“No break between practice and class?” I quirk a brow.

  “We don’t all get the football player accommodation schedules, you know. Some of us have to take the classes we need to graduate when they’re offered. All of mine happen to be ass-crack of the morning.”

  I kick off the blankets and swing my feet to the floor, stretching my arms over my head as I let out a big yawn. Before Peyton looks away, I pound my chest with my right fist and grunt out, “Caveman like his online classes with no real due dates. Make him real good at business one day.”

  She rolls her eyes, but we both laugh. It’s an ongoing joke we have with her family about the total scam the business education track is for football players. It’s the one degree that can be “massaged,” according to the booster members who demanded it when Reed was a student here. Most of the guys on the team who go this route figure they’ll either land in the NFL or end up in sales and make big bank on their winning personalities. Personally? I actually want to learn valuable business skills so maybe one day I can build something like Peyton’s parents have—a business that honors my father’s name.

  I guess quarterback fame and my winning personality will have to do.

  “Don’t forget!” Peyton hollers before rushing out of our apartment.

  I grab my phone to set a reminder, then jump in the shower before logging in to my online portal to catch up on homework for my finance class. I spend an hour balancing a few sample spreadsheets, then buzz through an online quiz after a video that I don’t watch but simply read the closed captioning for. I leave our apartment feeling absolutely zero-percent smarter than I did when I came home last night. But at least I’ll make it to weights with Bryce and Shad on time, then a catered lunch paid for by the booster club, followed by hours of Tech football video from last year.

  Bryce is already warming up on the treadmill when I arrive. I let myself feel the pangs that come with my insecurities for exactly four seconds, then tuck them away. The last few days of practice have all been mental works in progress for me, but I’m getting there. And I’m embracing sharing the field with him, despite the piece of me that still wants it all to myself.

  “Slackers. Still stuck at eight?” I hop onto my treadmill between Bryce and Shad and warm my way up to nine miles per hour, but I back it down to eight after a minute.

  “You know, not all of us are here for our arms, Wyatt.” Bryce is doing a little shit-talking with me this morning because I started calling him Legs after Coach yelled the word at him at least fifty times at practice yesterday.

  “Use your legs!”

  “Why get legs that big if you can’t use them to get your ass over that line?”

  “More legs!”

  “Legs! Legs! Fucking legs, goddammit!”

  Whiskey caught on first, so full credit for the nickname goes to him. He was coined Bubble Ass our freshman year, which is fitting because his glutes are rock solid but enormous. He wanted the center job, but he’s too fast to waste his speed. I think he’s come to love playing right guard. I sure as hell love having him there. My collarbone breaker didn’t get through him—he got through the left.

  “You gonna start waxing those things, pretty them up?” I tease, pointing to Bryce’s right thigh as we slow to a walk.

  “I hear pale and hairy is in now,” he cracks.

  Shad spits out laughter on the other side, and for perfect comedic timing, the three of us turn just in time to catch Whiskey stepping into the weight room with his shirt off and his full chest of hair dyed half red and half blue for game day.

  “What the ever-loving fuck is that, man?” Shad walks up to him and pokes a finger into the tuft on Whiskey’s right pec.

  “My new roommate thought it would be fun.” He levels me with a quick grimace but cracks a smirk when he looks down at himself. He runs his hand through the center of his chest like he’s trying to fluff it up.

  “What have I done?” I say to him, putting a hand on his shoulder as I make my way toward the free weights.

  It’s a light lifting day, today’s quarterback work out is more about arm care than strength. We’re through our reps in less than an hour and upstairs for lunch before most of the team. I finish my first plate by the time everyone makes their way through the line of food, so I dash up to the serving station to grab one more cornbread muffin before Coach begins his talk.

  “Too many of those and you’ll start to look like me.” I halt my hand under the heat lamp, the muffin pinched in my tongs as my grin slowly spreads at the familiar voice.

  “Let me guess, they signed you to split time with me too?” I say to Peyton’s dad.

