Chapter 9

Chapter Nine

T he season always starts with a blowout. It’s purposeful, the game schedule choreographed to up the challenge for the Coolidge Bears a little week by week. Game one? The blowout for confidence.

Poor Mountain Sky High. They shouldn’t even be in our division.

The clock is under a minute, and Bryce just ran in a touchdown to up our score to an even seventy.

Seventy.

At what point does this become obnoxious? My gut says anything after forty.

“I’m really getting tired of the leg kicks,” Tasha complains as she puts her arm over my shoulder so we can kick along with the fight song, this time seven more times than the last.

“We definitely get to skip leg day,” I laugh at her side.

Our kicks last through two and a half rounds of the band playing the fight song, and the clock hits zero somewhere around kick fifty. The stands have cleared, and the players have all pooled in the end zone for the game wrap-up with the coaching staff.

“The dance was good,” Lexi says, joining Tasha and me as we pack the poms into the gear bag for Coach.

I shrug. I hate the dances. They aren’t challenging, and nobody really watches them besides the booster parents. And there’s always a whistle from some creepy guy. There were only two of those tonight—whistles, not creepy guys. At least, I think the whistles came from the same man.

“I can’t wait for real practice tomorrow,” I groan.

“Ugh, that makes one of us. Practice is throwing a major wet blanket over the party tonight. How am I supposed to get tanked and show up at seven the next morning to do roundoffs?” Tasha zips the gear bag and slings it over her shoulder.

“Maybe, and hear me out, but perhaps you take it easy tonight?” I plan on being the designated driver. I had my fill of getting shit-faced last year. It’s how I ended up getting back together with Bryce after the first game. Beer makes me flirtatious, and Bryce is a bad habit.

“Fuck that. I’m getting lit,” Tasha says as she marches across the track and through the gate.

“She always shows up.” Lexi shrugs next to me, and I nod because she’s right. Tasha will be shit for the rest of the day, but somehow she’ll muddle through practice. She won’t be sharp, though. And I really want us to be sharp this year. It’s my captainship. And we have a chance to go to nationals and place, maybe even win. Our stunt team is good. Lexi is good. How she flies and pulls off mid-air splits beats me, but I guess some people say the same thing about my ability to catch and throw her.

It feels good to get out of my uniform. It’s the one part of high school cheer I don’t love. The uniforms are all about show and very little about practicality. The choker-style neck covered in sequins sometimes makes me feel like gagging. I can’t wait for winter when at least we get to switch out for leggings and oversized sweatshirts. Of course, those make tumbling hard. But I have to remember that game nights aren’t about practicing and perfecting. They’re about the game. About Dad. And Grandpa.

“I’ll meet you guys at the Jeep,” I say, pushing through the women’s locker room door and skipping out to the faculty parking lot right outside the back entrance to my dad’s office.

“There she is,” my grandpa says, his arms outstretched, his oxygen tank fixed to his electric chair. My mom and I decked it out for the game tonight, complete with a CHS football-themed license plate that reads BUCK#1.

That was his number years ago when he threw the ball on this field. Different grass, different time. But the legend was born then. And when my dad took the spotlight, my grandpa relived his glory years. Sometimes, I’d like my dad to be as excited about my cheer competitions as Grandpa was back then watching him play.

“What did you think of our dance, Grandpa?” I squat down so I can snuggle into his side. He coughs out a laugh.

“I’m with you. More flipping and pyramid-building, less of that clappy dance stuff.”

I giggle at his choice of words, but my chest warms with his sentiment. He’s heard me gripe about it enough, and while I’m not totally convinced he fully gets competitive cheer, he at least gets me. That’s enough.

“Ah, and there he is, the man of the hour,” my grandpa says over my shoulder.

I release him and stand, expecting to see my father eating up the praise when I turn around. Instead, I’m hit with Bryce’s bare chest as he reaches toward my grandpa to shake hands. His gaze passes mine, and I blink away, but too late not to get caught for a moment.

“Looks like you’re inching closer to that passing record. You keep it up with games like tonight, you’ll be putting your name on top of my son’s on that plaque in there.” Grandpa gestures toward the weight room where football achievements are etched in black and gold.

“Ha, maybe. Better me than that asshole over at Vista,” Bryce says. He doesn’t look at me, but I’m certain he brought up Wyatt for my benefit. To get a reaction. I refuse.

“ Pffft , he doesn’t have talent to throw to. You’ll be fine,” my grandpa says, and Bryce’s head falls back with a heavy laugh.

