Bryce exhales along with me, our shoulders relaxing for a breath.

  “So, Bryce, you’re gonna get the start,” Coach says.

  And my shoulders tighten right back up. What the fuck?

  “Oh, yeah. Okay,” Bryce rambles, his gaze shifting to me, maybe looking for permission. I’m too stunned, and angry, regardless of how unjustified it is.

  “Wy, I’d like you to work on the deep routes with the receivers today, and Bryce . . . we’re going to mix in some running plays this weekend, maybe even a double hand-off with our backs, some extra sneaks behind the O-line. You ready?”

  Coach’s questions aren’t really questions. They aren’t even suggestions. That’s the plan, and we’re off to execute it.

  Mentally spiraling, I find my way to the other end of the field, where I begin with a few warm-up routes to Keaton and Nick. I can tell they’re thrown by the split in practice today, too, their attention constantly diverted to the middle of the field, where Bryce is rushing the ball in every possible direction, practically wearing paths into the grass while Coach Byers looks on.

  “What’s the deal with that?” Keaton finally asks me when Coach Skye is out of earshot.

  “He’s getting the start,” I say, my answer clipped and flat.

  “Fuck! Seriously?” Keaton’s loyalty feels nice, but his response gets him in trouble, when Coach Skye hears what sounds like a complaint and quickly sends him to sprint to the opposite pole and back.

  “Anyone else mad about today’s drill?” He stares Nick in the eyes for a beat, then Shad. He never gets to me, though, and for whatever reason, that’s the thing that pushes me over the edge.

  “I’m pretty fuckin’ pissed about it,” I let out.

  Oh, shit.

  “Excuse me?” He’s in my face before I can blink twice, his fingers looped through my helmet’s mask to hold my head in place.

  May as well take this as far as I can now that I’m in it.

  I meet his stare and make a promise not to blink a single time no matter how loud he gets when I finish saying my piece.

  “Coach, I’ve worked my ass off for three years, and I know I’m just coming off an injury, but I feel proud about my performance so far this year. I think it’s fair to say I’m not holding back out there, and I’m certainly not playing scared and nursing my break. Bryce is a good quarterback, and I think he’ll be ready to step up when I graduate. But I’m not happy that he’s getting the start Saturday to do something we all know I can do better—run the ball and score. So, yeah. I’m pretty fuckin’ pissed that I’m doing this drill while he’s over there doing that one. I’m pissed we’re not all working on the same page, on the same skills, growing as a team. And I’m mad that something I’ve earned is being toyed with on a whim. Now, if you excuse me, I’m pretty sure I have sprints to run. I’ll be right back.”

  I place my helmet on the ground, my heart beating so fast I can feel my pulse in my eyeballs. I turn and begin a slow jog that I turn into a sprint, passing Keaton on his way back. He lifts a brow at me, but my only response is a quick, “Don’t.”

  When I get back to the receivers, Coach Skye doesn’t as much as glance up from his clipboard. I pick up my helmet and fasten it back in place while he taps his pen on the paper a few times, his tongue poking into his cheek. Finally, he swirls the pen in the air, drawing a tight, invisible circle.

  “Run the routes again,” he says.

  I purse my lips and shake my head, but I do as he says, clapping twice and nodding to Keaton before lining up to drop the thousandth pass I’ve thrown to him this month.

  “Blue, forty-two!”

  Keaton takes off as I slap the ball, and I fake a scramble before sailing the ball down the field and hitting him mid-stride about forty-five yards out. I turn to my right, waiting for Coach Skye to glance up after writing down his notes, and when our eyes meet, I blink slowly and chew at my mouth guard to keep from spilling out my rage again.

  He circles the pen in the air once more, opting for hand gestures over words. Probably for the best. I can’t imagine what my hand gesture would have been, though I have an idea.

  Nick lines up for this one, Shad watching off to the side, getting ready for his turn. Maybe, if I work hard enough, I’ll be able to knock myself down to third string today.

  Fucking goals, I guess.

