“Yeah, I’ve been doing this a long time, and I know the best answers come when the stiffs leave the room.”

  “Stiffs, huh?” I glance through the window to where Coach Skye is jogging out to the sidelines, waving a hand and blowing his whistle.

  “Yeah, very few coaches make for good interviews. I mean, there are exceptions, of course. I interviewed Bobby Knight back in the day, and he was colorful. Had plenty to say, most of it unprintable.”

  We both laugh. Also, he’s got some good street cred.

  “And I’ve given a good interview or two in my time, back when I coached in Texas.” Ah, yes. I heard that accent.

  “I had a feeling you coached. Call it instinct.” I leave out the clues I got from his fashion. I need him to like me, at least until this story goes up.

  He smiles and shakes his head, holding up a hand.

  “I was probably one of the worst coaches in Texas high school football history. My record was . . . abysmal. But I doubled our wins in the five years I was there.”

  “You go from one to two?” I joke.

  “Ha!” He points at me, squinting one eye. “You’re funny. And close. I went from four to eight. Even made playoffs the final year. Got our asses handed to us from Permian.”

  I chuckle.

  “They’re legends.”

  “Indeed, and for good reason.”

  He taps the end of his pen on his notepad and glances at his phone before looking back at me. I think he senses my paranoia, or hell, since he’s been at this so long, he’s probably inciting it. After a few awkwardly quiet seconds, he reaches for his phone and pauses the recording, flipping the screen and showing me.

  “Sometimes the recording makes people nervous,” he says, laying the phone back down on the table.

  I smirk at it, then meet his gaze.

  “I’m not sure that’s the part that makes me nervous.”

  His lips pull into a tight smile and his eyes flit to his notepad. He taps the pen on the paper a few more times, then pops his gaze back up to mine.

  “You weren’t on board with two quarterbacks, were you?”

  I shake my head and pull my brow in.

  “I didn’t say that.” I don’t want him choosing my words for me. I nudge his phone toward him and lift my chin.

  “Go ahead and turn that back on.” I’m uneasy either way; may as well be uneasy but quoted accurately.

  Kelly restarts the recording and licks his lips, seeming to choose his words strategically.

  “The two QB thing—it seems to be working out well for you guys so far.”

  I lift my brows, waiting for the question, and eventually realize I’m meant to agree with him.

  “We’re three and oh.” That’s confirmation enough.

  He nods and jots that killer quote down.

  “You’ve been running the show here since you were a freshman, though.”

  “Ah, I’ve been throwing the ball. Coach Byers runs the show. He’s been at the helm for a long time. He deserves the credit.” I may have learned a few things in my PR and messaging classes to keep me out of trouble after all.

  “Spoken like a loyal quarterback who loves his coach. But it had to sting a little, no? That he wanted to change things up?”

  He pokes his tongue into the inside of his bottom lip as he waits patiently.

  “There’s no room for egos out on that field. It’s a team sport, and Coach saw potential in switching things up to start the season.”

  Shit, I slipped.

  “Start, huh? So, are you moving back into the starting role this week? Have we seen all we’ll see of Hampton this season?”

  I shake my head.

  “I don’t know. I’m not the coach. I can tell you that Bryce and I are both ready to do what needs to be done, to answer Coach’s call and help lead this team into a playoff position. That’s always the goal.”

  Phew. Back on point.

  “So, that potential you mentioned . . . you think he had a reason to think Hampton had an edge that you didn’t when it came to the start against Cal?”

  He waits me out as I mull that question over. I know what he’s trying to fish out of me—he wants me to say I was mentally distracted because of Peyton’s injury. He wants to make this a story about us rather than simply the game. I won’t pull her into it.

  “I can’t speak for him, and you know that would be a foolish move. Coach Byers speaks for himself.”

  His mouth pulls into a knowing smirk, and his eyes stick to mine for a few extra seconds while he waits me out. I’m not breaking, though. That’s all he’s going to get on that subject.

