I’m early to practice, the only car in the small lot next to the gym besides a familiar truck parked on the opposite corner. Bryce isn’t inside it, so I don’t think he’s stalking me. But it’s weird that he’s here, and at eight in the morning. They don’t have practice until four.

  Pulling the straps of my bag up over my shoulder, I hop out of the Jeep and lock it behind me before heading toward the track. It’s already nearing a hundred degrees out, the Arizona fall behaving a lot more like summer. It’s what makes our desert football teams so formidable. People come play us here early in the season and simply can’t hang in our heat.

  I lean into the fence, spotting Bryce running on the opposite side of the track. His pace is steady, and his shirt is off. He may be my ex but I’m human, and the man has kept up with his fitness. I’d still take the feel of Wyatt’s abs under my hand any day, but Bryce, he makes a good case for calling attention.

  His run slows to a jog when he spots me. He peels off the track after a few more steps and walks across the field where our soccer team practices. His hands are linked over his head, his elbows out, and I can see how hard his chest is working to catch his breath as he nears.

  “You know it’s better to show off where people will see you,” I tease.

  I back up a step as he meets the fence, hooking his fingers through the links and resting a foot near the bottom as he lunges into a stretch. He lifts his head and squints from the sun as he looks at me.

  “You saw me.”

  His mouth curves in that half grin he still wears well. It’s a glimmer of the cocky fifteen-year-old I fell for as a kid. Man, was I an easy target.

  “Yeah, but I have zero say over the starting quarterback slot.” I shrug, and he laughs out hard, letting go of the fence and backing away a few steps to stretch his quads one at a time.

  “You know, I still have shit balance,” he proclaims as he holds his right foot behind him while he wiggles on his left.

  “You’ve gotten better, though. A few years ago, you’d be on your ass by now.”

  He chuckles and lets his foot fall to the ground.

  “That’s fair.”

  He stretches the other leg, glancing up at me with his lips parted as if he has something to say. It makes my chest tighten.

  “I know why I’m here early. We hit the mat today, first time with the new routine. Unless you’re switching it up and coming to be a base, why are you putting in overtime?” I nod out toward the track, which is devoid of anyone else and looks fucking hot. The red all-weather rubber appears on the verge of melting, and I swear I see heat radiating from the concrete lip around the edge.

  Bryce drops his other leg and licks his lips, shifting his weight, then running a hand through his sweat-soaked hair. He’s been at this a while.

  “Honestly? Wyatt kicked my ass on the treadmills the other day, and it made me realize my cardio is shit.”

  Huh. Wyatt seemed to think Bryce was on par with him. I won’t tell Bryce that Wyatt was worried about the same thing, but he was. And he’s been running a lot more on his own too. Granted, Wyatt likes the trails. He gets up at dawn and scales the mountain and back.

  Bryce’s head tilts to the side as his hands land on his hips, his breathing back to normal.

  “Hey, you got a minute?”

  I glance behind me, the lot still empty. I like to be early, but I guess I can handle not being the one to flip the lights on.

  “Yeah, shoot.”

  He flashes a tight-lipped smile and holds up a finger, jogging to the edge of the track where his gym bag sits. He pulls out a towel and a white T-shirt that he slips over his head before jogging back toward me. I follow along as he makes his way to the gate between the track and the lot, near his truck.

  He opens the front passenger door and tosses his bag inside, then props a foot on the running board while he leans against the side of the seat. He picks at a hangnail on his thumb, a nervous fidget it seems because he quickly stuffs his hands in his pockets after not getting anywhere with the random grooming. His gaze remains focused on the asphalt between us.

  “I came here for you,” he says, words spilling out all at once, landing at my feet like a pile of hot vomit.

  What the fuck!

  “Bryce—”

  “At first,” he cuts in, finally lifting his head to meet our eyes.

  The churn in my stomach pauses, but the bubbling is still there. At first might make it better, but this still feels bad. On instinct, I scan the parking lot and nearby street for Wyatt.

  “I know, I probably should have kept that to myself.”

