the Jeep while I tuck the sparkler box back into the bag.

I help Cliff lower the sliding door and turn to find Wyatt waiting by my driver’s side door. He opens it and leans against the edge as I near, his eyes glancing down to my bare legs at least twice before I reach him.

“So, are you gonna tell me what the big deal is with those, or not?” He taps on the plastic handle of the bag where it wraps around my finger. I hold my story in for a breath and consider keeping it to myself, but something about Wyatt Stone makes me want to share personal things.

“It’s my birthday on Sunday, and ever since I was maybe two or three, my grandpa and I light sparklers and try to spell things in the air while my mom takes slow-exposure photos.” I look up from the bag in my hands, half expecting him to look uninterested or to maybe find my tradition lame. But his smile . . . it’s soft.

“What’s the longest word you captured on film?”

His question sounds genuine, and the way he’s now wrapped his arm through the open window of the Jeep, his weight fully resting on the steel, makes me believe he’s not just putting on an act to get in my pants.

I blink slowly and hold my tongue behind my teeth as I riffle through the years of fire-writing, as my grandpa calls it. Then it hits me, and I laugh out hard.

“Was it a bad word?” Wyatt teases.

I shake my head.

“No, not like that, at least. My dad was playing for Detroit, and I was a pre-teen and always angry at him for something, and well . . .”

“You didn’t,” Wyatt says, seeming to have an idea about where my story is going.

I nod.

“I wrote GO COWBOYS.” I slap my hands over my face and cringe.

“Ohhhhh, that’s . . . Peyton, no!” He lets go of my door and crouches down, his hand covering his eyes. He peeks at me through the spaces in his fingers on one hand while he bites the thumbnail of the other.

“It took two photos to piece it together. I actually spent time on my mom’s laptop merging them into one. And I emailed it to him.” I cover my face again, laughing at the memory and also feeling a slight burn of shame.

“That’s diabolical!”

I nod, curling my fingers until their fists over my mouth.

“I know,” I say, my words muffled in my hands.

Wyatt pulls himself up with the edge of my door and hooks his arm back through the window. I move to slide into the driver’s seat, and he gently pushes the door shut when my legs are inside. He hovers at the window, his forearm resting on the edge, for a few seconds while I crank the engine and manage to overcome my flushed face. I twist to rest my elbow on the steering wheel and meet his gaze. God, his eyes are perfect. They’re basically straight out of a cartoon prince fantasy, down to the almond shape and the light creases at the corners.

“That’s a really sweet tradition,” he says. His gaze trails the contours of my face.

“Thanks.” My voice is just above a whisper.

“Maybe,” he starts, stopping with his tongue caught between his teeth. His eyes drop down for a second and he shakes with a short laugh before his gaze comes back up to mine. “Nah, never mind.”

He backs away, but his hands grip the window edge. On instinct, I cover his left hand with my palm. His fingers flex under my touch, but I don’t pull away.

“Tell me. What were you going to say?” I’m still hanging on to the other night in the hot tub when he said “depends” when I asked if I could use his new-found nickname—Bub.

His attention remains on our stacked hands. I shift my focus to his mouth. The way he wrestles with his smile is like he’s trying not to let it get out of hand, to betray his thoughts. Maybe I’m projecting, but there’s an electricity between us right now. It practically crackles.

He lets his head fall to one side before his gaze shifts to mine.

“Maybe Sunday you can try writing my name.”

His lips fall into a comfortable smile, and I think he intends to draw out this staring contest until I cave under the pressure of looking him straight in the eyes without speaking a word. I’ll lose, and I know I will. So I’m the first to blink and look away, taking my hand away too.

“Depends,” I say, smirking as I look out toward the purple skyline that’s rapidly transforming into a midnight blue.

Wyatt chuckles as he takes a step back.

“Good enough,” he says. “I’ll follow you.”

My entire body thrums with energy, every word we shared bouncing around my mind like a chemical reaction. Like an explosive bomb. It’s those last three that carry me home, though.

I’ll follow you.

Makes me wonder . . . how far?