Chapter 12
Chapter Twelve
ME: Do you see Wyatt?
TASHA: Not yet. I’m here, though. You know, the superior roommate.
I purse 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.
I ready myself for the stunt, clapping out my count as I march backward into a back handspring and the grasp of two of my teammates. They catapult me onto a set of shoulders, and my feet feel solid. With a slight bend to my knees, I’m ready to absorb the shock for Alicia as my team sends her to the top. The hours of practice take over as she launches herself upward. I brace her right leg, holding her high in the air, smiling through the harsh stab of her heel against my bicep. The toughest part of stunt cheer is wearing a smile the entire time, especially when elbows and heels are digging into soft parts of my skin. But it feels easier today. Maybe this was the perfect audience to debut this routine in front of. They’re natural fans, and the fact half of the room is businessmen with a thing for cheerleaders— typical— doesn’t hurt either.
Alicia dismounts, and I fall forward into a basket catch seconds before we lead the room through the fight song. The band joins us, and for the next minute and twenty seconds, this arena bleeds red and blue.
It would be hard to miss the whistles coming from across the arena, especially because Whiskey can be so damn loud. But the fact our starting quarterback dropped in seems to really be the cherry on top for the alumni. While I busy myself taking photos with people, Wyatt does the same as he makes his way down the steps and across the arena to me.
“You made it,” I say when he pulls me from my last photo op and into his arms.
“I told you I’d be running in right from the field.” He lifts his sweatshirt to show his practice jersey underneath. I’m not sure what’s underneath his sweatpants, but my guess is nothing. That’s not for this room to see.
Two men in sharp gray suits step up to us, not seeming to care that Wyatt’s hands are on my hips and my hands are linked behind his neck. I’ve watched my parents navigate this exact situation so many times, and I’m instantly struck with how similarly Wyatt handles it.
“You want a photo with the star? I could never do the crazy shit she does,” he says, holding me close.
The men chuckle but quickly realize that if they want a photo with Wyatt, they’re gonna have to have me in it too because there’s no way he’s letting go.
“Good luck tomorrow,” one of them says after the selfie, shaking Wyatt’s hand.
“Thanks, man. We hope to put up some big numbers this year.”
He wears confidence well. It’s nice to see him standing tall, both physically and emotionally. He’s been doubting himself lately because of his injury and the pressure of splitting time with Bryce. He won’t believe me because it goes against his humble demeanor, but Bryce could end up running every single touchdown this season, and Wyatt would still be the one everyone loves. They’ll wear his number and name on their backs, and they’ll pray he stays local when he goes pro. And not just because we’d never even get near the end zone without his arm. It's because Wyatt Stone is incredibly easy to love.
After an hour of forcing my smile into my cheeks and shaking hands with donors while they regale Wyatt with tales of my father, and even recite Wyatt’s own great plays to him, the arena finally quiets. Whiskey bailed right after our show, but not Wyatt. He stayed for every moment, even when the praise was for our stunt team and had zero to do with football.
“Your cheeks are pink,” I say to him as he hoists my gym bag over his right shoulder, threading his left hand in mine.
“I’ve had a lot of sun lately,” he says. I chuckle and turn into him, lifting on my toes to rub my thumb along his upper lip and cheek.
“I don’t think it’s from the sun. I’m pretty sure you’re wearing more of my lipstick than I am.” There’s a fairly bright smudge on the corner of his mouth, and I decide to leave that one there. I like people knowing he’s taken.
Wyatt backs into the exit door, holding it open for me as I walk through before he twirls me as if we’re dancing. He rolls me into his body, then kisses me hard enough that I think he’s trying to take the rest of my candy red lip color from my face.
He holds me close, locked in his arms as our noses touch. I close my eyes when his mouth moves to kiss my forehead. It’s the little gestures like this, his quiet declarations, his soft adoration, that make my heart feel so certain.
“Thank you,” he croaks.
My eyes flutter open, but I don’t glance up, instead pulling my hands in to grab two fistfuls of his sweatshirt and rests them against his heart.
“My dad didn’t embarrass you, then?” I smirk to myself, sure Reed Johnson got off a joke or two in the mix. My dad loves a captive audience. Especially a tipsy one.
Wyatt’s chest shakes with his silent laugh and his lips land on the top of my head again.
“I love when your dad embarrasses me. Live for it,” he muses.
“ Mmm , he has you whipped,” I tease.
“Ha, sure does. Nothing like his daughter, though. I mean, that music must be made in a torture factory. Why is it so loud again?”
I peel back and squint an eye, my mouth twisted.
“Cheer culture.” It’s the same answer I give for all the weird stuff that goes into my passion—the giant bows, the glitter, the uniforms that always seem to choke me a little but tout being “breathable” and offering “the ultimate flexibility.” Liars.
“Ah, yes. Cheer culture.” He takes a step back as his perfect damn smile fills my view. Dimples and sapphire blue eyes, wavy hair that looks sexy from the moment he wakes up. How did I ever resist him to begin with? It’s as though he was cut from a mold I made with wishes and desires.
His smile settles into a softer one, and his tongue peeks out as he traps it between his front teeth like he’s nervous.
“What is it, Wyatt Stone? You want to take me to prom?”
He shakes his head and pulls his lips into a tight smile.
It’s quiet for several long seconds, and for the first time, I feel as though he may ask me to marry him for real right now. My heart thunders, and it gets difficult to hold his gaze. It feels hotter under his stare, as if I haven’t stared into those eyes for nearly the last four years. It’s like I’m looking into them for the first time, and the butterflies are so present my knees feel weak.
Wyatt chuckles and looks up at the sky, spinning on his heels and urging me to walk alongside him again. Our hands thread naturally, and we walk with a slight swing to them. And all the way home, those butterflies . . . they remain.