  “You definitely should have kept that to yourself,” I pile on, hugging myself with my arms and nervous energy.

  Bryce lets out a nervous laugh.

  “Yeah, I’m really bad at timing. I know. But I just have all this . . . stuff . . . on my chest.” He runs his fingertips around the center of his body in circles, his mouth twisted like he’s going to be sick.

  “Did Bryce Hampton grow a conscience?”

  He grimaces.

  “Sorry, continue.” I clear my throat and grab the sides of my T-shirt tighter. I need to hold on to something.

  “It wasn’t only about you. I wasn’t getting time on the field, and nothing was going right for me with football. I felt like I kept making bad decision after bad decision. And Wyatt had this great year, and then he got hurt. And I’ll admit, at first, I thought about the opportunity. Stepping in and filling his shoes. And yeah, you were here. And the idea of you seeing me at my best, maybe feeling . . . something . . . for me—I entertained that fantasy for a little bit.”

  “Key word—fantasy.” I need to make sure he knows where the line is between us.

  He nods and shoots me a quick, crooked smile as he holds a palm up.

  “Okay, yeah. I got it, Peyton. No need to totally demolish my ego.”

  My nerves settle, and I warm with a touch of guilt for making him feel bad. I don’t apologize, though.

  “I’m not sure what Wyatt told you about camp workouts or the first week of practice, but Peyt . . . he’s good for me.” There’s a tiny quiver to Bryce’s bottom lip, almost like he’s scared. I think maybe he’s embarrassed to admit this. I won’t poke fun because I get just how big this is. But I’m blown away hearing it.

  I take in a long breath and hold it in my lungs, my gaze flitting down before rising back up to meet Bryce’s.

  “Wow, that’s . . . kind of you to say. Have you told Wyatt?”

  “Ha! I mean . . . in little ways. Mostly when he looks like he wants to punch me. I try to let him know that I’m grateful to him. That I’m learning a lot.”

  I nod, honestly flabbergasted at how different this Bryce is from the one I used to know.

  “He’s not going to let you have the starting job. If you want it, you’ll have to take it.” This is the part I’ve been dreading since word of the transfer hit—the battle to be on the field. I have all the faith in the world that Wyatt is the best man for the job, and that he’ll keep his position. But there’s that lingering sting in the back of my mind that whispers, “What if?”

  What if Bryce knocks him out of starting QB?

  “I know I need to earn it. And I’m not going to just let him have it. I’m going to work my ass off and fight for it. But if it shakes out that I’m his number two, I just want you to know I’m good with it. Better than good. And maybe you can let him know, if that time comes.”

  “When that time comes,” I say, making sure Bryce gets where my loyalties lie on the field.

  His mouth quirks up with a quiet laugh.

  “Yeah, we’ll see.”

  He pushes off the truck and steps toward me, chewing at the inside of his mouth for a few seconds before looking at me through his lashes.

  “I’m sorry.”

  I blink a few times, taking in the non-verbal cues from his tight-lipped expression, the heaviness in his eyes, the sincerity of his stare. He means about me—about us, and how he was back then.

  “I know.” I won’t say it’s okay. He should know that about me.

  He nods and steps closer, stretching his arms out with his head tilted a hair.

  “Friends?”

  I draw in a sharp breath, and without thinking too hard, I give in and hug him back. It’s a quick embrace, but the way his hand drags against my back when we part, as if he’s clinging to some kind of hope, sticks with me. I get this strange sense that a part of him wanted to kiss me just then.

  “Friends,” I echo.

  The childlike smile makes its way back to his mouth. He looks lighter, too.

  “Go kill it in there. Hope they’re letting you fly,” he says, remembering how much I love the gymnastics of what I do.

  I start to walk backward, wanting to end on a high note with him.

  “I fly a little. But mostly, I’m there to throw other people in the air. It’s the damn Johnson muscles. My parents made me strong,” I say, flexing a bicep.

  “Apples and trees and all that,” he says through a chuckle.

  “Something like that,” I say, spinning as I continue to walk away. I hold up a hand to wave bye. I don’t hear anything more from him in return, but I can feel it without looking—he watches me all the way to the gym.

