She gave me the ring to hold on to for when the time was right. Well, it’s about time. I’ve been thinking about it a lot lately, even before Peyton’s injury. But to be honest, the last month has only made me want to ask her to be mine for life even more. I want her to have a symbol of my promise to her, to know that I’m not going anywhere. That I’m in this, with her, for it all.

  And now I can’t find the fucking ring.

  Anywhere.

  My finger hovers over my mom’s contact info on my phone, twitching. My stomach feels sick even though I know she’ll tell me not to worry and we’ll look together. But I’ve already searched everywhere there is. I’m afraid, somehow, I’ve lost a token from my dad, something so important that, wherever it is, I’m sure it’s glowing bright. One would think that would help me find it, but nope. Nada.

  “I can’t,” I mutter to myself, shoving my phone in my back pocket before grabbing my keys and heading out to my truck.

  The sun is setting. My body is exhausted. Practice was killer today. We all felt it, Bryce more than me, because even though that boneheaded comment that hit Athletico wasn’t his but his father’s, Coach took it out on him all the same.

  So much running.

  My legs quiver as I lift my body into my truck, and I halt once I’m in my seat, hands gripping the wheel as I imagine what this is like for Peyton. This is how everything feels to her. Exhausting.

  That thought wedges into my mind as I rush to Whiskey and Tasha’s apartment, hoping like hell that I somehow put that ring in something of his. We moved a lot of things last month, and I ended up giving him some of our shared appliances and electronics. Boxes got muddled. It’s possible. Not likely because I’m pretty sure I kept that ring in the watch box in my sock drawer, but since it’s not there, well . . .

  I take the stairs two at a time when I get to Whiskey’s. I pound on the door, but the music is blasting on the other side. I know he’s home because I parked next to his truck, and that music? That’s not Tasha music. He’s probably dancing around in his boxers or showering with his beer, a weird thing he likes to do. He saw some dudes doing it on social media and decided to make it part of his brand, whatever that brand is. I think it’s basically loud, drunk, and obnoxious. I’m probably being judgmental, though, because he won’t answer the fucking door!

  On a whim, I twist the handle, and when the door pushes open, I exhale, glad I won’t have to go all Chuck Norris on it and kick it down. It takes me a few seconds to come to terms with the reality on the other side, though.

  Whiskey’s naked. And so is Tasha. And they are . . . connected.

  “Oh, my God!” I slap both hands over my eyes, and the last thing I glimpse is my friend’s very white ass pumping into Peyton’s best friend from behind.

  “Ahhh, what the hell! Wyatt, get the fuck out!” Something crashes against the open door as Tasha screams. I peel my fingers from my face as I glance down and see pieces of a remote.

  “I’m out. I’m out!” I flatten my palm over my face again and spin around, feeling for the door and quickly stepping outside and flinging it closed behind me.

  What the fuck?

  My heart racing, I pace back and forth on the small landing outside their door. The music stops inside, and I move to the stairs, my wobbly legs now a whole lot worse. I step down one stair then sit on my ass, digging my thumbs into the corners of my eyes while I nervously chuckle. The door creaks behind me, and someone shuffles in my direction. Whiskey’s sock-clad feet eventually come into view. I refuse to look up.

  I cover my eyes with both palms again.

  “Dude, I’m not looking.”

  Whiskey’s deep belly laugh makes me join him.

  “What the hell, man?” I say, cracking an eyelid open and glancing up when I feel him move into the space next to me to sit down. He hands me a beer and I take it, popping the cap off and swigging down half.

  “I told you I was wearing her down,” he says.

  Smug fucker is grinning wide. I shake my head at him and take another sip of my beer before setting it down and leaning back on my palms.

  “You’re going to have to fill me in. Is this . . . new?” I point over my shoulder as my friend shrugs.

  “It’s been a week or so. We had a competitive Wii game of ping-pong, and then one thing led to another, and well—” He smiles through his dip of beer and winks.

  “You smooth motherfucker.”

