“They won’t take you in Buffalo. They’re kind of set,” she teases, her mouth tipping up on the right.

  I roll my eyes and get to my feet, taking her left hand in mine while her right holds on to Otis. I can’t think of a better witness.

  “The game may have picked me, but I pick you. You’re my everything. My beginning, middle, and end. All the things in between. Marry me.”

  I hold my breath, about ninety percent sure she’s going to say yes but a small sliver worried she’ll give in to her doubts.

  “You promise you won’t give up on the game?”

  I nod my head and let it fall against hers, closing my eyes as I let my fragile smile spread.

  “Baby, that game gave me you. I can’t imagine what else it’s got in store. And if you write it on your list, then I won’t be able to cross it off without you knowing. So yeah, I promise. Marry me, Peyton Johnson. Make my dreams come true.”

  She shifts, her lips brushing against mine, and I feel them morph into a tight grin just before her head nods.

  “Yes, Wyatt Stone. I will marry you.”

  I slide the ring on her finger, relieved that it still fits after all these months. I figured out her size through lots of sleuthing.

  I cup her face, not wanting just yet to break our small bubble and announce her answer to the hiding family and friends. She lets go of her hold on Otis and relies on me, her hands moving to my biceps as I widen my stance to help her feel steady.

  “One request,” she says, leaning back enough to look me in the eyes.

  “Anything,” I say.

  “We don’t set a date until I can walk down that aisle.”

  I can see the fire in her eyes with those words, and I nod immediately.

  “You pick it, and I’ll move heaven and earth to make sure you get everything you want that day.” Apparently, I’ll be lining up multiple horses and carriages.

  “Then yes, Wyatt Stone. I will let you marry me.” Her mouth puckers with her smug grin, and I press my lips against hers, loving every bit of who she is.

  “She said yes!” I shout finally, backing away and turning toward the barn as the doors fly open and everyone spills out.

  “Seriously?” Peyton says, covering her face while I hold her up against my side.

  “You honestly think I would be allowed to do any of this without inviting them?” I point out.

  She waggles her head, but then her eyes flash wide, and she covers her mouth.

  “Yeah, Tasha probably heard you throw her under the bus,” I say.

  And as her friend marches toward us through the thick arena dirt, her face all twisted with disgust as mud chunks cake to her fancy boots, Peyton and I bite our lips and brace ourselves for the storm that is Tasha. After all, what’s one more tornado on our walk through the impossible?

  Epilogue

  Wedding Day

  It was important to my mom that I wear her dress for my wedding. We tailored it to fit me and updated the style a little, turning the skirt into an asymmetrical style so I could wear my favorite boots with it. The bodice, however, stayed the same, and I can’t help but think of how beautiful my mom must have been back then as I look at myself now.

  “You look so much like her,” Grandma Susan says, hugging me around the waist.

  She’s misty-eyed, and I think a little tipsy. My mom and I got a good cry in about an hour ago, before my make-up was applied, so I need to hold it together—at least until pictures.

  I still need to get my feet into my boots, so I send my grandmother to check on my dad and see if he’s been able to polish them. I practiced wearing them a lot over the last two weeks, getting used to the new brace being shoved into leather, and it left them a little banged up. It’s a tight fit with my brace on, but I always wanted to wear these down the aisle. I’m determined. Besides, I already relearned how to walk for this thing, what’s one more skill?

  “All right, I think I got the scuffs out—” My dad steps into the small tent we set up by our barn, and his words stop the second I turn around.

  “Damn it, Daddy! I can’t cry anymore,” I blurt out in a half-laugh-half-choke.

  I tap my fingertips below my eyes, hoping the liner and mascara hold. My dad sucks up all the air in the room and adjusts his belt, clearing his throat and burying what promised to be a pretty good-sized blubber.

  “You’re beautiful, Peyt. Beautiful.”

  My body quakes with emotion and nerves as I fan my face with my hand and give him a tight-lipped smile.