  Regret for my actions sinks in about an hour into practice. My arm grows tired from overthrowing to prove a point, my jaw aches from clenching my teeth, and my stomach is so tight I think I might throw up when I hit the showers. If I hit the showers. I kind of just want to leave today without talking to anyone else.

  Whiskey busts up that plan quickly, though, knocking my cleats from the bench where I set them as I peel off my practice gear.

  “Don’t fuck things up, Wyatt.” His glare is pointed, and the hard look on his face is easy to understand.

  I sigh and lean back against my locker. My eyes scan the team room, our defense just now dressing out to hit practice hard, the second-string offensive players peeling tape from shins and worming out of pads so they can shower and get to the student center before the good food options shut down. Everyone does their job, no matter what that job is for the day. Why did I have to get so bent over mine being different for once?

  I run my palm over my face and pull down on my cheeks, stretching my eyes as I meet my friend’s stare.

  “Could you hear me out there?”

  Whiskey, who was in the opposite end zone hitting pads and practicing snaps for most of the day, shakes with his laughter.

  “Fucking Cal heard that temper tantrum, dude! You lost your cool. You completely threw your cool out the window. No fucks given.”

  “Gah,” I groan, landing the back of my head on the locker door again with a little thud, self-punishment style.

  “I should fix this,” I say, stripping off the rest of my practice clothes and zipping up my bag before heading straight to Coach’s office. I stop short of marching through the door, instead hovering outside when I hear him having words with Coach Skye on the other side. It’s hard to make out everything they’re saying, but my name sure seems to come up a lot. And when the door flies open, revealing me in all my tail-between-my-legs glory, Coach Skye basically confirms my hunch that my behavior is the big topic of the day.

  “Speak of the asshole. He’s all yours,” he says, waving a hand to usher me in as he steps out. I’m not sure if I’m the asshole by his statement. I don’t think it matters.

  “Go on and shut the door, Wyatt.”

  “Yes, sir,” I say, finding my manners again, it seems. I close the door and take the seat across from coach’s desk, my gym bag straps wrapped around one fist as I clutch it between my knees. I’m in ready-to-go position, half expecting to be kicked out as soon as I get comfortable.

  “Wyatt, I don’t know if you know this about me, but my wife and I . . . we lost our daughter about twenty-two years ago.”

  My gut fills with instant rocks. His gaze meets mine, and I can tell by the way his pupils widen he’s not letting go. I am the asshole.

  “I’m sorry, Coach. That’s terrible.” My mouth waters at the thought of such a loss. Losing my dad broke me—broke my mom. I can’t imagine what it would have been like for them if it had been the other way—if they’d lost me.

  “It was. She had a pretty aggressive form of leukemia. It happened fast, and there’s not a day that goes by that I don’t wish for one more hour with her. Playing with our family dog in the front yard, acting in her school play while her mom and I cram into the last row of seats because I was always late, tearing away Christmas paper to get at her gifts. That girl, she sure loved art supplies. That last Christmas . . . that was the year we got her an easel.”

  He leans back and chuckles at the memory, but his focus sticks to me. I force my upper body to relax but keep my bag held tight. This story has a point, and it could be that I’m not worthy of wearing this jersey with an attitude like this. I’d get it. I’d deserve it.

  Coach leans forward, folding his hands together on his desk as he blinks slowly. I adjust my grip on my straps, my toes curling inside my shoes as if trying to grip the ground and ward off being sent away.

  “One of the things I loved most about you when we had our recruitment meeting was how you talked about your father. And the way you talked to your mom. You had this sense of right and wrong, this deep understanding of priorities, that just . . . well, it’s rare for young people. Let’s just say that.”

  His lip ticks up and I find mine doing the same.

  “Thank you, I think?” I eke out.

  “You’re welcome. And no thinking about it. It’s a huge compliment.”

  I nod and the silence stretches out between us for a few seconds. I fight to hold his gaze, not wanting to look down—to cower.

  “I’m starting Bryce Saturday, Wyatt,” he says, and my fist tightens even though the straps are cutting into my skin.

