He glowers at me, then snags a full cup of cold water from the bench and tosses it at my face.

  “Ah, fuck. Okay, yeah. I deserved that,” I say, wiping the droplets from my eyes and smoothing back my hair before pushing my hat back on my head.

  The spring guys are running laps, so Reed and I start to pick up. I’ve been coaching with him for five years now, since the combine came and went when I was twenty-three. I really thought I had it. We all did. But it wasn’t my year. I’m not sure I would have been ready right out of college either. I have zero regrets, even though Peyton always asks if I do. I understand where she’s coming from, but my life’s work is making sure she never feels an ounce of guilt for anything. I made my choices then, and I’d make them again. Spending the year with her—every follow-up surgery, the work she put in? It was inspiring to the human spirit. Ain’t no game of football that would give me that. And now that we’re trying to have kids—man, I’m a lucky has-been, and I’m good with that.

  But the competition? Yeah, I miss it a little. It’s what makes coaching so satisfying. And I feel like I have a lot to teach. Hell, sometimes I learn more out here than the young guys do. The things I’ve added to my football IQ over the last five years sure would have served me well in college. Maybe would have helped my combine showing too. Who knows?

  “Well, I’ll be damned. They’ll really just let anyone on campus, won’t they?” Reed says.

  I follow his gaze to the gate by the track. I haven’t seen Bryce Hampton since he got drafted. I probably should have stayed in touch, but it was awkward, him getting the call and me not. And then he washed out in two years, and that felt extremely awkward.

  “I guess that former Coolidge High QB title carries a lot of weight,” Reed says, pulling his hat off and swinging an arm around Bryce.

  Bryce rubs Reed’s balding head, and I laugh, having done it myself a few times. Once today. Reed sneers at us both, then pushes his hat back on. He shaves what hair he’s got up there, which is a good look on him, but it’s harsh in the sun. At fifty-two, I’m glad he’s not so proud that he doesn’t take care of himself. Mostly. He still drinks too much beer for having a family-history of heart problems. His dad is still kicking, though, which is the point he always brings up when Nolan warns him off the red meat.

  “Bryce, good to see ya, man,” I say, pulling him in for a hug. His beard is thick, but it’s patchy in places. Mine is better. I’ll always be trying to one-up this dude.

  “You’re actually the reason I’m out here. You got a minute?” he says, glancing at Reed in a way that makes me feel as though he wants to chat with me alone.

  “You know what? I’ll get these little shits to finish picking up the field, then head in. Stop by the office before you leave, though. I want to catch up and hear all about what you’re doing now.”

  Reed shakes Bryce’s hand.

  “For sure. I’ll see you in a few minutes,” Bryce says.

  He drops his hands into the pockets of his slacks. He’s wearing a deep gray polo and sunglasses that look expensive as shit.

  “You look more like a golfer every day,” I tease, leading him over to the bench. I offer him a paper cup of water, and he chuckles as he takes it.

  “I’m probably a better golfer than NFL quarterback, so that’s for the best,” he says, tipping the cup back and gulping the water down.

  “What’s up?”

  I take a seat on one end of the bench as he sits on the other, pulling his sunglasses off and tucking them in his collar. Leaning forward and balancing his elbows on his knees, his gaze swings in my direction. He breathes out a short laugh, his mouth pulled into a tight smile that I can’t read.

  “You talk to Jason lately?” he asks.

  My chest tightens a little, and I shake my head.

  “Not this week, but, I mean, yeah. We’ve talked.”

  Bryce nods slowly, and I start to feel a little uneasy.

  “What . . . Bryce, what’s this about?”

  He leans back, stretching an arm out along the back of the metal bench as he squints into the sun.

  “You played that semi-league a few months back, with the Rattlers?”

  I nod, then utter, “Yes.” How does he know that? Is he stalking me? It’s a minor, minor, minor league. I did it for fun, to hang out with Whiskey and see if I still had it. We won the league, but that meant five grand, which mostly went to taxes.

  “Portland noticed,” he says.

  I stare at him until he turns his head my way and repeats his words slowly.

  “Portland. They noticed.” His eyebrows lift.

  I tuck my chin and gurgle a belly laugh.

  “Yeah, they’re all up on the Tyler, Texas news, I’m sure. I bet they’ve got a whole list of QBs staring down thirty.”

