29. Keeper

Keeper

Camden

" C ome on, Wells," I shout as the football spirals through the night sky toward my best friend. Players clash everywhere on the field, and the crowd is loud as hell, but all I see is Kingston Wells. My best friend, the team's tight end and number thirty-two out on the field.

When he catches it, he doesn't hesitate. He runs. He's fast, incredibly fast. And no one can catch him. I know it. He knows it. The crowd knows it as they chant his last name, and he runs it in for the final touchdown, just in time to claim the win.

Garrison Dixon, number twenty-four, wastes no time hoisting me up in the air to celebrate our big win, shouting over the crowd while I tap on his helmet, telling the big dummy to put me down. But he doesn't.

We're all on a high.

I see Kingston running toward us, his red helmet in hand. When he shoves Dixon playfully, that's when my feet finally touch the field below. Then Kingston's bigass arms are wrapped around me as we all jump up and down, surrounded by the rest of the school, who've rushed the football field to congratulate us.

Hell, the entire damn town is around us, chanting our names and our school. Taunting the other team who just lost, because they're our biggest rivals. The Big Bend Bears. Eat it, suckers. We won this round.

"We're the Kensley Panthers. Mighty, mighty, panthers," the cheerleaders chant, loud and proud. In western Kansas—literally in the middle of nowhere—this is what we do on Friday nights.

The whole town shuts down until after the game, and then we party. It's all there is to do in this town of nine hundred people. And maybe some days, I can barely stand it, but nights like tonight, I ride the high and bask in the cheers of the crowd. Watching the smile on my best friend's face, I try my best to enjoy it. To let go of all my responsibilities, if only for the moment.

Kingston says this is the best time of our lives. Me? I'm not so sure about that. I don't want to really believe that, but as I look around at the middle-aged men wearing their old high-school football rings—some of them state championship rings—I think maybe he could be right. Because they're all stuck in that time.

Will that be Kingston and me someday?

Maybe.

And while that's a comforting thought to Kingston, it's a terrifying one for me.

This can't be all we are.

We all shower and change after the game. Kingston and I are the last to head out of the locker room. His arm drapes over my shoulder. "Hell of a game, QB."

I roll my eyes, but I can't hold back the smile on my face. "Don't call me that. We've known each other since we were four. It's weird."

"Aw, you'll always be my quarterback though." I roll my eyes again, but he only chuckles, a happy laugh falling from his lips. "Fine, Prescott . Where are we celebrating tonight?"

I guess using my last name is better than fucking QB . I don't want to just be the high-school quarterback. I never have. But apparently, the one thing my deadbeat dad gave me before disappearing right after my seventh birthday was one hell of a throwing arm. "I can't. Mom picked up an extra shift at the tavern. I gotta watch Lucy."

My mom had Lucy almost five years ago, when I was thirteen. And even though we don't share the same dad, that kid means everything to me. Blonde hair and blue eyes, she must have gotten from her dad because my mom and I both have brown hair and green eyes. But Lucy is the happiest kid ever.

Don't know where she got that either.

Kingston seems to be thinking that over for a moment—thinking too hard, if you ask me—and he shrugs. "Okay. Sounds good. Let's go party with little Lucy. I'm here for it. That kid is funny as hell."

I shove him off me, pulling the keys to my beat-up old truck out of my jeans pocket. "You don't need to hang out with a four-year-old after we just won that game. She's probably already in bed, anyway. Go party. Tell me about it tomorrow, and don't do anything stupid."

"First of all, she's almost five. She wants a princess party, by the way." He grabs his own keys, heading for his obnoxious early 70's Mustang that's parked next to my truck. "Second, I miss Luce. I gotta go say hi. I am her favorite, after all."

Isn't that the truth?

I don't know why my sister is so in love with him—okay, maybe that's a lie—but it still stings when I'm usually the one taking care of her when we aren't in school. Mom works a lot to make up for being a single mom, and I don't mind picking up the slack. Like I said, Lucy is a cool kid. It's fine. It's completely fine.

"Kennedy is going to be pissed off if you don't party with her tonight." I say, pulling open the heavy door to my truck.

He waves that off like I knew he would. "Nah. She's probably already halfway through a bottle of Jack. She'll be fine."

My brow furrows, looking at him over the top of my truck. "You don't care that your girlfriend is getting drunk around a bunch of horny football players on a high from a win, and probably other shit?"

He runs his hand through his still-damp dark-brown hair and just laughs like he always does. His blue eyes sparkle with laughter because Kingston Wells is a happy guy—he can't help it. Nothing is really serious to Kingston. "She's a big girl. She can take care of herself."

He's not wrong. Kennedy Reeves is head cheerleader, blond, gorgeous, and the girl who punched Oakley Easton in seventh grade for grabbing her ass when we were all playing around out at the lake. She's a badass, all right. She's been Kingston Wells's girlfriend for two years now. They're the It couple in school. And she's one of my best friends too. "Yeah, no doubt. Though, it should still probably bug you."

"Let's go." He doesn't spend any more time talking about it, and instead of arguing with him like I probably should, we drive to my house to send my mom off to work and watch Lucy.

Like I assumed, Lucy's already in bed. Mom gave her a snack and a drink of water before tucking her in, so she'll probably be out for the night. Mom gives Kingston and me each a kiss on the cheek before rushing out, and we hang out on the couch, eating popcorn and absently watching whatever is on TV while reliving the game, play-by-play.

This is my typical Friday night.

And honestly, I wouldn't change it.

Not yet, anyway.