  “Yes, sir.” My mouth waters.

  “And I know you don’t like it,” he adds, pulling his hands apart and lifting one palm along his desk, urging me to hear him out, I think.

  “It’s not that⁠—”

  “Wyatt, I got an earful from Coach Skye. He doesn’t like my decision either. But he doesn’t like you very much right now, so maybe just shut up and listen, okay?”

  My muscles slacken and I drop the bag to the floor as I nod.

  “You have a resilience that is far too mature for your age, young man. The things you can handle mentally . . . emotionally? Most of us ancient creatures have a tough time with that stuff, but you . . . you take things as they come and compartmentalize and trudge forward. It’s admirable, but it’s not always healthy.”

  I mash my lips, wanting to argue with him but not really having a good one. He’s right.

  “You are my guy, Wyatt. You are my number one, and you are going to be the face of this program this season as well as long after you are gone. I believe you are that good. I believe you are that type of a man. But we have a chance to give you a little breathing room this weekend, and it’s an opportunity to see what Hampton is made of. It’s not some sort of test for you, but it is a bit of a test for him. If I’m wrong about it, course correction will happen fast, and you’ll be in the game trying to fix my bad decisions. It’s a risk I am taking as the head coach. It’s not just what’s good for the whole of this program looking ahead to possible playoffs and then next season, but it’s also what’s good for you.”

  I work my jaw, uncomfortable admitting to feeling weak but recognizing that lately, I have been running on fumes. I’m tired. And I’m worried. All I can think about is Peyton and whether she’s going to be able to meet her own wishes and expectations for herself. I want to fix everything for her, to right the wrongs, reverse time. But I can’t. All I can do is be there. And there’s no way I’m not showing up. I don’t care what it costs me, or this program.

  Coach sees that. It’s why he’s making the call.

  “Thank you, Coach,” I say, standing up and snagging my bag from the ground.

  I reach across his desk and take his hand, and before I pull away, he holds on to me extra tight, forcing me to look him in the eyes.

  “You’re strong enough for this, Wyatt. For all of it. Even standing to the side and letting someone else do the work for just a little while.”

  My mouth pulls into a tight smile, and I nod. It’s nice of him to say. It still hurts. And I’m not entirely convinced it’s true.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  These pancakes are the best I’ve ever had. Jack’s never misses, and I’ve been craving these suckers since the day my doctors cleared me for solids. This trip to Jack’s does not disappoint.

  Nothing about today disappoints. I’m grateful to the team that got me this far, but I’m so ready to go home. Jack’s is the only diversion I’m allowing. I can’t wait to hear my grandfather’s laugh echo down the hallway, to feel the sun beam in through the skylight in our living room while I rest on the couch and watch SportsCenter with my dad, and to walk with the help of Otis, the oldest horse in our barn and the literal best therapy a girl could ask for.

  It's a damn near perfect day. The only thing off is Wyatt. Something’s wrong, and I wish he would quit pretending it’s just stress leading up to the game against Cal. It’s something more than that. I think it’s me. Not worrying about me, but balancing time with me—it’s wearing on him. And I wish he would let go of something. I’m okay.

  “If you’re not going to finish those . . .” I poke my fork in the half pancake Wyatt has left on his plate. He grins and pushes the plate over to me.

  “Go ahead.” His smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

  I lean to my left and kiss his cheek, then dump a little more syrup on the plate and dig in.

  “If you’re carb loading, does that mean we get to walk extra far when we get to the house?” My mom smirks at me, and I wink and utter, “We’ll see.”

  She has spent the last two weeks setting up our downstairs guest room with everything I’ll need to rehab at home. I’ll still make the trip to Tucson to work with Dr. Garmish at Tucson Strong. He’s been friends with my mom for years, and she was able to get his help, making sure I could stick to the aggressive schedule I made for myself. Even more, he believes I can accomplish everything on my list. He even added an item—a marathon. Five years from now, but still.

  Me. A marathon.

  I like it.