  We sit side-by-side for a few minutes, finishing our beers while I pepper him with questions he can’t seem to answer. He’s not sure if they’re dating, but they are definitely fucking. And he likes her a whole hell of a lot. That I knew. He has for a while. I just hope this means something to Tasha, because if she’s simply messing with him to pass the time, it’s going to break this big man into so many pieces.

  Eventually, I explain why I barged in on the two of them, and after getting permission from Tasha to let me inside, Whiskey and I search through the few boxes he still hasn’t unpacked by their entertainment center. Tasha forbids me from entering the bedroom, where she’s locked herself inside and swears she’s never coming out again.

  “I can take a look through there, but it’s mostly her clothes and makeup shit. I took my stuff straight from drawers and my old closet to the new ones,” he says.

  I wave off his offer, pretty sure I lost the ring on my own somewhere else. I give him a hug on my way out and ask him to keep the ring business between us for now. If Tasha finds out, then any element of surprise I may have planned down the road is off the table. There are a lot of things Whiskey isn’t good at, like saying no to freebies and not escalating conflict. But keeping secrets for his friends? He’s got that on lockdown.

  Back in my truck, I let the last thirty minutes really set in, and decide rather than calling my mom, I’ll give my place one more toss. I didn’t check the washer, and maybe the ring hitched a ride somehow and ended up in there. Plus, the only thing I can think of doing now is sharing this massive revelation I just had with Peyton.

  I buckle up and sync my phone, pressing call while I back out of my spot next to Whiskey’s truck. When the phone goes right to voicemail, I press END CALL and give it another try. After three attempts of nothing getting through, I grab my phone at the stoplight and check our shared location app to see if maybe she’s out in the arena. When her icon shows the University Hospital, I panic.

  Flipping the car around, I dial Reed, and call him relentlessly until he finally picks up.

  “Wyatt, she’s fine. Everything’s okay,” he says, knowing I must have seen her location since I’m calling him.

  I roll to a stop, my body tingling with adrenaline. My head is sweaty, so I pull my hat off and toss it into the passenger seat and rub my forearm across my brow. I put on my hazards and wave the line of traffic around me when the light turns green, ignoring the honks from assholes who don’t know what a panic attack is.

  “She and Nolan were at her neurology appointment, and they were concerned about something they saw. It’s a small blood clot, and they wanted to deal with it right away rather than risk having it travel up her leg.”

  “Okay,” I say, not fully understanding what Reed said. I’m still trying to let the part about her being okay settle in.

  “We’ll probably be here overnight. It was a quick procedure. But she’s going to need to heal from this. I’ll call you when⁠—”

  “No, I’m coming. I’m already five minutes out. I have to come, Reed. I need to be there.”

  He doesn’t argue, likely knowing it’s the same thing he would do if our situations were swapped. He gives me vague directions for the room Peyton’s in, and I jot down what I can using an old golf pencil and my last oil change receipt from my glove box. I hit one-ten on the highway to the hospital, and I’m parked next to Reed’s pickup in minutes.

  I sprint past the information desk to the bank of elevators, repeating the room number—sixty-five-oh-one—until the elevator doors open on the sixth floor. I’m hit with an intersection of hallways that all look the same, so I ask for help when a nurse pushes through a set of doors and heads my way. She sends me down the right corridor, and by the time I make it to Peyton’s room, her original doctor, Dr. K, is leaving. We make brief eye contact as we pass, and I try to dissect meaning from his dour expression. I know everything I need to, though, when I slide the curtain back a hair and find Peyton weeping in her mom’s arms. And like a useless dumb jock, all I can do is stand here and feel helpless.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  An entire month’s worth of accomplishments, gone.

  Wiped out.

  Pointless.

  Wyatt has been sitting with me in silence for an hour. I think he can sense I don’t want talk. It’s not only that I’m disappointed, but rather that I feel completely defeated. And unworthy.

  “Peyton?” The nurse who’s been taking my vitals today pops her head into my room, and both Wyatt and I lean forward, awaiting her words.

  “Yeah?” I croak.

  “Your parents are pulling around. It’s time to head home. We’ll bring the wheelchair in a minute.”

