“Your mom said you’ve been making a ton of progress,” she says, her gaze moving slowly over my body. I kind of think she’s searching for scars.

  “I am. I had a little blood clot issue a few weeks back that was sort of like a hard reset, but I feel like I’ve progressed again. I’m walking on my own with a walker. It’s slow and looks a little bit like that dance Coach Kane does⁠—”

  “Oh yeah, the robot!” Alicia hops to her feet and does a decent impression of our coach. We both laugh.

  “I’m glad,” she says, her gaze drifting away from mine as the pregnant pause grows into an extended silence.

  I’m about to fill it with more pointless banter when her eyes snap to mine.

  “I’m so sorry, Peyton. About . . . hurting you. I didn’t mean . . . I wasn’t . . .” Tears well up in her eyes, and I feel them threaten mine as well.

  “Alicia, it was an accident,” I say, holding my arms open again. She falls into them, almost knocking me back.

  “I’m so, so sorry Peyton.”

  Her body convulses with sobs, and I can’t help but cry along with her. My mom steps in, hearing us wail, but I quickly hold up a hand to let her know we’re okay. We’re more than okay. We’re healing.

  Alicia and I cry it out for what feels like an hour, and as painful as it is to relive some of the things I’ve been through, I share every detail when she asks. I hold back the part about my future of having kids. That’s a question that will linger for a while, and a conversation I’m going to have to have with Wyatt one day. Probably soon.

  There’s this huge gap in my memory of the accident, which Alicia is finally able to fill. I remember seeing her body lurch forward above me, and then I felt the drop in my stomach as my base collapsed. But I never fully understood when the impact happened. Alicia, however, was alert for every millisecond. Her knee landed on my head just as my bottom hit the ground, and the impact from both ends was too much for my middle to absorb. That’s when the fracture happened.

  “I dream about it sometimes,” I tell her, wondering if I’ll see it happen differently next time.

  “I dream about it every night,” she admits, her mouth souring as her gaze drifts away.

  I know from the text messages with other teammates and emails with Coach that Alicia hasn’t been back out since the fall. She was cleared a couple of weeks ago, having been on concussion protocol. She’s one of the best flyers I’ve ever seen.

  I can feel us both slipping back into the hurt. I’m so done feeling sorry and resentful, so before Alicia falls apart again, I reach for my walker and lift myself to a stand. Even though I’ve ridden Otis a lot these last few days, one more trip to the arena is in order. This time, I’ll lead while she rides.

  “You ever been on a horse?”

  Her eyes are already wide, I think from watching me pull myself up. It’s probably jarring for someone to watch when they haven’t seen it yet. I suppose it either looks like a miracle or a struggle, depending on the perspective. Rather than label it either, I waggle my hand in front of her zoned-out gaze and snap her attention back to my face.

  “Horse? You been on one?” I flash a tight smile, and we’ve been friends long enough for her to know that means I’m ready to change subjects.

  “Uh, maybe? When I was little?”

  I chuckle and urge her to follow me.

  “You’re still little,” I joke. She’s under five feet. It’s why she’s our flyer.

  We pass through the kitchen, and I bend my head down a little to catch my mom’s attention at the stove. She’s trying to learn how to make some of her mom’s recipes. They practiced a lot of things when my grandparents were here, and I get a feeling my mom wants to be able to teach me what she learns. I’m more of a buy-the-cookie-dough-ready-made kind of chef, but I admit there’s a big difference between the shortcut and my grandma’s way. Both grandmothers, truthfully. Though my Grandma Rose has a few secrets she says she won’t share until it’s her time to go. That’s her way of being competitive, my mom says.

  “Taking Alicia to meet Otis. Wanna come?” My mom nods and sets whatever’s on the stove to simmer, wiping her hands, then rounding the counter to join us. I want her expertise in case Alicia gets nervous. It’s near impossible to startle Otis, but nothing is ever a total impossibility with animals.

  The three of us get Otis out of his stall, and my mom fits him with his saddle then leads him out to the arena.