  “You said to let you know when it was three. It’s just a few minutes before,” my mom says to Wyatt. He shakes out of his trance, which he’s been in a lot today, and meets her gaze with a quick smile.

  “Yeah, I hate to miss the homecoming, but we leave for Cal tonight and I’ve been told I should always travel with the team.” He swivels his head and quirks a brow, bunching his lips in a cute but accusatory way. For a moment, he’s himself.

  I touch my fingertip to his nose twice.

  “Whoever told you that was right. Now, off you go. Get me one of those touchdown things,” I say as his lips hover an inch away from mine. He breathes out a short laugh, then kisses me.

  “I’ll do my best,” he says, snagging his phone and wallet from the counter and moving toward the end of the counter where my dad is talking with Jack’s owner, Maggie.

  “Something’s wrong,” I say to my mom, and she follows my gaze to where both men seem to be having a quick heart-to-heart.

  My dad puts a hand on Wyatt’s shoulder, then pats it a few times before saying, “Good luck.”

  My dad settles our bill with Maggie, who always tries to feed us for free, then carries my walker to me from behind the counter so I can steady myself and make the slow but steady trek out to the parking lot.

  I’m still getting used to the exoskeleton brace, but I am moving faster with it. My balance is improving too. It’s just the strength part, and then of course, working my way to making these journeys on my own, without a guide. And eventually, without the walker.

  Quit racing yourself.

  My mom said those three words to me a few days ago, and they really stuck. I’ve been racing myself my whole life in one way or another. Life came along and made the race unfair, though, so now I need to pace things. Finish strong.

  It feels as if it takes us an hour to get to my parents’ vehicles, though it’s probably ten minutes. I lean into my dad while my mom collapses the walker to put it in her SUV. I stop her before she lifts it from the ground.

  “Actually, I’d like to ride with dad. I need to ask him a few boy questions, things only another boy would get.”

  About Wyatt.

  My mom nods with a soft smile, then shifts her body to boost my walker up and into the back of Dad’s truck.

  “No goofing off,” she says, eyeing her husband first but including me next in that warning.

  “No promises,” I say, an answer typical of my dad.

  She shakes her head and laughs before getting into her driver’s seat.

  “I love you two. See you at home.”

  We wait for her to pull out so my dad can open the passenger door all the way, giving me plenty of options of where to hold on to. His hands go to my hips, but I shake my head.

  “Let me try on my own first.”

  “Okay. I’ll be right here,” he says, the reservation obvious in his tone. It’s not that he doesn’t think I can do this, it’s that it’s hard for him to see me fail. That’s something I’ve learned over the last two weeks. It’s where my father and I crossover the most—we’re competitive to a fault. With ourselves.

  Quit racing yourself.

  I take a deep breath and bring my right leg up, having to guide it part of the way to ensure my foot is flat on the running board. I search for the perfect holding spots, feeling good about my left hand clutching the grab bar, and settling for my other hand wrapping around the open window frame. My father stands at the door’s edge to keep it from closing on me, and I grunt my way into standing on the running board on my bad leg.

  “Holy shit!” My eyes are wide with shock, and my body feels wobbly, but I lifted myself a foot off the ground.

  “Atta girl!” My dad’s celebration is warranted this time. I’ll allow it.

  Twisting my body proves to be a little trickier than I expect, so I call my dad in for a boost to get my hips moving in the right direction. Soon I’m in the seat, buckling myself in, and excited about getting out on my own when we get home.

  My dad fires up the engine, his radio blasting that twenty-year-old rap he loves so much. I giggle and rap a few of the lyrics with him as he pulls out of the Jack’s lot. He turns the volume down when we hit the road, and after about a mile, he looks my way, ready to get serious.

  “Is this going to be one of those talks where I should pull over? Or if we take the long route home, will that be enough?” He slows the truck a little, and I hike my shoulders up, not sure how this is going to go.

  “I think you’re going to have to tell me. I know you know what’s going on with Wyatt. What’s wrong? What happened?” I know it’s football, and there’s no way my dad isn’t all up in that business.