  Such succinct instructions. Nothing about them makes me feel empowered. Someone else will push me down the hall. Someone else will drive me home. I won’t be going to my apartment at school or waking up the next day to take a new step forward. I’ll be working on getting out of bed again and straightening my leg, forcing it to feel the ground beneath it.

  “Groundhog Day,” I utter.

  “Huh?” Wyatt breathes out.

  I shake my head.

  “It’s like that movie, the one where he lives the same day over and over? Groundhog Day? Until he can figure out the magic thing that lets him move on to the next day.” My parents love that movie. That movie and everything Adam Sandler has ever made. When other kids watched cartoons, I watched Happy Gilmore.

  “I remember that one,” Wyatt says, moving his hand along my back. His fingertips touch the scar on my spine. It feels different, and I shudder.

  “Sorry,” he says, pulling his hand away.

  I shake my head.

  “It doesn’t hurt. I just . . . hate it.”

  His eyes drop and he slides off the bed.

  “Oh.”

  “It’s not you. I mean, I hate what that scar represents. And I’m going to hate the new one, too. And then next month, ha! Probably something else.” I flap my arms at my side, and Wyatt’s gaze stays on my hands for a beat.

  “You know, last time you couldn’t move your arm all that much at the start. So, it’s not all gone.” His eyes flit up to me, but I can’t meet his stare. I can feel the flat line of my mouth.

  Wyatt helps me move to the edge of the bed when the nurse comes with the chair, and he follows along as I’m pushed to the elevator, then down to the lobby where my dad takes over, guiding me out to my grandmother’s car. They decided to swap out my mom’s SUV today for something with a lower profile. It’s easier to climb into a sedan.

  “I’ll see you at the house,” Wyatt says, taking my hand briefly as my mom helps me straighten my legs in the passenger seat.

  “Oh, you don’t have to—” He’s gone before I finish, and when I turn to face my mom, she levels me with look of pity.

  “Don’t,” I say, not wanting the lecture about pushing people away.

  “I’ll stop if you stop,” she says, and as pissed off as her retort makes me, it also makes me puff out a tiny laugh.

  My dad climbs into the back seat and we make the long drive home. The driveway is packed with cars, which means everyone is here—both sets of grandparents, Aunt Sarah and Uncle Jason, and Wyatt’s mom. My parents had planned on having everyone over for dinner, and I guess they didn’t change the plans despite, well, fucking this.

  We pull in and park, Wyatt coming to a stop behind us, and my dad rushes around the car to open my door. In seconds, it’s nothing but hands reaching in for me. It overwhelms my senses, and nobody seems to be able to figure out the best way to get me out of the car. What’s worse? Nobody seems to be asking me—the one needing out of the fucking car!

  “Just . . . stop!” I slap my thighs, and the sting on my skin of each leg hurts equally. I blink for a second, registering that fact and putting it in my new book of wins. If I’m going to do this all again, I need to do it my way. And people need to listen.

  “Wyatt, help me get out of this low-rider. Mom and Dad? Go inside. Get dinner going so we can all eat, and then everyone can go back to where they came from, and I can go to bed.”

  My dad’s jaw flexes, his instinct to dig in and fight me warring with wanting to make his daughter happy. My mom meets my stare, and I mouth, “Please.” She gives me a soft nod and turns into my father, pressing her hand on his chest to urge him inside.

  “They’ve got this,” she says.

  Wyatt hangs outside the car, his hands balled into fists at his sides. I think he’s waiting for me to tell him what to do, which is why I wanted it to be him. Of everyone in my family, he’s the most likely to hear me. To listen. But I need him to hear it all. Even the part he’s not going to like.

  “I just want to sit in the air with you for a little while. Help me to the back of the car?” I look up at him and he nods.

  Kneeling, he scoops a hand under my thighs to help me twist in the seat. I loop my hands around his neck and hang from him as he holds my hips and helps me into a standing position. I feel like I’m choking him, and my body feels heavier than it did before.