  “Thank you, Daddy.”

  This whole wedding thing has turned me and him into two sappy motherfuckers. I’ve been a daddy’s girl my whole life, but lately, I’ve been extra. Wyatt and I will be living with them for a while, at least until we figure out what the plan is after the combine and draft. And even then, I’ll see them all the time. But this day still feels like a severance in some ways, like that final snip between my youth and adulthood. I have my suspicions that my father might simply start traveling with us as an assistant. Who knew my mom was the independent one?

  My father kneels at the foot of the wooden bench, and I take my seat, holding out my left leg for him to slip my boot onto my foot, and then my right. This is the tricky one, and it takes a little maneuvering to get the fit just right with my brace. Once they’re on, though, I’m able to stand and even jump a little bit.

  “I can’t believe how far you’ve come,” my dad says.

  I shake my head as I hold my skirt up a little and gaze down at my feet. It’s been exactly one year. I’m not great at running yet, but I have relearned how to walk. There have been setbacks and some dark days when I wasn’t sure I’d be able to do it, but through it all, Wyatt was there.

  My steady.

  My one great thing.

  The love of my life.

  The soft guitar music shifts into something more here-comes-the-bride, so my dad straightens his jacket and adjusts the Johnson Ranch buckle on his belt before holding his arm out for me.

  “Let’s get you hitched.”

  I nod and take in my last deep breath before everyone I’ve ever known turns around and stares at me. My dad pulls the curtain open, and together, we make our way along the stone path that leads out to the gazebo my grandpa built with his own two hands years ago. We had it repainted and covered in lights. It’s perfect.

  My cheeks hurt from the instant smile that stretches the width of my face seeing my sweet sister drop white petals on the ground before us. I nod silent hellos to the overflow of friends we pass through before we get to the aisle and even more people seated in rows to witness me and Wyatt seal our lives together. When I clear the final guest before the aisle, I stop and squeeze my father’s arm tightly as my soon-to-be husband turns around and takes his first look at me, in boots, in this dress—walking toward him.

  Wyatt’s hand covers his mouth, then comes to rest on his chin for a moment as his eyes glisten and his smile beams at me. He looks so proud, but more than that, so in love with me. I am not sure what I did to deserve him. I even tried to ward off football players to avoid men like him one day. Fate had other plans, I guess. And now that I’ve grown up a lot, I see just how incredible those big ole football hunks can be. My dad made his own mold, and Wyatt did too. Similar yet unique. Both the best men I’ve ever known.

  Whiskey pats Wyatt’s back, chuckling at his friend, who is quickly losing it at the altar, and when I step up next to him, he shakes with a very loud sob and immediately laughs.

  “Sorry, y’all. It’s just . . . Peyton, you are beautiful.”

  I wave my hand at my face again, feeling those tears prickle my eyes.

  “Thank you,” I mouth. My father unlocks our arms and transfers my hand to Wyatt’s, squeezing both of ours together and taking a moment to look us both in the eyes.

  “I love you both,” he says.

  And I know he does.

  “You may be seated,” says Charles, our minister who was the chaplain at Wyatt’s father’s fire station. It was the one thing Wyatt truly wanted for our wedding, and I couldn’t think of a more meaningful person to bless our union.

  We chose to keep the prayers simple and light, focusing on our commitment to do good for each other and everyone we touch. For a girl who wanted to avoid repeating her parents’ marriage, I sure have switched up my opinion. Now, I hope we’re just like them.

  Charles prompts us to say our vows, then hands us each a sparkler. This was my one request, well, besides every other little detail I demanded for the wedding. I wanted to use sparklers to honor my grandfather and my tradition with him.

  Whiskey helps us light them and then passes the lighter down the row so the rest of our wedding party can join in. I look up at Wyatt, a strand of hair curled over his right eyebrow, his dimples deep, his blue eyes as clear as the sky, and we nod.