I’m not sure what’s so funny. I know who transferred over there, and while it wasn’t our best receivers, Vista still got some top-tier talent. And with Whiskey on the line, they’re going to be formidable. In fact, I’m curious just how well Vista did tonight. They had a tough match-up against Phoenix Prep.

Pulling my phone out, I open the scores app as I back away a few steps from prying eyes. It takes me a minute to find Vista on the list, probably because it’s their first year and they don’t yet have the huge following that we do, but when I open up their box score it looks like Wyatt had a pretty productive night, too. While they didn’t beat Phoenix Prep by sixty points, they did win. By ten. And given the reputation of Phoenix Prep, my guess is people are going to start paying attention to the Vista Mustangs.

I don’t notice the headline right away. Maybe because I’m not exactly looking for it. But Wyatt’s name catches my eye, and when my eyes compute the rest of the words, I swallow hard.

QB WYATT STONE ON TRACK TO brEAK NFL STAR’S HS NUMBERS

My eyes grow wide and I lift my gaze, coming eye-to-eye with Bryce, who seems to be done reliving his best moments from an hour ago. His gaze narrows and his lip ticks up about a second before he walks toward me. I click my phone off and shove it in the hip pocket of my leggings just as he leans into my other side.

“What was that look for?” I’m sure he assumes it was about him. Everything is always about him.

“No look. Just checking the time,” I lie. My eyes flit to his T-shirt, which he still grips in his left hand. I nod at it. “You gonna finish getting dressed?”

My mouth forms a crooked line as I glance back at him lazily.

“You know I hate it when the cotton sticks to me after a shower,” he says, shaking the dark blue T-shirt out and pushing his arms inside.

“ Hmm , is that it?” We both know he likes to show off his physique. He’s proud of his defined abs and his fairly impressive biceps. And the tattoo across his right pec that reads, for whatever reason, ride or die.

“Oh, Peyton. What’s with this cold shoulder act?”

“It’s not an act, Bryce. My shoulder is, in fact, cold,” I explain.

He slings his arm around me, cupping my shoulder with his palm and rubbing vigorously. It feels terrible, and I shirk him off by taking a step to the side.

“I didn’t mean literally. I’m in a sweatshirt.” I’m well aware of my tone, but he’s not bringing out my best qualities. And he deserves the tone he gets.

“This is about Wyatt, isn’t it? I heard he stopped by the house.”

My gaze darts to his. He swallows hard, and I can’t tell if it’s from jealousy or rage. Are those emotions really that different?

“Who told you that?” I doubt my dad brought it up. He seems happy to erase it from mental existence. He didn’t even bring it up at breakfast this morning.

“I have my sources.” Bryce shrugs, dropping his hands in his pockets. Good, now he can keep them off me.

“Coach Jacobs,” I guess.

Bryce’s lips purse and his shoulders twitch slightly. I guessed right.

“I borrowed his truck to pick up the lumber.” I simplify the situation a little—okay, a lot—but I really don’t want to get into this with Bryce.

Thankfully, my dad comes out, so Bryce can redirect all of his affection where it belongs. I never really thought Bryce was into me simply to get close to my dad, but I do think he has a lot more respect for my father than he ever did me.

I let Bryce get his fix for a few minutes, then butt my way in so I can congratulate my dad and indulge the speech—the same one I get every time I go out to the desert on Friday nights.

“Seventy was a bit much, don’t you think?” I tease as he hugs me to his side.

“It’s never enough. I told you?—”

“I know, you once came back from a forty-point deficit in a single quarter, so what’s to stop someone else from doing it,” I mimic, doing my best impression of my dad’s glory days voice.

He rolls his head, then pokes my nose with the tip of his finger. I squeeze him tighter and look up with a crooked grin.

“Good win, though. Even if it was a bully move.”

“Ha! Like you wouldn’t keep your foot on the neck of that Tucson cheer team if you had them beat.” He cocks his head a tick, and I roll my eyes.

“Cheer doesn’t quite work that way, but I get your point. You leave it all out on the mat. Well, field in your case.”

“You’re going tonight, right Peyt?” Bryce cuts in.

“I am,” I say, doing my best not to look him in the eyes. I’m sure he wants to peg me for his designated driver, and if the situation demands I do it, I will. But I’m a last resort. Bryce is a lot sober. Drunk? He’s a foolish prick.

“You know the rules,” my dad begins.

I sigh and stare at his chest, zeroing in on the embroidered COACH stitched on the right of his polo shirt.

“Home by two. Text if I’m taking people home and running late. Keep the phone tracker on at all times. And do not accept drinks from anyone that I did not pack myself, especially if it’s from Tasha.” I flit my eyelashes and give him my best daddy’s-girl expression, all doe-eyed and innocent.