  I prompt Wyatt to brace me under my right arm, and he holds me tightly against his side, my feet barely needing to work as we slowly make our way to the back of my grandmother’s car. I lean against the bumper, not quite sitting but not standing either. It will have to do. Wyatt mimics me.

  “Until the sun sets, yeah?”

  “Okay,” he answers.

  I close my eyes and inhale the desert air. There’s a thread of coolness running through it, like fall wants to happen. It’s different out here. The heat has levels, and when it’s football season, it’s still hot in the desert, but not as hot as it can be. But this ribbon of coolness isn’t warm at all. It has a chill. I’m ready for it.

  “I don’t want you to come for a while,” I say.

  “Peyt—”

  I hold up my hand, unable to look at him.

  “I’m not being a brat or trying to be dramatic. I’m just being real, Wyatt. I know Bryce had nothing to do with the story that guy wrote⁠—”

  “Pssh, that was just bullshit press, Peyt. That’s nothing.”

  I give in to the temptation to look him in the eyes, and when I do, as hard as he’s trying to hide it, I can see his reservation. There’s a weight pulling them down. His upper lip twitches. He feels the pressure.

  “You said the Heisman talk wasn’t important,” I point out.

  He shrugs.

  “It’s not.”

  I laugh, then lean my head back to look at the sky when my eyes water.

  “But it is, Wyatt. You’ve known for years that this draft class is going to be tough. You’ve put in so much work. It’s the finish line. You cannot take yourself out of the race. Not when you’re this close. And I . . . I have to go back to the starting line. It’s going to take me years to get back to something close to what I was. At least a year to walk on my own.”

  “So, I’ll help you,” he says.

  My gaze snaps to his.

  “But I don’t want you helping me. I want you fighting for your dream.”

  We stare into each other’s eyes for several long, quiet seconds while the sun drops below the mountain crests. It paints us with a hue of orange, then violet. It’s beautiful. Wyatt’s beautiful. I love him so much. But I can’t be the thing that pulls him away from his dream.

  “I don’t want to be the reason you have resentment in your heart,” I finally say.

  “Peyt, I couldn’t. Not ever.”

  I shake my head because I know he means it, but I also know it isn’t true. Nobody plans to be resentful; it simply creeps in over time.

  “I’ll be right here. We’ll talk every day. Even after the draft. And I’ll memorize whatever time zone you’re in when you get there, to whatever team is lucky to score you. And then, maybe . . .”

  “Fucking maybe? Peyt, there’s no maybe. There’s us. This isn’t going anywhere. You’re being⁠—”

  “Real. I’m being real, Wyatt. And I agree. I believe in us. But for now, I need to know that you are giving football your all. And I promise I’ll give this my all too.”

  He shakes his head again, his gaze drifting off to the side before he steps in front of me and cups my cheeks with both hands. He licks his lips, then closes the short distance to press his mouth to mine, taking his time to suck in my top lip before my bottom. It’s a deep kiss, his tongue tangling with mine until he pulls a soft moan from my body, and my hands move to clutch the front of his sweatshirt on instinct.

  When he pulls away, he holds my stare, his mouth a hard line, his eyes devoid of tears—but nothing about his expression is happy.

  “We’ll talk about this more later. I’ll let you have your way for now, but . . . uh uh. I’m not done with my argument just yet.”

  I sigh and he quickly retorts, “Sorry, but I’m not.”

  He glances down to our feet, and I follow his gaze. Our toes don’t match up, his left foot pointing at me while mine veers off to the side. I can’t feel it doing that. I feel the shoe over my foot, the compression sock that squeezes me all the way up to my knee. I even feel the chill in the air bringing my skin to pebbles. But I can’t tell that my foot isn’t ready to move forward. And I was just on the cusp of being able to try a step on my own before one blood clot, and not even a long procedure to remove it, ruined everything.

  “Let’s get you inside. If you don’t mind, I’d like to stay for dinner and then I’ll let you have your way . . . for now. I’ll go back to campus and get up for weights in the morning, then prep for our game Saturday. But this conversation is only on pause.”