  “On the count of three, guys,” he says. “One . . . two . . . three!”

  Wyatt and I form a heart by each painting half in the air repeatedly while the members of our party spell out the word love or at least come as close to it as they can. Our photographer took a long-exposure shot, and if it comes out right, it might just become my most cherished picture ever.

  “Just one more thing, you two. We need some rings,” Charles says. I glance to my mom, who has already slipped from the front row and moved down the aisle to walk Otis up as he carries the small basket with our rings in his mouth.

  “What if he eats them?” Tasha whispers, rather loudly.

  “Then you’ll have to go in and get them,” Whiskey jokes back.

  The two of them stick their tongues out at each other, and anyone who doesn’t know better might think they’re siblings who hate each other. But Wyatt and I know better. Those two have been dating for more than a year now. And they’re both employed. Miracles do happen.

  My mom takes the basket from Otis, and Wyatt and I both rub his nose and thank him. She unties the rings from the small ribbon on the pillow inside, then hands them to us.

  “With this ring, I thee wed,” we both say, pushing the black metal bands with today’s date engraved into the insides onto our fingers. I wanted to keep his mother’s ring safe and used for special occasions, and with his football and my work with the horses, sturdy and meaningful made sense.

  “Can I kiss her now?” Wyatt quirks a brow to Charles, and he nods.

  Licking his lips, Wyatt pushes the few stray hairs from my face, the desert breeze working its magic as the sun goes down. With one hand on my back and the other on my cheek, he bends me back slowly and kisses me for what feels like hours. His mouth clings to my upper lip, and my teeth tease his lower one. I’ve waited so long for this day, to be able to move like this, to wear a dress like this, to call him husband.

  “I give you Mr. and Mrs. Johnson-Stone,” Charles says, revealing our plan to honor both of our family names.

  He holds my gaze as he stands me up, and we can’t stop staring at one another all the way down the aisle. With every hug we give, each handshake and smile, his hand always comes back to mine. The small touches send goose bumps over my skin. The whispers in my ear making sure I’m doing all right warm my heart. But it’s the butterflies that hit my chest when we finally finish our couple photos and his fingertips glide along my bare back that really send me over the edge.

  “Are you sure we need to take group photos now?” he whispers in my ear, his body behind mine, his hand sweeping the hair from my neck. Our photographer just left to gather everyone.

  I giggle. “I am pretty sure if we don’t take photos with your mother and mine, they will disown us.”

  “Mmm, probably true. But what if⁠—”

  His hands begin to gather the back of my dress, and my breath hitches as I stand in the middle of the small bridge crossing the wash. It’s the perfect desert landscape, the greenery rich, the desert blossoms a deep violet and orange. This old bridge serves no purpose; the wash barely holds water except when it storms. But I always wanted photos done here. I thought it would be my college graduation pictures, but this—this is better. It’s also a little private.

  “With Rose and Buck having to take the motorized cart, we’ll hear anyone coming. And I just have to know what you look like under here,” he says in a husky voice that only comes out when he is really—oh. I swallow as my hand finds his hard cock pushing against his jeans.

  “You have to be fast,” I warn as he drops to his knees and presses his mouth against my ass cheek. His hand flicks the white satin garter belt against my thigh before he takes a small nip of my skin.

  “This is happening,” he says, pulling my dress up as he stands. I hear his zipper lower, and I lean forward against wooden rail, now needing this as badly as he does.

  “I can’t believe I get to fuck my wife now,” he moans, sliding my lace panties to one side and pressing the tip of his cock into me.

  “Your wife really needs to be fucked,” I whimper, my eyes fighting to stay focused on the trail ahead and the tents and party in the distance.

  “Spread your legs,” he orders, and my devilish grin comes out to play.

  I’ve missed being wild with him, being rough and sweet all at once. We’ve had sex as I’ve healed, but he’s always been so cautious with me, as though afraid to hurt me. When I told him I want our wedding night to be all of the things, I was afraid he’d still hold back. But now, it seems I may need to hold him back. But not now. Definitely not now.