  “Okay, well, I had to try. You know Coach Byers is a man of very few words.” He glances up from his notebook, and once again, I merely shrug. Nope. Not falling for it.

  “Let’s move on to your future, then. Heisman talk is something that’s been bandied about with your name in the past. It was a different kind of start to this season, but your game against Cal has people talking. Are you feeling that pressure?”

  I relax a little, laughing off the compliments.

  “I’m glad I put up good numbers last week. We need all the yards and big stops we can get with this schedule. And while the chatter about me is nice, it’s not what I’m focusing on. I want to win games. Make the playoffs. Leave this place on the highest note possible. Anything after that is—” I shrug, not wanting to get into my future right now.

  “So, the combine. We might see you out there?”

  “You might,” I say, purposely vague.

  I’m having a harder time masking my impatience, and I think Kelly can feel it. I glance out the window and wait until Coach Byers looks in my direction. I hold up a finger, and he nods. It’s a show for Kelly’s purposes, to hurry this along and get my ass back down on the field where I’m far more comfortable.

  “Well, thanks for your time, Wyatt. I’m rooting for you. I think you’re an exciting player to watch. And my best to Peyton.”

  My mouth tinges with his overstep, and a sneer creeps along my lips.

  “Thank you,” is all I utter. And I don’t shake his hand a second time, instead getting up to hold the door open for him as he tucks his notebook away and drops his phone into his bag.

  I follow him down the steps toward the field, one of the reps from the university’s athletic director’s office waiting to walk him out.

  “Good luck, again, Wyatt,” he says, holding his hand out to me in front of everyone, probably to see what I’ll do. It kills me to give in, but if I meant what I said—that this place is about the team and not the individual—then I have to get over myself and shake hands with this piranha to leave a good impression. His grip is as firm as before, and I try to forget the feel of it by slinging the football as hard as I can for the next hour.

  It seems Bryce is ready to work out his own tension, because he fires the ball back with the same amount of zest. When one of his passes nails me in the diaphragm, knocking my breath away for a brief second, I tuck the ball under my arm and level him with a stare.

  “You have to talk to that ass face too?” I ask.

  “Nope. Not that ass face,” he says, holding his palms out and snapping for the ball. I toss it back as his jaw flexes and he works through his own shit. I don’t have to press him for details, though. Because his headache is related to him. And that kind of ass face is a whole lot harder to shake.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Ididn’t think I would be up for a house full of people, but it turns out having my other grandparents fly in and pairing my Grandpa Rich with my Grandpa Buck was a gamechanger.

  “What exactly is this thing?” Tasha pushes the makeshift “speed walker” that my Grandpa Rich put together with a little engineering help from my Grandpa Buck. The two were out in the shop working all day yesterday, and they refused to let anyone in. It pissed Grandma Rose off because she was sure they were smoking cigars and drinking brandy, both major no-no’s for Buck. Instead, the two handiest men in my life were inventing me something to help get me not just walking but hopefully running sooner rather than later.

  “I named it Josh,” I say, pulling myself up to stand between the balance bars.

  “Hmm, Josh. He’s cute,” Tasha says, tapping the front where my grandpas built in a headlight.

  “Yeah, they envision me taking this puppy out at night sometimes. I’m not there yet, but maybe. Eventually.” I move my hands to the more comfortable grips, ones at a natural height rather than at my armpits, which is what I’ve been dealing with.

  “So, how does this thing make you . . . faster?” Tasha quirks a brow.

  A deep chuckle gurgles in my throat before I press the button for the small motor that kicks on.

  “It drives.” I grin, squeezing the two-handed clutch system lightly, which starts Josh in motion. The all-terrain wheels roll slowly, thanks to a regulator—Grandpa Buck’s idea. I move along the kitchen floor with the device, focusing more on the movement of my hips and legs than how to move a hunk of metal straight ahead.

  “Josh, you badass. Look at you navigate that engineered hardwood surface.” Tasha pats the headlight like she’s petting a dog’s snout, and I unfurl the clutch and kill the engine.