  “Shiiiiit, my knees can’t handle that anymore,” Reed says, slinging an arm around me and pulling me into one of those hugs that instantly reminds me he will always be in charge of whether I live or die because I’m with his daughter.

  “Besides, if I were to join the team, all your asses would be benched,” he chokes out in a half-cough-half-laugh.

  “Reed, good to see you. Come on up,” Coach says, pulling him away from me.

  I take my muffin back to the table and sit a little taller. Something about having Reed in my corner gives me strength. Maybe it’s his legacy. It’s sticky. Whoever touches him gets a bit of the magic. At least, that’s the lie I tell myself. So far, it’s working.

  Bryce leans toward me across the table.

  “You know what this is about?” He nudges his head in Reed’s direction, and I shake my head.

  Reed takes a seat at the long table set up at the front of our dining hall. The windows overlook the stadium, and even though the sun is up, the lights are on as workers prep the seats and concourses for tomorrow’s game. There’s nothing quite as grand as running through that tunnel. One more year of it. Then, if I’m lucky, a whole new tunnel.

  A few more men around Reed’s age make their way into the dining hall, each of them embraced by a different player. And when Whiskey’s Uncle Luke taps my friend on his shoulder for a surprise, it dawns on me. Whiskey’s dad passed away last year, so his uncle stepped in for family day. Reed . . . he’s here as my family.

  “Oh,” I murmur when the full picture hits me.

  I glance across the table to meet Bryce’s wide eyes. In a blink, his focus shifts over my shoulder. I follow his line of sight until I see the man I only saw once before. We were in high school, getting our asses handed to us by our high school coaches and a cop after a bunch of the players from both towns schools decided to drag race in the desert. Bryce’s dad came to pick him up—or bail him out if things went that way. He stuck around while we all ran bleachers until the sun came up. He didn’t seem angry or disappointed in his son. He didn’t seem interested at all, now that I recall that night. He sure seems interested now, though.

  “Fuck me.” Bryce’s voice is low, but it’s easy to read his lips. I’m sure his father did.

  Unlike everyone else with a special guest here today, Bryce remains in his seat. He clears his throat and holds up a hand to wave hello as his father walks along the outskirts of the room to take a seat near Reed. The two of them shake hands, but when Reed sits down, he holds up his phone to signal for me to check mine.

  REED: Bryce okay with this?

  ME: Define okay.

  I look up to meet the straight line on Reed’s mouth just before he slowly shakes his head. My gaze moves to Bryce, who is suddenly very interested in cleaning his plate.

  ME: He’s gonna need some help.

  I watch for Reed to get my new message, then catch the tiny nod he gives me before putting his phone back in his pocket. Coach starts to speak, and everyone in the room adjusts their seats to look at him head on. Bryce must turn his completely around, which means I won’t be able to monitor his expressions, but I can keep an eye on his dad.

  He’s surprisingly older than I remember him, especially for only four years having passed. His hair is still the same buzz cut, and his build is a cookie cutter of his son, maybe slightly smaller. He’s a lot grayer than I remember, though. And his face looks stretched, almost like he had plastic surgery or something. Shit, did he?

  “I know you all are sick and tired of hearing me preach about our tough schedule⁠—”

  The room fills with our collective groans as Coach waves a hand and laughs it off.

  “You’ll see. We’ll be six games in, and you all will be saying, ‘Damn, if only Coach warned us about this tough schedule.’” His joke garners a good laugh.

  “I thought it might be nice for us to try a little something different, maybe a new tradition. I don’t know. We’ll see if we win or not.”

  A light chuckle filters through the room.

  “I’m a big believer in family. When you all filled out your profiles for Media Day, you might remember a question or two about the people who inspired you to play the game. Well, we had help from the booster club to make it happen, and a lot of those people are here today. I’d like to give them all a chance to send you out there with some wise words. So if you don’t mind getting things started for us, Reed?”