  I widen my stance and bend forward more, arching my back as much as I can as he pushes his cock inside of me.

  “I own this pussy,” he says, his dirty talk in my top ten favorite Wyatt Stone characteristics.

  “You do,” I moan as he slides all the way out. I cry, needing him back inside, and he delivers with a hard thrust that pushes my belly into the railing.

  We’re on a tight schedule, and he wastes zero time, picking up his pace and pumping his hips as his dick slides in and out of my soaking wet pussy. He leans forward, his chest covering my back as he reaches his hand around the front and gathers my dress up even more. His fingers find my clit, rubbing circles against the swollen wet skin while he fills me from behind. The tension builds just as I hear the first rumble of the cart hitting the trail in the distance.

  "People are starting to arrive, Wyatt."

  "Well, then, I guess you're going to have to come faster."

  His hand presses harder as his cock sinks deeper, and I cover my mouth as the first wave hits me and renders my entire body numb. Wyatt’s hands grip my hips, pulling me back into him with each thrust as he orgasms and fills me completely. His cum soak my panties as he slides them back in place.

  “You’ll know I was there all night,” he says, biting the edge of my ear, then kissing my neck as he zips up and buckles his belt.

  We straighten my dress, and I pace a little, mostly to get the blush that I know is heating my cheeks under control. Tasha is the first to arrive, and she eyes me skeptically—or maybe I simply feel guilty.

  We start with the family photos, then peel away one at a time to take pictures with our separate families and then with all of us together. I love that Wyatt and I are always at the center. I love that we’re surrounded by love. But more than anything, I love that we have a lifetime to look forward to. So many days of food, friends, dancing, and dirty little secrets out in the desert where I’m just Peyton, and he’s Wyatt, the boy who will always own all of me.

  Bonus - Epilogue

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  Twenty-eight doesn’t feel old. Not until I get dragged by a bunch of footballers ten years younger than me. Then? Then it feels ancient.

  “Arm sore, captain?” Reed catches me rotating my shoulder on the sideline after showing the Coolidge quarterbacks how to throw the cross route.

  “I’m fine, old man. You keep your arthritis cream to yourself. I don’t need it yet,” I tease. Honestly, though? I could maybe use a little.

  Spring ball at the high school is always a shit show. We get a lot of the hopefuls out, guys who probably shouldn’t be in the game of football but always wanted to try. or their parents want them to play. We play touch in the spring, then seven-on-seven in the summer with flag rules, but tackles happen. Only the solid guys come out for that. We travel, so it’s not worth the expense for guys who aren’t serious about the game. It’s where guys get the early college looks, too. It’s what got me my offers.

  “Hey, Coach Stone? Does this look broken?” Brady, a sophomore who should not come out for summer or fall, holds up his elbow. He’s got a good raspberry. It’s not even bleeding anymore.

  I pat his helmet and smile.

  “I think you’ll be fine, Brady. Maybe check out the summer track program, though. You’re fast as hell.” He’s decently fast. He’s better at running than he is at throwing and catching. And at a buck-twenty, maybe, he’s not built to take a tackle. I wouldn’t feel right encouraging him to be out here.

  “Yeah, I was thinking about it.”

  I’m glad to hear him say that.

  “Well, if you do, I’ll come to your meets.”

  “Okay.” He nods and smiles.

  I keep my promises to the kids. There are a few players I’ve encouraged to go other directions for safety reasons or their own mental health, and I always support their new paths. Kai, a guy who had one hell of a foot but was jittery under the pressure of Friday night lights, found a good home guarding the net for our soccer team. I’ve been to all his starts since he was a freshman. He’s a senior now and looking to play in college.

  “You’re good with them—the young ones.” Reed squints from the sun. It’s hot out today.

  “Thanks. Hey, maybe I’ll get the head coaching gig when this old fossil retires,” I jest.