  “Not a list. A name,” he says, and I realize he’s fucking serious.

  “Bryce, I’m . . . I can’t hang with that anymore.”

  Can I?

  He stands up and pulls a card out of his wallet, handing it to me. It’s the same firm Jason’s at. He’s an agent now. He’s dead serious. This conversation is really happening.

  “Think about it. Give me a call in a couple of days.”

  He slides his sunglasses on and turns halfway, gazing out on the field as he nods at distant memories.

  “Those were some pretty great games, weren’t they?”

  “Which ones?” I ask, feeling the sharp edges of his card press into the pads of my finger and thumb.

  His head swivels back to me, his lip tipping up on one side with a faint laugh.

  “All of them, Wyatt. All of them.”

  He holds up a hand, and I do too.

  “Call me,” he says.

  I think I answer, “I will.” I’m not sure if that was out loud, though. And I’m not sure I told the truth if it was. Will I? Do I even want to entertain this?

  I glance to my right where Reed is pointing toward the storage shed, directing the gangly group of freshmen to stack the pads neatly. I chuckle silently as I watch—they’re too short to stack them. Reed knows it, too. He’s fucking with them.

  I stand up and stuff Bryce’s card into the pocket of my joggers and rotate my arm a few more times. It’s not sore. It’s just . . . out of practice. Especially for throwing so many passes in a row. I wave to Reed as he looks my way, gesturing that I’ll wheel in the cart full of balls. He gives me a thumbs up, then holds out an arm to sling over Bryce as he walks up beside him. I pick up a few stray balls and drop them into the basket, but I keep one in my hand, rotating it with a short toss in the air repeatedly, until Bryce and Reed turn the corner and are out of sight.

  Portland noticed, huh?

  I had a good summer. It was a lot of fun. Mostly, it was a nice excuse for Peyt and I to get away with Tasha and Whiskey. Since they got married and had twins, double dates have been hard to manage, and getaways are impossible. But with the rental house in Texas and the summer off, it was a nice chance to escape and pretend we were young again.

  And the lights. The night games under the lights felt . . .

  I walk down the field, stopping at the ten-yard line, and toss the ball in my hand a few more times before scanning the landscape for witnesses. Joey, the seventy-year-old guy who works in maintenance, is swapping out a trash bag by the bleachers, but he’s not looking up.

  I dig the toes of my shoe into the turf, seeing how well my sneakers grip. These things are orthopedic, so not great. But they’ll do.

  With my eyes focused on the way the ball fits in my hand, I tune out the world around me and mentally put myself there—in the game. It’s a clean snap, and I fall back a few yards, checking the pocket, spotting my receivers, nodding to Keaton Jones as he turns at the sideline and sprints to the fifty. The defense is rushing so I have to spin and run wide right to buy more time. There are three seconds left. This is it—game on the line. One final play.

  I sling the ball with all I’ve got and fall back a few steps, imagining the blow I’d take if this were real. The ball spins tight, cutting through the air, on track to hit Keaton mid-stride. Nobody’s guarding him. It’s a clear shot to the end zone.

  My ball crashes into the middle of the cart, knocking it sideways and spilling the fifteen balls inside it in all different directions. My gaze pops up a tick to Joey, whistling with his fingers in his mouth.

  “You still got it, Coach!” He waves, and I wave back.

  I rotate my arm a few more times, expecting to feel something. And I do. I feel . . . good. Better than good. I jog to my mess and pick the balls up, tossing them in one at a time, but I keep one out and tuck it in under my bicep as I push the rest into the shed. I hold onto it as I hike across the parking lot to my truck, and I keep it nestled safely in my grasp as I stare out at the high school field of my old rival, where I now coach.

  Portland noticed.

  Preorder Final Down - Book 3 - https://mybook.to/FinalDown

  If you enjoyed this book, you might also like:

  The Varsity Series

  A New Adult Sports Romance Series

  Begin Your Binge with Varsity Heartbreaker

  Lucas Fuller is a lot of things.

  He’s the boy next door.

  He’s the first crush I ever had.

  He was my first kiss.

  He’s also the only person who has ever broken my heart.

  For two years, I’ve wondered what happened to the us I used to know.

  We were best friends, and then suddenly…we weren’t.