  “The hope is I start doing more of this outside. I’m sick of the house, and I can only ride and walk Otis in circles so many times.”

  Tasha nods in understanding, then holds her arm out for me to hold for balance as I work my way back to the kitchen chair. Wyatt loaded Tasha up with most of my school materials, along with my laptop, and she came over this morning to help me set a few things up. The university offered to give me a medical withdrawal, but I still want to graduate, even if it won’t be on campus or I won’t be walking across the stadium field with my graduating class. That pomp and circumstance is overrated anyhow.

  “Are you going to be able to make up the month you’ve missed?” Tasha asks.

  “I mean, writing papers is the only other thing on my daily agenda at this point, so I think the odds are on my side,” I answer as I fire up my laptop. It instantly flashes a low battery warning, so I dig into the tote filled with various chargers that she also brought me. I hold up the one for my reading light along with the one for my e-reader.

  “Your boyfriend didn’t know what went with what, so you got ’em all.” She shrugs and takes the tote by the bottom, tipping it upside down so everything spills out on the table. Something clanks off the tabletop and onto the floor, so Tasha drops to her hands and knees in search of it while I spot my laptop cord and untangle it from the mess.

  My screen reboots, bringing up the university home page along with the various news links, including one headline that catches my eye in the athletics section—TWO QUARTERBACK SYSTEM WHEN THERE’S ONLY ROOM FOR ONE.

  “Fuck,” I mumble.

  “Yeah, fuck indeed,” Tasha says, her head popping up from under the table.

  I furrow my brow, wondering what her reaction is for.

  “You know what this is?” She pinches a delicate ring, holding it in front of me, and my eyes jet open so wide I think they might fall out.

  “Is that—?” I take it in my hand to study the intricate pattern on the band woven into a setting that holds an impressive princess-cut diamond. The ring is old, but it’s polished to perfection. My gut says it’s probably a family heirloom. My heart wants it to be for me. And then my fucking head is screaming all the reasons that ring should be put away and saved for later.

  “Girl, that’s an engagement ring!” Tasha’s voice is loud, and my head spins around while I scope out every corner of this house within my sightline to make sure we’re alone. There are a lot of people here right now, people who would lose their minds if they saw this ring.

  I pocket it and glare at Tasha.

  “We don’t know what it’s for⁠—”

  “Peyt, yes we do.”

  “Gah!” I drop my shoulders with my sigh.

  “Look, all I’m saying is you need to find a way to get that ring back in Wyatt’s possession, or you need to bring it up. And then let whatever comes next . . . happen.” She’s grinning like an idiot, and there’s a part of me that’s ready to jump up and down with her, screaming with glee. Except, I can’t jump up and down right now. I can’t take my classes on campus. I can’t fucking get around this kitchen without some whack invention my grandfathers put together.

  “I’ll figure it out. In the meantime, can you maybe . . .” I shake my head, knowing my best friend is shit with secrets. My guess is she’ll text our friend Lexi about this by the time she hits my driveway. Regardless, she crosses her heart and pulls her lips in tight.

  I hug my friend goodbye after she helps me organize the mess of cords, and she doesn’t bring the ring up again, though she does waggle her brows as she leaves. She just wants a wedding with an open bar.

  The weight of the ring in my pocket feels heavy, and I’d swear it’s burning into my thigh, like one of those hobbits with the magic ring. I do my best to push it to the back of my mind while I return my attention to starting some schoolwork, but I’m quickly diverted by that headline I saw before.

  Like a glutton, I click on it. I try to simply scan it at first, not letting myself get caught up by the opinion clearly woven into the Athletico piece. But then a quote from Alex Hampton, Bryce’s dad, catches my eye.

  “All I’m saying is they brought my son here for a reason. Maybe it’s time they go all in and let him do the job.”

  My blood boils. I read the line again, parsing together the only facts I know—Bryce hates his father, the man isn’t intimately knowledgeable about his son’s anything, and there isn’t a single quote from Coach Byers in this story.