  There’s a wave of applause and a few whistles while Reed takes the mic. He stands at his seat and looks around the room before landing on me. My cheeks burn from the attention, but I like it. It means something. More than anything, this moment is one I will never forget, even if he doesn’t say a word.

  “I don’t know how many of you know this, but your QB1 over there is dating my daughter.” Shad punches me in the arm as Whiskey pounds the table, and the room fills with guffaws as hands slap over mouths. Even Bryce turns to face me and laughs, mouthing, “I’m so glad this is you.”

  I shrink down a few inches in my chair, my palms sweating on my thighs. Nevertheless, I can’t get the grin off my face.

  “You should also know that this little shit broke not one, not two, but all of my state high school records.”

  Our table shakes from pounding all around this time. Whiskey stands up and slaps his chest, shouting, “What what?”

  “He’s still short of the ones I hold here, though.” Reed points at me and winks as the crowd eats him up.

  “I got a year left, old man!” I shout back, this time the room roaring in my favor. Even Coach is laughing so hard that he has to wipe away a tear.

  “We’ll see, Wyatt. We’ll wait and see. I hear your schedule is pretty tough.” He points to Coach with that joke and gets our skipper to roll his eyes as he chuckles.

  “Kidding aside, what I wanted to say to you today isn’t about how great I think you are, and what I know you’re going to do this season. I wanted to tell you how proud I know your dad would be if he were the one standing in this room right now.”

  Damn.

  My eyes glisten without warning, the tears welling up fast. I run my arm along them only to face them getting full again.

  “I mean it, kid. You’re special, and I know he had to be one hell of a special guy to make someone like you. And he’s still watching; I think you know that. He’s got the best seat in the house, and he wouldn’t miss a game. Love you, son.”

  I shake a little, spitting out my cry as I bury my face in my hands and draw in a sharp breath to try to make it stop. I can’t shut it off so easily, though, and really . . . I shouldn’t. I get up from my seat and Reed hands the mic off to the guy next to him. We meet at the end of the long banquet table, and I hug him as if he’s channeling my father through his embrace. His hand pats my back, and I adjust my grip on his. I needed those words more than he could possibly realize.

  “Thank you,” I say over his shoulder.

  “I mean it. I love you, son. You’ve got this. All of it.”

  I step back and our arms fall to our sides. A little nervous laughter gets me through the remaining tears, and I notice a few guys near me are tearing up, too. I’m not the only one in here with a dead dad. Hell, Whiskey is going to choke up like a baby too. It’s a shared pain and a shared joy. I wouldn’t wish it on anyone.

  By the time I make it back to our table, Bryce’s father has gotten the mic. I’m tempted to move my chair so I can sit next to him, maybe stand on his foot to keep him from leaping up from the table and picking a fight. But that’s the old Bryce. I must start having some faith in him at some point, until he gives me a reason not to.

  “Hey, son.”

  Bryce lifts his head to meet his dad’s gaze, and he lifts a hand as he forces a smile on his face.

  Bryce’s father draws in a long breath.

  “Yeah, that’s the welcome I figured I’d get. It’s all right, though. I love you anyway. And I know when you get your shot, you’ll be a star. You were always so talented. Man, in high school . . . am I right, Reed?”

  “You were never there,” Bryce mutters. My muscles tense and I flash a look at Whiskey. He leans forward, cupping his mouth to whisper something to Bryce.

  “I’m fine, it’s fine,” Bryce whispers back over his shoulder. His eyes meet mine for a blip, long enough for me to shake my head and silently beg him not to go down that tempting road.

  “Anyway, good luck tomorrow, kid. We’ll all be rooting for you.” His dad takes his seat and hands the mic to his right. Bryce turns around and finishes his plate. And when lunch is done, he leaves the room before his father has a chance to cross it and shake his hand for real.

  Chapter Twelve

  ME: Do you see Wyatt?

  TASHA: Not yet. I’m here, though. You know, the superior roommate.