  Chapter Nine

  Ishould have listened to Peyt when she said to start early. My fault for assuming there wasn’t much left to move.

  It felt like we already had so much of her stuff at my place. Her clothes have filled half my closet for a year. My bathroom is basically hers. We make coffee with her Keurig and dinner in her insta pot. I figured since we were leaving the couch behind, we could get it all in one haul. And we’re turning Whiskey’s old room into a workout room for stretching and yoga. Hence, no bed to move. Whiskey never bothered with a frame so his was just a mattress, and we took that to Tasha’s on our first trip.

  Somewhere along the way, though, I miscalculated Peyton’s affinity for shoes. And sweaters. And headwear, including four cowgirl hats. One is my fault since I bought it for her at the spring rodeo. After six hours of carrying Peyton’s boxes into my place—our place—I’m wiped. And now I have to run through the entire playbook with our offense while Bryce watches, learns, and repeats. I only hope he doesn’t do it better.

  “Let’s start with the wide receiver slants.”

  Coach is wearing his game-day sunglasses. They block his eyes completely and obscure most of his expression so there will be no reading into his mood. At least not on his face. The man is always direct and to the point, so everyone’s first assumption is that he’s pissed off. I remind myself not to make that mistake and get caught up in my worries.

  “Yes, Coach!”

  I pop my mouth guard in and chew at the hard plastic while working the ball in my fingers. Keaton, our number one receiver this year, steps up to the line and I give him a nod.

  “Blue, forty-two! Blue, forty-two!” I shout, then fall back a few steps, faking a handoff before spinning out and hitting Keaton mid-stride just beyond the first down.

  “Good. Run it again,” Coach says.

  I flip my mouth guard around in my mouth, gnawing at it to keep myself from grinning like a child because he praised me. I shouldn’t need so much reassurance, but damn if I don’t. I glance at Bryce, his face stoic, eyes studying my every move. That fucker’s part robot now, I swear. He’s probably calculating every step I take and training his body how to shave off seconds, add in yards, double his speed.

  “Blue, forty-two! Blue, forty-two!” I pivot again, letting my body do its thing. Keaton runs the route, and I hit him right at the line, a step before he goes out of bounds.

  “Clean it up.” Coach’s criticism is warranted. It’s a good pass if we’re trying to save clock, run a two-minute drill down the field. But this season is all about scoring big. Coach made it clear that he wants us demolishing our opponents. It’s a tough schedule.

  “Yes, sir,” I say, chomping on my guard again, this time to hold in the self-admonishing swear words.

  I count it off again, dropping back and letting my mind go blank. It’s all rote. Every cell in my body is trained for this. Keaton barely glances over his shoulder before the ball is there for him, and he tucks it in his arm and sprints ahead another fifteen yards.

  “There it is. Yes!” Coach claps, then steps forward and points at Bryce.

  I jog over to Coach’s left side and give the field to Bryce. Coach pairs him with Nick, our number two. He’s not as fast as Keaton, and a small part of me hopes Bryce overestimates his speed and biffs the pass. It’s not what’s best for the program, but it would sure as hell be good for me.

  Bryce counts off and Nick takes off for his route, turning to find the pass right at his chest. The catch isn’t as smooth, but that’s more on Nick than it is Bryce, whose timing was actually right on target. Shit.

  “I like it! Run it again.” Coach shifts his weight, folding his arms over his chest as he chews at the toothpick in his mouth. The man has an endless supply of those things. It’s more superstition than dental needs for him. He goes through at least a dozen every practice.

  For the next hour, Bryce and I trade off running every single play, even the ones Coach only breaks out when he’s feeling lucky. I feel good on my feet, and I’m smoother in the pocket, but I can’t shake this nagging feeling that Bryce simply isn’t going away.

  Coach calls us to the sideline after he sends the rest of the guys off to the showers, and the fact the only guys out here are me, my former nemesis (easy on the former), our quarterback coach, and the man who holds my playing fate in his hands has my heart pounding.