  “Go ahead. I’ll catch up,” I say, wanting Alicia to head in with my mom rather than watch me struggle over the rough terrain. I know how far I’ve come making this trek, but she doesn’t. I know what it looks like when I guide these big wheels through the rock and dirt.

  My mom is just about wrapping up her walk-through of the various steps to mount Otis by the time I step up to them.

  “You ready?” she asks.

  Alicia glances to me, her eyes buzzing with reservation but also excitement.

  “You can do this,” I reassure her.

  “Okay,” she says, sucking in a breath and grasping all the places my mom showed her. She pulls herself up as my mom gives her an extra boost, not because she isn’t strong enough, but because she’s tiny.

  “Oh, wow, it’s high up here,” she says, her voice vibrating.

  “He’s got you. This is Otis,” I say, holding my hand against his side. “Otis, tell Alicia you’ve got her.”

  He neighs, shaking his head as he knows to do on command. My mom has spent years working with him on small things like stomping his foot, sidestepping, and nodding and shaking his head. He’s great with kids because of it. Turns out, his tricks also work well on freaked out twenty-somethings getting over trauma.

  “You ready to ride?” I let go of the walker and lean on Otis for my balance.

  “You’re coming with?” Alicia asks.

  I nod.

  “Yep. We both have you,” I promise.

  I click with my tongue and Otis takes a slow step forward, his body swaying like a hippo. Alicia laughs as it swings her from right to left, and I move my left hand to her calf to give her extra support.

  “He’s got hips, and he knows how to use them.” I look over my shoulder to give my mom credit for her joke I just stole. She’s been saying that for years.

  “Yeah, he does. Oh, my God, Peyton! I’m riding a horse!”

  We meander around the arena at a snail’s pace, slower than my usual rides since I’m the one guiding. But this walk is good for me. I’ve tried it a few times with my mom or dad right at my side, ready to dive in and take over if I start to lose my balance. This is the first time I’ve been totally on my own. There’s not much Alicia would be able to do to help me from way up there. And while I’m a little nervous, I’m also liberated. Dare I say, I’m fucking impressed with myself.

  “Hey, Alicia?”

  She looks down as I slow Otis to a stop. I scratch his neck and hold her gaze for a moment while I search for the right words. And then it hits me.

  “Quit racing yourself,” I say.

  Her face puzzles briefly. Those words hit different for her. While I tend to aim too high and struggle when I fall short, Alicia is just the opposite. In her race, she won’t get out of her own way.

  “You can still fly better than anyone. And it was an accident. Stop racing yourself and get out of your own way.”

  She holds my gaze for a few long seconds, then looks up and stares off into the skyline.

  “I’ll try, Peyton. I promise you I’ll try.”

  And that’s good enough.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  It was a tough loss. And it may have been the game of my life.

  We have two games left, but they’re basically meaningless. Bryce will probably get a lot of time, though—and we’ll still want a bowl bid of some sort—but at this point, it’s about looking toward our future. The extra cash for the school is nice, and it’s a boost for the players going into next year.

  Those of us kicking around the draft, though? It’s not worth getting hurt for the Cotton Candy Oreo Cheese Puff Bowl.

  I’m anxious to get out of this press conference. I’ve never been a fan of them, but now that I have my mother’s ring in my pocket and a plan in my heart, sitting through questions about whether I’ll be at the combine or not feel empty and pointless.

  I won’t announce anything here, that’s for sure. I’ll want to think through the messaging because while I plan to postpone the draft for a year, I’m not pulling myself off the table entirely. I’ll get in some workouts and spend the year bulking up and gaining speed. Maybe I’ll gain some more smarts while I’m at it. I’ve been thinking a lot about grad school. I feel as though my education has been on cruise control, and I regret that. I’d like to learn something and get good at it, maybe even teach. I still want to run a business one day or maybe take over parts of the Johnson Ranch business that rescues horses for therapy. Honestly, it’s been nice letting my mind wonder at the possibilities. I took football off the table mentally, and it’s made space for so much more.