“Especially Tasha,” my dad teases, kissing me on top of my head and sending me on my way.

My parents know I drink. I tried the sneaky route my sophomore year, but an entire weekend spent vomiting lord knows what made it tough to disguise. I was grounded for a month after that, but when last year’s season started, my parents set some ground rules. They do not necessarily condone me partying, but they mostly push responsibility. And I never drive under influence or let others when I can help it. I fought hard to move the curfew to two this year, too. The phone tracker was our compromise.

“Hey, Peyt! Wait up,” Bryce hollers from behind me.

I grit my teeth and push my hands in my front hoodie pocket, then turn to walk backward as he catches up.

Just be pleasant, Peyton.

“Home by two, huh? That’s new,” he says. My dad let me stay out until one when I was out with Bryce, and I never told him but I think my father would have given in for a full overnight if Bryce asked.

“Well, I am almost eighteen.”

Bryce stops in his tracks, and I wince as I keep walking. I shouldn’t have brought up my birthday. He never remembered when we were dating, and now he’ll probably try to do something annoyingly romantic in an attempt to win me over.

“Is it really here? Wow. I can’t believe how lucky I’ve been,” he says, walking again, which unfortunately means he’s by my side. Still. Again.

I try so hard not to react.

“You know what I mean? Lucky?” He is not going to let this go.

I stop this time and let out a heavy sigh.

“No, Bryce. How are you lucky on my birthday?” To be honest, making my birthday about him tracks.

The way he saunters up to me makes my pulse pick up, but not in the good butterflies way it used to. And when his fingertips reach for my chin, a move that used to work so well on me, I stiffen my jaw. He must feel my rejection because he drops his hand almost immediately.

“Because I got to see you grow up,” he says, his tone actually apologetic. And now I feel like an asshole.

“Oh, that’s . . . that’s sweet.”

“Happy birthday, Peyton.” His gaze lingers on my face, and that familiar tug beats in my chest for a moment.

Our vehicles are parked on opposite ends of the lot, so he walks backward a few steps before turning his back to me. I let out a ragged breath, one riddled with nerves, and clamp my molars together to remind myself that this is all part of the routine. I really want off this ride.

I gave Lexi my keys, so she and Tasha are sitting on top of the seat backs in the Jeep, their arms waving in the open air as my stereo thumps Tasha’s latest favorite rap song. I vaguely know the lyrics, but it seems Lexi and Tasha know them all because I’m serenaded as I close in on them. In unison, they stand and belt the chorus.

“Girl’s a playa, never date her, all the boys, they gotta taste her!”

I slump into the driver’s seat and crane my neck to stare at them.

“Is that supposed to be about me?” I grimace.

“We’re just sayin’ . . . you seem to have the two hottest guys in Coolidge fighting over you. So the song kind of fits, no?” Tasha’s right shoulder scrunches up to her ear.

“Nobody is fighting over me,” I huff, spinning around and turning the music down but not off.

“Not yet,” Lexi says through one of her signature self-righteous giggles.

I breathe in and hold the oxygen in my chest until it burns, letting it out slowly through my nose. It’s going to be a really long night as the designated driver if it’s anything like this.

Thankfully, we switch topics to the college guy Lexi’s been chatting with. By the time I weave through the edge of town and into the thick desert brush that leads to the dry riverbed where post-game parties have been going down since my grandpa was QB, I feel grounded again. I back into my usual spot, tucked between two boulders, and we all hop out. Lexi and Tasha blow me kisses on their way to the keg, and I flip them off with both hands.

“Not our fault you have a super functional family who wants to celebrate your birthday!” Tasha teases.

I let out a mocking laugh, but smile to myself as I turn back toward the Jeep. Last year, I probably would have thrown a fit about not being able to drink after the first home game. But this year, it hits different. If I end up going far away for school next year, I’m going to miss my super-functional family activities. And those moments with my grandpa are becoming fewer and fewer.

Since nobody seems to have music going, I take on the task and slip between the boulder and my driver’s side door to reach through the open window to press the power button. I pull my phone out of my pocket and sync it with my system, then crank up the volume. The first song is a bit country, which always seems to bring out the amped-up testosterone leftover from the game. But when I hear a familiar voice call out yeehaw from somewhere near the bonfire, I flip on my high beams to see if my gut is right.

Whiskey Olsen is here. This song? It’s his favorite. And these parties? They’re what he lives for. Except now he’s wearing rival colors. And damn if he didn’t show up here tonight with a few of his new friends, including one who is leaning against the hood of his blue pickup truck with a beer dangling from his right hand. And his eyes are set right on me.