  “I couldn’t be a happier man right now, gentlemen.” He pulls his glasses from his face, a rarity out here, and his eyes crinkle on the sides from both the sun and his obvious glee. I, however, feel as though I’m slowly sinking into the turf.

  “I agree,” Coach Skye, our QB coach, adds with a nod.

  I sink deeper.

  I’m noting every detail of everything—the way Coach Skye’s teeth are holding on to his thumbnail, his eyes set on Coach to take the lead, Bryce’s slow rock from side to side, his hands knotted behind his back. I feel small, though I’m the tallest dude out here. And I’m getting smaller by the second.

  “Wyatt, your recovery is incredible. I can tell you’ve worked your ass off to get back out here at one-hundred percent. You think you can handle the rush? Take the hit if our pocket turns to shit?”

  I nod.

  “Yes, sir. I’m stronger. I really worked to shore up my core and legs.” I mean, I’ve been working on it, but I feel the same—no better, no worse. That’s not what he wants to hear, though, and now, I’m selling myself like one of those dudes on Wall Street.

  “Good. Good.” He’s nodding as his gaze wanders to the empty space between Bryce and me, as if he’s still trying to decide what he’s going to do. When his gaze snaps to Coach Skye, my heart stops.

  Shit. Shit. Shit.

  “I’d like to try something,” he says.

  Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit.

  I nod and wish I had a mute button for the voice in my head. I glance to my right where Bryce has quit rocking, and his chin lifts a tick.

  “Yes, sir.” His Adam’s apple bobs with a hard swallow. I’d feel a little bad for the stress he’s feeling if I weren’t in this fucking whirlpool with him.

  “I want to run two quarterbacks.”

  My instant deep breath is audible, and my chest fills as I lean back. I’m no longer looking directly at Bryce, but I see his posture do the same in my periphery.

  “It’s not something we’ve done in a while, and with this season’s schedule, and the different approaches, we’re going to have to tool to every defense. I’d like to give this a try.”

  “I’m all in, Coach. Absolutely.” Bryce is practically bouncing on his feet.

  I run my fist over my cheek, my mouth open with a million questions at the ready, but when Coach’s gaze hits mine, I shut it. His mind is made up. And he’s about to answer anything he cares to for now. I sink deeper.

  “Wyatt, you’re the starter. There’s no doubt that your arm strikes fear in our opponents. We need that. And with our one-two punch in Keaton and Nick, I see big scoring games in our future. Lots of forty-burgers.”

  My lungs relax.

  “For sure, Coach. It felt good with Keaton today. I think I could hit that dude with my eyes closed, and his speed is up, for sure.”

  Sell it, Wyatt!

  “Good. I agree. And Bryce⁠—”

  My lungs cinch right up. My stomach hurts.

  “I think we need your bulk for those running plays. Maybe we’ll have you in for a pass or two, just to keep people guessing. I want that arm ready, and I want you learning from Wyatt. But when we need to move that ball a yard—punch it in the end zone—I’d like to see what you can do.”

  Bouncing. Fucking. Toddler.

  “Absolutely.” Bryce glances to Coach Skye, and the two share a nod, as if they’ve cooked this whole thing up together. Now I’m a paranoid lunatic. I need to stop my mind before it runs me out of a job.

  “Fantastic. Thanks for today, guys. You were great.”

  “Thank you,” Bryce and I say in unison. I feel his eyes flash to me, and I can sense his grin. I’m sure my mouth looks as if it’s about to vomit, so I do my best to force my lips together tight. I can’t muster a smile.

  “Hit the showers. We run the full game plan against Tech starting tomorrow. We go hard all week. And Saturday we make a statement.”

  Coach says those last few words as he’s walking away. Coach Skye shakes both of our hands, then jogs to catch up to his boss. Bryce is lingering, so I stay back with him, knowing he wants to talk this shit out. I’m not sure I’m ready to be the bigger man, though.

  I walk over to the water station, the ground littered with paper cups, and I stoop to clean up.

  “The student field crew will get that,” Bryce says.