  But before I do any of that, I need to get down on one knee in front of Peyton and ask her to marry me. I’m still a little anxious about her answer, even though I know her heart will want to say yes. It’s her head I need to convince.

  Believing me has never been something she’s shied away from. I’ll simply have to remind her of that.

  Naturally, Kelly Brooks from Athletico is the first to ask me about the draft. I know he’ll push even after I answer, but I stick to my plan.

  “I’m not thinking about that. We have two games left to play. I want to help position this team for the future. I intend on being there for Hampton and showing him what I can. That’s as far as it goes for me right now.”

  I glance to my right, meeting Bryce’s eyes. He knows my plan to sit out a year, and while he’s not thrilled at the prospect of entering the draft with me, there’s a little piece of him that’s also fired up because of the competition. Who knows, maybe our rivalry will push me to be better next year as well.

  “Okay, so is Hampton getting the start next week?” Kelly presses. What a pain in the ass this guy is!

  “As we’ve said before, these are questions you’ll have to ask Coach Byers when it’s his turn,” Bryce answers, repeating the same words I used a few questions ago. “Neither of us is dumb enough to speak for him.”

  I shoot Bryce a lopsided smirk, then roll my wrist over to check the time on my watch. I want to get to Peyton’s house before the sun goes down, but that window is narrowing.

  “Go on,” Bryce says, covering his mic and leaning into me.

  “You sure?” I whisper.

  “Yeah, I’ll just answer for you the same way I do for Coach. And then maybe they can haul my dad in here for more questions since he’s eager to talk.” We both laugh while the press members lean in, attempting to eavesdrop.

  “I’m sorry, y’all, but I have somewhere I need to be. Thanks for understanding.”

  I push my chair back amid the flashes from still cameras and a few shouted questions that I’ve either answered or dodged already, and after a short lecture from our media manager, I slip out to the back parking lot and hop in my truck.

  I make it about five miles before my phone rings with a call from Peyton. I smile, laughing silently as I answer with a voice command.

  “Yes?”

  I know she watched the press conference. They all did. It was part of the deal that everything went along as normal. The only wild card in the situation was Buck, but Rose promised she’d keep his mouth shut until after I proposed.

  I asked Reed for his permission after I snuck the ring out of Peyton’s sock drawer. As terrifying as facing the Ohio State defensive line is, it’s nothing compared to asking Reed Johnson for his daughter’s hand in marriage.

  He had his reservations at first, like his daughter’s worries that I’m giving up on my own dreams—being impulsive or desperate. But I have an answer for everything, and I know what I want—I want my life with her. I want to be the one she leans on for the hard road ahead. And I would hate myself for missing a minute of it.

  Peyton’s uncle helped me parse out my options, having spent years as Reed’s agent. He knows the game well, even the seedy part behind the scenes where negotiations and trades get ugly. He kept Reed out of a lot of bad contracts, and when I do go pro, I want him in my corner. After looking at his projections, I was pleasantly surprised. By holding out a year, my draft number improves, assuming I perform well at next year’s combine. I’ll get an automatic bid for deferring. And Jason will make sure that promise sticks.

  “You want to enlighten me on where exactly it is you have to be, in the middle of a damn press conference?” She’s only a little serious. Mostly, she’s sassy.

  “Yeah, well, it’s somewhere important,” I say, stringing her along.

  Her sigh comes through my speakers, and I laugh.

  “I hear you,” she chides.

  “Oh, I don’t doubt you do. You hear everything.”

  “That’s not true,” she says, but quickly backpaddles. “Besides, you’re bad at sneaking up on people. And you do snore a little. And whose toes crack that much when they walk around at night.”

  “Wow, you’re getting it all off your chest,” I muse. Man, is she going to feel bad when my knee pops as I drop down to propose. I’m sure she’ll hear it.

  I toy with her for a few more minutes, until I can tell she’s genuinely getting irritated, and then I tell her to wait for me outside with Otis.

  “I already took a shower. I don’t want to get dirty,” she argues.

  “Well, you’ll have to take another one. I’ll help you.”

