Wyatt

"Get those asses movin' boys!" Coach Castillo calls, his anxiety over state playoffs already fraying his typically calm nerves. "You expect to win State when you're runnin' like a bunch of damn sloths? Move! Move!"

It's overcast, and the clouds are so dark I fear we'll be washed away when they release their wrath upon us. Texas thunderstorms never cease to amaze, though the lightning and thunder haven't rolled in just yet.

"Your daddy's gonna kill me," Nash groans, picking up his pace. Ari, Nash and I have teamed up, running our suicide drills. "Does he want his team dead before we make it to Dallas?"

"We won't go to Dallas if you have an attitude like that," Ari grunts, somehow managing a smile as we push ourselves down the field.

"You may just follow in your daddy's coaching steps yet," I wheeze, tapping into my remaining stores of energy and unleashing my competitive side. "See you at the finish line, dickheads!" I take off, sprinting to the end zone.

Might've had a little extra motivation though. I see Colby waiting by the uprights, clad in spandex and a smile.

Hell, yeah. That's my girl.

"Baby," I rasp, bent at the waist with my hands braced on my knees to catch my breath. After a moment, I slink toward her. She eyes me warily, and I know she's reading my mind. I lunge forward, encircling her in my arms, despite her giggling in protest.

"Wyatt!" she gasps. "You're so sweaty! Ew, babe...and stinky."

"You like it," I muse, bringing my mouth to hers. She clasps her arms tightly around my neck, her body melting into mine, and I'm pretty sure I'm forgiven for my indiscretion.

"I do," she whispers.

"Gross, you guys," Mari says from behind me. "I mean, I'm glad you're back together too, but sheesh. Nobody wants to watch you eat each other's faces." She sidles up next to us, propping a hand on her hip, grinning.

Colby blushes, disentangling herself from my embrace and wrapping a chaste arm around my waist.

I throw my arm over B's shoulders. "Nice to see you, too, Mari."

"Hey Mar," Nash greets before he flops to the turf, having finally reached us. Ari follows suit, dropping to the ground next to Nash, each with their arms slung over their eyes.

"One would think the two of you are on the verge of your demise," Mari snorts.

"Took you long enough," I add. "I even had time to make out with my girlfriend while I was waiting for you jokers."

"Take five, you little babies!" Coach Castillo shouts to the team. We need it. He's been riding us hard today.

Ari and Nash slowly make their way to their feet, knowing they're no longer in imminent danger of having to run any more drills. We should be moving on to a scrimmage next, thank goodness.

"Golden boy doesn't look so good today," Ari says, taking a swig of water and nodding toward Cole. "He's underthrowing all of his receivers. Pops is gettin' pissed."

I watch Cole take a snap, and he limps backward into the pocket. He pumps the ball twice before he releases it. It sails a respectable distance but lands well shy of his intended target, Silas Alverez.

Coach Castillo goes berserk, lumbering toward Cole where he yells in his face, gesturing wildly. Cole's shoulders slump in response as he nods his head. He looks...dejected. Lost, even.

I don't care. Much.

Hell.

I'm still furious with that bastard, believe me. But I can't help but think about all the things weighing him down. Maybe I'd have hauled off and punched me too if it were me in his position. We're all seniors, so there's the uncertainty of the future on all of our minds. Still, his future now includes a lifetime forever entwined with Wynn's—and their child.

I'd be off my game, too.

That's assuming he's accepted his status as the father. Based off of how rattled he is today at practice, I'm thinking he has.

Colby and Mari begin waving to someone in the distance, drawing my attention back to our gathered crew. It's Wynn. She's making her way around the perimeter of the field, and seemingly going to great lengths to avoid getting too close to Cole, heading straight for the student lot.

"Why's she leaving?" Ari asks. "Isn't she going to practice with you?"

"She quit," Colby answers glumly. "I understand why, but I'll miss her."

"Now we're stuck with a bunch of ditzy airheads, without Wynn's amazing wit to protect us," Mari laments, glancing toward the sky where an easy drizzle has begun to fall. "C'mon, B, the rain's coming. Let's head to the cafeteria before we end up soaked." She grabs Colby by the arm, dragging her away from me for cheer practice. B pecks my cheek before she backpedals away behind Mari.

"Bye, honeybuns," Nash shouts toward Mari's retreating form. Mari spins, blowing a kiss at her beau.

I'm about to tease my whipped buddy, when Ari pats my arm. "Allow me. Ew, Nash! Nasty, nasty!"

Nash chuckles, completely immune to Ari's chastisement, and I glance back toward the scrimmage at center field just in time to watch Cole get leveled by our defense.

He was watching Wynn.

"Damn," I mutter, shaking my head. Ari and Nash grimace, and I know they saw it, too.

Lightning streaks across the sky, and I see a few of my teammates drop to the ground. We don't mess around with storms here. Everyone knows better than to get caught out in one. The thunder follows right on its heels, indicating we're about three seconds away from being right in the eye of the tempest.

"Shit!" Nash shouts.

"Indoors!" Coach bellows. "Indoors, now!"

