Chapter 8

Chapter Eight

I drove by this house with my dad once. It was around the time of Reed Johnson’s last season. I was obsessed with his story, the fact he came from my state, played for the college I want to go to, and held all these records that I had listed as my own personal goals to beat. It has never been a negative feeling. Opposite, in fact. I looked up to the guy. In my youth, I idolized him.

Right now? The mere idea of him scares the shit out of me.

I pull to a stop just behind Peyton, off to the side of a massive driveway where a basketball hoop is lowered to about six feet, probably so someone can dunk.

“You play?” I gesture to the hoop as I get out of my truck.

Peyton glances toward the backboard and puffs out a short laugh.

“I can’t even win HORSE. My dad likes to shoot, though. A lot of the coaches come over to play.” She moves to the back of my truck, but I linger for a moment, picturing the scene of Reed and his staff blowing off steam out here. I miss the way my old coach used to have family events. It wasn’t just the coaches at his house; it was all of us. My dad always rolled up with the BBQ. Some firefighter stereotypes are true, and Todd Stone made a mean brisket.

“Can I get a hand with this?” Peyton says, peeking at me from behind the tailgate.

“I figure you can handle it,” I tease, forming a bicep curl to my side. Her head falls toward her shoulder as her lips purse.

“Kidding,” I say, jogging over to hop into the back to move the load close to the edge.

I have to basically plank behind the wood to get it to budge, my feet planted on the back of my truck bed as I push the base of the pallet with my palms.

“All right, who gets a get-out-of-sprints-free card for helping you haul this home?”

I freeze at the sound of Reed’s voice, my face still hidden behind the pile of wood and boxes. I drop my head while my arms flex, part of me hoping that Peyton speaks up and sends her dad away. After a few long, very wordless seconds pass, I know I’m screwed.

“Not one of yours, Coach. And to be honest, I like my sprints,” I grunt out as I pop my head up and meet his eyes.

If humans could shoot fire from their pupils, I think it would have happened just now. Reed’s stare bores into my face, and I think I hear his jaw crack. I’m almost grateful that I’m in this strained position, pushing this massive weight along my truck bed. At least I have something to do.

I give it a good shove as I grit my teeth and growl, my eyes closing with the exertion. My truck dips and I glance up, expecting to see Peyton joining me. Maybe I was simply hoping.

“Scoot,” Reed barks, sweeping his hand toward me. I shift to my right to make room for him, and within seconds, we have everything that needs to be unloaded pushed to the edge.

“I could have done it,” I say between breaths. Why did I utter that? Fuck if I know. I’d give anything to eat those words before they hit Reed’s ears, but since I don’t have superpowers—at least, not that one—I’m stuck facing the most belittling expression I’ve ever seen an adult make at me.

“Sure, kid,” he says, clapping the dust from his hands as he leaps from my truck. Funny, he kind of hits the ground with the authority of a superhero.

My eyes meet Peyton’s, and I convey my best silent plea. Help . She chuckles, though, and puts her arm around her dad.

“I had to help him load the truck,” she says.

Motherfuck.

“I bet you did, sweetheart,” he says, kissing the top of her head as she rises on her toes.

Another man who looks familiar comes jogging through the front door. A woman who looks a lot like Peyton, only with dark brown hair, hovers in the doorway with a toddler on her hip. She leans against the door jamb like she’s getting comfortable. They’re all loving this. Their amused smirks are a dead giveaway.

“Ohhhh, wait a second,” the new guy says, coming to a hard stop a few feet away from my pickup, his hands raised as though he just walked in on a murder scene.

“Should we be letting this guy on the property?” he says, his eyes darting from me to Reed.

This guy?

All of a sudden, I’m not in a hurry to leap down from my truck bed. At least I’m taller up here.

“Maybe we should ask Peyton that question.” Reed’s tone isn’t exactly welcoming, and the way Peyton’s head falls to one side and her eyes slit makes me wonder if they’ve had a conversation about me.

“You know what?” I suck in my top lip and stare at the void between the three people staring up at me. I shake my head, hands on my hips, and breathe out a short laugh before making direct eye contact with Reed—my one-time idol. Hell, maybe he still is, but things have gotten really weird.

My shoulders rise and fall in a kind of defeat.

“My dad worked in public service, and he had a pretty strict code of ethics he stood behind. Tip your waiter well. Call your mom often. And if you come across a woman who needs a hand, offer.” I jump down and pat my hand along the side of the bundle of lumber. “While it was tempting to see if Peyton could make this stuff fit in the back of that artifact on wheels, I’m pretty sure my dad would have kicked my ass for not offering to help. And if my gesture happened to save an old man from having to wake up early on a Friday when it’s obvious he’s planning on staying out late to watch his favorite football team’s opening game, then it seems like it’s twice as right to do.”

I hold Reed’s stare, his eyes hazed, and mouth closed in a tight line. I think a part of him wants to hate me, either because I clearly followed his daughter home or because I’m slinging the ball for his brand new rival.

He nods. Once.

“Hey, Coach Jacobs. Why don’t you help him load that in my pickup?” His eyes meet the other man’s, and I now understand why I recognize him. He’s the Coolidge assistant coach, and he spent a lot of years at former Coach Baker’s side. My freshman year, the only time my old school played Coolidge, I saw him having a chat with the refs on the sideline before the game. For the next forty-eight minutes of play, we were nailed with a record-setting twenty-seven holding calls. We lost by a six. Because the touchdown I threw at the last minute for the win was called back. For holding.