  Ipurse my lips and blink at her text, deciding not to brand it with a laughing emoji because I’m anxious, and her jokes aren’t helping. This is the first routine I’ve been a mid-base for since I started college cheer. It’s not quite flying, but it’s close—close enough. My friend Alicia is our main flyer, and I’m not sure I’m down for how high she gets thrown. I’m good to catch her on her way down, though.

  The band is running through this week’s show for the two hundred and fifty big donors who are sort of watching the stage. This whole event is set up for one reason and one reason only—NIL money for programs like ours. The ones who support the football game. What we do here today won’t matter as much for me, but it will make a difference for the underclassmen supporting their education while pursuing their passions. I gave my NIL offers away. The one commercial I ran for a local coffee spot earned enough for one of my teammates to cover half of her tuition. It didn’t seem right that I took money I didn’t need. The commercial, though? That was kind of fun.

  “We’re on the mat in ten, ladies. Get ready.” Coach Kane has a special way of clapping her hands—it produces a near-deafening boom that startles everyone in a twenty-foot radius to attention.

  I check my phone for one last text from Wyatt or Tasha. Nothing new from anyone, so I put it away in my bag backstage and scurry my way to the other side of the stage for my opening tumbling pass.

  My wrists feel good, but I add one more layer of tape, probably more to settle my nerves than anything, and chalk my hands as the band finishes their last song.

  Horns blare at the audience while the drumline pounds out a rhythm so heavy I feel it in my ribcage. Half the reason the band is playing so loudly is to make sure everyone is paying attention. It seems to work as most people find their way to seats by the time the musicians form a long row across the stage and a second in front of it. As they blast out the final note, half the room is on their feet clapping and whistling.

  Just wait until they hear our obnoxious music break through the speakers in this place. The mixtapes are everyone’s least favorite part of competitive cheer. My dad could write a book of bad jokes he’s told about the songs over the years, but he shows up anyway. He’d be here today, but he’s busy wining and dining a few of the big donors to the football program.

  When he told me he’d be on campus for that already, I had to ask him to step in for Wyatt at his luncheon. My mom mentioned that Whiskey’s uncle had gotten a call from the boosters to show up for a family day, and I didn’t want Wyatt to be left out, or for his mom to have to call off work when she’s already coming out this weekend for the opening game. Besides, as sexist as it is, it’s very much a boy’s club in that room. I couldn’t think of a better man to stand in for Wyatt, besides maybe my grandfather. But Grandpa Buck isn’t doing much out of the house these days. He still watches all the games, though, every single one of them—Wyatt, all the local universities, Coolidge and Vista High. The rivalry continues to be his favorite.

  The lights in the arena dim, so I mind my pulse and take a few deep breaths before glancing one last time around the seats. When a door across the arena on the concourse level opens, everything in my chest settles. Of course it’s him. And, of course, he’s coming in the wrong way. And naturally, Whiskey is with him. And everyone is looking in their direction instead of at the stage where we’re about to perform. Always stealing my spotlight, that boy.

  I don’t mind a bit. He’s here.

  Wyatt waves at me like a fool before he and Whiskey charm the security guard into letting them sit in the top row across the arena. It’s not only the best view, but it will also be the least abusive assault on the ears when our music starts.

  The arena manager turns on the spots, and at the first beat, I take a deep breath and haul ass across the stage for my first tumbling pass. I stick the round-off landing, then move into formation for our short dance routine before centering myself to help launch Alicia up her first fly. The roar in the room after we catch her sends a jolt of electricity through my body. This is always my favorite part of cheer competitions. The way an audience reacts feeds into our routine and makes it stronger, makes me tumble higher and move crisper.

  The stunt we’ve been rehearsing all week is coming up, but I try not to focus on it so much that I lose my way through the middle of the routine. I think we could win nationals this year with this performance, especially if we stick everything. I’ve noticed a few mistakes so far today, but nothing anyone out there would recognize. I look at everything with a critical eye, just like Coach Kane.