  “Hmm, I’m not sure you deserve to. But fine. I’ll meet you outside.”

  She ends the call, and my heart races with what comes next. I’m really doing this. And I’ve let everyone in on it. My football brothers are going to have to settle for Tasha’s video, as are Peyton’s out-of-town grandparents and her Uncle Mike. But as for having an audience, I feel like I really stacked the bleachers, so to speak. If she says no, at least a dozen people are going to witness it. My mom. My dad’s old fire captain. Tasha, Jason, Sarah, Reed and Nolan. Buck’s reaction is the one I am bracing for most, no matter which way this goes. That man’s wit knows no bounds, and when it comes to taking his fellow man down a peg, he’s rapid-fire fast.

  I’m starting to sweat, so I pull my hoodie off as I exit the highway and make my way toward the Johnson home. It’s fifty-five degrees outside, which for Arizona is basically freezing, but my chest is burning up. I think I might be scared.

  I pull into the driveway, having passed my mom’s SUV and Tasha’s car parked off the side of the road by the main gates. I’m not sure where everyone is hiding, but I know they can all see. And as Reed mentioned again when I was planning all this, he has cameras everywhere.

  I get out of my truck and pat my pocket, feeling for the ring. I’ve probably worn the diamond’s edges dull at this point. The thing has become a worry stone of sorts.

  I drop my hands in my joggers and embrace the chill in the air. Peyton is walking in slow circles with Otis out in the arena, a slight fog of dust from his foot-stomping glowing with the yellow lights. The sun is almost down, and I curse Kelly Brooks under my breath for asking too many questions. I hope Tasha will be able to film enough in the dim light.

  Glancing around as I make my way into the arena, I drop the suspicious look when Peyton spots me. She halts Otis and puts a hand on her hip. I stop to take in the sight, wanting to remember her just like this—a movement that she said she worked on just so she could deal with me. Well, woman? You may as well pull it out now because if this goes as planned, you’re going to have to deal with me for a long time.

  “This is not an important place you had to be, Wyatt Stone. It’s a dirt farm. And you’ve been here before. Now, fess up. What is that all about?”

  I glance to my right, figuring her family is probably tucked away in the barn by now, looking through windows and cracks in the door. I shake my head, then close the distance between us so I can kiss her, partly to shut her up, but mostly because my God, do I love this woman.

  Before she has a chance to catch her breath—and somehow ruin this—I drop to my knee and fish the ring from my pocket.

  “Peyton Johnson, I’ve been thinking a lot lately about what’s important to me. It was sort of your mandate when you grounded me to our apartment, so that bit is your fault,” I say, mentally working out the meaning behind her frozen, wide-eyed expression.

  “I know you found this,” I say, holding the ring up and smirking.

  Her head tilts slowly and her lips part, but dare I say, there’s a smile in there somewhere.

  “It was Tasha’s fault,” she finally utters, and I drop my head with laughter, hoping her friend caught that on video.

  “Okay. That doesn’t really matter. I want you to know I’ve been thinking about this for a long time. Longer than you probably think. And when you made that speech about me chasing my dreams and focusing on my future, you were leaving something major out of the conversation.”

  Her brow furrows.

  “You.”

  She sucks in her bottom lip, and my pulse finally settles. I think she might just say yes.

  “I know you have a long journey ahead, but Peyt? I want to be on that journey with you. I want to hold your hand at every doctor’s appointment, to work in the garage with your grandfathers on the next great gizmo they come up with to help in your recovery, and to clap louder than anyone when you cross goal after goal off your list. That, Peyton Johnson, is my dream. You are my dream.”

  “Wyatt, you can’t possibly fly back and forth when you⁠—”

  She shakes her head and tears up. I shake my head, stopping her before she goes down that road.

  “I’m not giving up on football, so don’t think that. I’m simply putting it off for a year. I’d rather spend that year growing with you, becoming a better human, letting you inspire me, holding you accountable, and letting you get angry at me when you need someone to blame. I want that more than I want some draft dream that might send me to Oklahoma, or Jacksonville, or Buffalo.”