With four of us working, we have the wood loaded in Reed’s truck in less than two minutes. Reed pushes my tailgate up with some zing in his wrist, and his curt smile is obviously him being polite. His gaze moves to his daughter as he leaves us alone to say our good-byes . His exact words. I’m pretty sure there was a low growl mixed in there, too.

“Is he still mad that I refused to wash his Jeep or something?” I ask as soon as he’s out of earshot. A part of me anticipates him rushing back out of the door, though, because he has super-human hearing.

“Oh, he doesn’t know about that. It wasn’t your best moment, and I didn’t want to do you dirty,” she says.

My attention snaps back to her from the still-closed front doorway.

“Do me dirty, huh?” I arch a brow.

“Ugh, not like that,” she says, and I instantly regret making an innuendo. Fuck, it’s so hard with this girl. I can’t read her. She is literally the last girl in this town I should be putting my energy into getting to know. But damn, if she ain’t got me stuck.

I clear my throat and drop my gaze to the ground with my hands in my pockets.

“I know what you meant,” I say, my voice low. “And I’m sorry. I was a dick. But to be fair, you didn’t tell me who you were when we met. And I have a new team full of hot-headed teenage boy-men. I needed to earn their respect.”

“And they respect you now, do they?” she fires back.

“Ouch.”

I glance up at her with wide eyes, acting as if her words cut a little deeper than they did. They grazed for sure. She doesn’t say anything to let me off the hook. And the longer the silence extends with her eyes on mine, the more I feel the power tilting completely in her favor. Hell, I may have never had any at all in this dynamic.

“I can’t tell if you like me or not, Peyton Johnson.”

She blinks a few times, rapidly, as her arms tighten across her chest, her hands half tucked into the sleeves of her hoodie. She shifts her weight, but she doesn’t back away. And she doesn’t back down.

“I can’t either,” she finally says.

My lips pucker into an awkward smile, and I bite the inside of my cheek. This time, I definitely feel the sting. I rock back on my feet, hands still tucked in my pockets, and I chuckle at the ground. My shirt sticks to my back, my body still hot from hauling wood around. The moon is cresting over the pitch of her family’s rooftop. It’s the most Halloween-looking thing, and to be honest, it fits the mood. The landscape lights flick on along her driveway, lighting my path out of this place like a sign from God. Or maybe a signal from her father, who likely sped up the timer or triggered them from whatever window he’s spying from.

“Don’t forget your sparklers,” I say, giving in to my urge to give up for the night.

I hop behind the wheel of my pickup and shut the door, leaning my elbow on the open window and adjusting my side mirror. My truck is old, and every trip I take in it rattles things out of whack. I catch a glimpse of Peyton in the mirror as she walks to the Jeep. It’s still halfway caked with mud, and I feel a little guilty about leaving it that way. Not that she or her dad can’t run a hose over the thing

“Stupid,” I mutter to myself, running my palm over my face and through my hair. I give my scalp a good scratch, then crank my engine. With a little luck, maybe I’ll manage to fall asleep at a decent hour. Between the pre-game jitters and, well, whatever the hell I’m doing here, I have a feeling racing thoughts are in store for me until at least one a.m.

Shifting into reverse, I pull back and to the side so I can flip around and head down the world’s longest driveway and toward the town’s darkest road. I zip past Peyton and the Jeep, but after a few yards, I’m hit with rapid flashes from her high beams in my rearview mirror. I slow to a stop, and I’m not sure if it’s my truck’s crappy alternator or my nerves vibrating my body. Peyton leaves the headlights on so I shade my eyes and search for her in my side mirror, finally seeing her jogging toward me. She stops just short of my window, panting a little.

“Here,” she says, handing me a single sparkler. I take it from her, and it seems we’re both careful not to let our fingers touch on the exchange.

“Uh, thanks,” I say, holding the thin firework upright in front of me. I admire its length for a few seconds while I rack my brain for what the hell to say next. I shift my gaze to Peyton in time to catch her taking a half-step back as she pushes her hands into her front hoodie pocket. She looks nervous, and it’s not a look I’ve seen on her yet. Not to this extent anyhow. My mouth twitches to curl on the right the longer I look at her.

“I don’t not like you, Wyatt Stone.”

Yeah, it’s a full grin now.

I nod slowly, then shift to rest the sparkler in the cupholder on my console. By the time I look back, Peyton’s walking away. I let myself watch her form blend into the beams of light for a few seconds, then pull away. Stopping at the end of her driveway, I pull my phone from my pocket and open the follow request she hasn’t yet rescinded on my social media. I click accept, then immediately message her.

ME: Happy early birthday, Peyton.

I hit send and wait for a few hopeful seconds. I set my phone in the other cupholder and check the pitch-black roadway in both directions for any sign of eighteen-wheelers taking shortcuts to Phoenix. My phone vibrates before I turn right, so I lift it just enough to read her response.

PEYTON: Good luck tomorrow.

I stare at those three words for a few long seconds, and eventually, my smirk reappears in full force. She likes me just a little.