We streak across the grounds, arms filled with helmets, water bottles, and towels, just in time to avoid the torrential downpour that follows. I'm just about to head for my locker, assuming that practice is over for the day now, when Coach pipes up.

"Interval sprints on the stairs, boys. Go!"

I sigh. It's gonna be a long practice.

...

I'm finally headed home, the cab of my truck loaded down with my smelly football gear and books of all subjects. I'm not sure I'll be able to get to all this homework tonight.

The storm has let up, though it hasn't completely moved on. A light rain still falls, obscuring my view through my windshield for a few seconds in between each swipe of my window wipers. I'm about five miles from home when I roll by somebody dressed out in a North football jersey—number eleven.

Cole.

I stop my car, throwing it into reverse on the nearly deserted road, a two-lane highway that leads out to the countryside, and a few rundown businesses and apartment buildings. Something doesn't add up. I come to a stop beside my teammate, rolling down my window.

"...Hey?"

"Don't start with me, Wyatt," he fumes. He's pretty well drenched from head to toe, and jacketless to boot.

"Do you want a lift?" I inquire. He eyes me, as if to judge my seriousness. "Really."

He sighs, wordlessly making his way to my truck. He opens the door, climbing in and gingerly easing himself into the passenger seat before pulling his seatbelt across his lap, wincing.

"You okay?" I ask. I know he took a hit or two during practice, but he's taken far worse during many of our games. I've never seen him like this.

"Fine," he grunts. He reaches into his gym bag, exchanging his soaked jersey for a dry Henley.

"Don't you live back there?" I ask, jerking my thumb in the opposite direction.

"I used to," he replies tersely. "I moved to the Orchard Place apartments a day ago."

"Oh..." I say, confused as hell.

"Go ahead and ask," he says quietly.

"Nah," I say. "It ain't my business." And I mean it. He can tell me if and when he wants to. He's become a bit of a pariah at school, his friends giving him the go around after the incidents of last weekend. Now this?

I turn my car around, pointing it toward town once more. "Let's go grab some dinner," I say. "My treat."

"Why are you being so nice?" he asks warily. "Your face is still bruised from my fist. I almost stole your girlfriend. What gives?"

I laugh. "You did not almost steal my girlfriend, dude. Not even close," I say. "And I might've punched me too, in your position. I get it."

He scoffs. "Still."

"How 'bout you look like you could use a friend right about now," I offer.

He nods. "Okay."

We hit up the local Applebee's, each of us ordering a hamburger and Coke. We sit in a booth in the nearly deserted restaurant, too early for the dinner rush. Cole rips his straw wrapper into pieces and then moves on to his napkin while we wait for our food. I can tell he feels awkward.

"I told my parents," he says, catching me off guard.

"About...Wynn? The baby?" I ask.

He averts his eyes, swallowing hard. "Both. My old man didn't take it so well. Beat the ever-lovin' shit outta me." He glances my way, a sad smile on his face. "Guess it wasn't much worse than what he normally doles out though."

Cripes.

"I...your dad beats you?" I hiss, stunned beyond words. Cole lives a perfect life. Well, that's what everyone always thought. Captain of the football team, sprawling mansion, picture perfect family—the whole nine yards. Or not.

"Shocking, huh?" he asks with a humorless laugh. "The great Harris Galloway. He beats me and my mom, but not my sister 'cause she always takes his side. Never hits us where anyone would see a mark, though."

"I'm..." I shake my head, my fatigued mind working to come to terms with all the information he's throwing my way.

"It's okay," he continues. "He was pissed as hell when I told him I was gonna be a daddy. Told me to send Wynn for an abortion. When I refused, he told me he'd cut me off if I continued to have anything to do with Wynn and her family or the baby. The Galloways and Caldwells have hated each other for decades, you know." He rolls his eyes, undoubtedly irritated by their strife-riddled family histories.

"So I've heard."

Our food arrives, and I'm certain that'll be the end of the gut spilling, but I'm wrong.

"Well anyway, my dad made good on his promise," Cole says in between bites of hamburger. "Sent me packing with only the stuff I could fit in my car, and to prove he wasn't a total ass he let me keep my Beamer."

"That was generous," I growl. My anger grows with each revelation. I can't wrap my head around what he's been dealing with for his whole life. My father never laid a finger on me. Not unless it was to give me a hug or a pat on the back.

I feel like a prick.

"Right?" he snorts. "So, I got kicked out, sold my Beamer, moved into a piece of crap apartment, and found out I was gonna be a father. All in all, a good week."

"Look," I begin. "I've been a douchebag. I'm sorry man, I—"

"Stop," he says, holding up a hand. "I've been a jackass, too. And so far, you've been the only person to show me any kindness this week. I think it's fair to say I've misjudged you for years now."

"Ditto," I assert. "Truce?" I extend my hand across the table.

"Truce," he agrees, shaking my hand.

We finish our meal without discussing Cole's plight any further. He doesn't want my pity. I wouldn't want that either. What he needs is a friend.

And now, that's what he'll have.