  I click on the tab that offers more from the story, including podcast bits recorded from the interview Kelly whoever this guy is did with Wyatt. It doesn’t help me feel any better. Wyatt is clearly irritated by his questions, and when asked about his name being tossed around in Heisman conversations, Wyatt shuts it down completely, claiming all that stuff doesn’t interest him.

  It must interest him. Heisman? The combine? The draft? What’s happened to his plans?

  Me. I happened.

  I’m in a pretty good spiral by the time my mom comes home, ready to haul me to my check-in with my neurologists and then Dr. K She’s intuitive, so I get away with about five minutes of silence during the car ride to Tucson before she pulls off on an exit with nothing but a Wendy’s and a gas station.

  “You craving fries?” I ask, my moody tone not masked very well.

  My mom whips into the gas station parking lot with her full tank and pushes the gearshift into park before twisting in her seat and leveling me with one of her threatening glares. I let my head fall sideways against the head rest as I match her urgent gaze with my despondent one.

  “I’m not going to coddle you like Dad does. What’s up your ass, Peyton?”

  She holds her eyebrows high, her nostrils flexing with her quickening breath. I get my impatience from her. I roll my head along the passenger seat, turning my focus to the old pick-up truck parked about a dozen yards away. An older man is filling the back with water jugs.

  “You think he’s prepping for the end of the world?” I joke.

  I feel my mom’s gaze stick to me.

  “Yeah, I do. He senses it’s coming by the energy you’re giving off. Now, spill it.”

  I shake my head and flit my gaze down, feeling the sting of tears. This has all been a lot. And I don’t want to talk about the ring that is now tucked in my underwear drawer, but I do want to talk about Wyatt and how I feel as if he’s giving up and picking the wrong thing.

  “There was this story in Athletico that made it sound like they were replacing Wyatt with Bryce. And I can’t help but feel he’s giving up things for me, and I don’t know⁠—”

  My mom punches out a hard laugh, and I roll my eyes to look at her.

  “I feel guilty about it. He spends so much time going back and forth, and I know Bryce and him have worked a lot of their shit out, but you know he wants to take the starting job. Bryce is ambitious, Mom.”

  She opens her mouth to respond but quickly snaps it shut, I think tempering her snap-judgement a little. She breathes in deeply through her nose, holding her mouth in a faint, closed-lip smile as her head tilts a little.

  “Your dad and I, we’ve told you before why you’re our little miracle,” she begins.

  I nod softly, biting my lip. I know my mom had a pretty traumatic miscarriage. They weren’t sure they’d be able to have me. I’ve been thinking about that a lot lately, too. About how maybe I won’t be able to have kids. And Wyatt, he deserves to be a father. He was born to be one more than he was born to play football.

  “What I never told you was how I kept it all to myself when it happened. I didn’t tell your dad. I didn’t tell Grandma or Grandpa. The only one who knew was Aunt Sarah, and that’s because she was there when I lost⁠—”

  My mom’s eyes glass over, and I reach across the center console to squeeze her forearm. She covers my hand with hers.

  “I have very few regrets in life, Peyton. I believe things happen in life for a reason, and there are lessons to be learned. But that moment, it wasn’t a lesson. I made a choice. A really bad choice. I swallowed my trauma and let it break my heart over and over again without asking for help from the one person who cared the most. Instead of asking questions, I made assumptions. I pushed him away when, really, all he wanted was to be there for me. To be with me. And I regret that I missed out on his support. I could have used it.”

  I hold my mom’s stare for a beat, her message pretty clear. I keep swearing to myself that I’m not pushing Wyatt away, but really—I am. Not forcefully, but subtly. A little at a time. And if I’m not careful, that may be my biggest regret.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Idon’t want to call my mom. When she gave me her ring, the one my dad gave her when he proposed, it was a pretty emotional moment. It was over the summer, and I was telling her about my plan to ask Peyton to move in with me, and then the conversation sort of rolled into future plans and me proposing soon.