  I tried to run away from it. I even changed schools just to make the hurt disappear.

  But no matter how hard I tried to not think about Lucas, I just couldn’t stay away from the high school quarterback with perfect blue eyes and so many secrets.

  I’m back. We’re seniors now. We’ve grown—all of us. And Lucas Fuller might be different, but I’m different too.

  This is my time to take risks, to experience life and to fall in love for real.

  I want Lucas Fuller to be a part of my story, but I know for that to happen, I need to know the truth about our past.

  Acknowledgments

  It started at Home Game. I thought, “Yeah, all those requests were onto something. Peyton does have a story.”

  And then came Wyatt.

  And now, I am not sure how I will ever let these two go.

  This next generation series is such a wonderful creative gift, one I never expected. But this story has me in its grip, and I cannot wait to share book 3 with you all. Because I think it might just literally be EVERYTHING!

  Game Face was inspired by real athletic warriors, primarily Corey Hahn and Isabella Picard. I’ve followed them both for years, and as I was developing Peyton’s journey, I really started pull from those lessons and experiences they’ve shared. I won’t go into their individual stories here, they are lengthy, but I encourage you to check them both out. Isabella in particular. She’s in Peyton’s fabric for sure.

  I have to thank my team for standing behind me for this series. Autumn, there are no words good enough, but I’ll stick with thank you, I love you, and you are the one I lean on. Endlessly grateful to you.

  Brenda, my editor, you make all the good stuff sing. You are quite literally an angel, and a wizard. Both. For sure.

  As always, Mom, you are my strength. And my boys, you are my heart.

  In the end, it is because of you, my readers, that I get to do any of this. I read every email you send, try to hunt down every post on social media, love every share when you love one of my books, and am in bliss when I get to meet you in person. Thank you for taking a chance on my stories. I’ll keep them coming as long as you want them.

  If you enjoyed Game Face, please consider leaving a review. Those little stars and reviews make all the difference in whether a book is seen or not seen. And if you don’t yet, be sure you follow my newsletter (link in my about me section). I send out goodies, previews, and always announce what’s coming there first.

  And this next book for Peyton and Wyatt? It’s gonna be a doozy!

  XO,

  Ginger

  About the Author

  Ginger Scott is a USA Today, Wall Street Journal and Amazon-bestselling author from Peoria, Arizona. She has also been nominated for the Goodreads Choice and RWA Rita Awards. She is the author of several young and new adult romances, including bestsellers Waiting on the Sidelines, The Hard Count, A Boy Like You, This Is Falling and Wild Reckless.

  A sucker for a good romance, Ginger's other passion is sports, and she often blends the two in her stories. When she's not writing, the odds are high that she's somewhere near a baseball diamond, either watching her son swing for the fences or cheering on her favorite baseball team, the Arizona Diamondbacks. Ginger lives in Arizona and is married to her college sweetheart whom she met at ASU (fork 'em, Devils).

  FIND GINGER ONLINE: www.gingerscottbooks.com

  Also By Ginger Scott

  Final Score Series

  The Tomboy & The Captain

  The Wallflower & The Running Back

  The Best Friend & The Short Stop

  The Boys of Welles

  Loner

  Rebel

  Habit

  The Fuel Series

  Shift

  Wreck

  Burn

  The Varsity Series

  Varsity Heartbreaker

  Varsity Tiebreaker

  Varsity Rule breaker

  Varsity Captain

  The Waiting Series

  Waiting on the Sidelines

  Going Long

  The Hail Mary

  The Waiting Series - Next Generation

  Home Game

  Game Face

  Final Down - Book 3 Coming 2025

  Like Us Duet

  A Boy Like You

  A Girl Like Me

  The Falling Series

  This Is Falling

  You And Everything After

  The Girl I Was Before

  In Your Dreams

  The Harper Boys

  Wild Reckless

  Wicked Restless

  Standalone Reads

  The Moon and Back

  Southpaw

  Candy Colored Sky

  Cowboy Villain Damsel Duel

  Drummer Girl

  BRED

  The Hard Count

  Memphis

  Hold My Breath

  Blindness

  How We Deal With Gravity

 

 

  Ginger Scott, Game Face: The Waiting Series Next Generation

 

 

  Thank you for reading books on GrayCity.Net
Share this book with friends