Page 150 of Triple Play
Her expression shifts. “Three? Wyatt and Jordie are in on this?”
“Very much in on this.”
“And you can’t tell me what it is.”
“I could. But it’s better as a surprise.”
She’s doing that thing where she chews on her bottom lip when she’s thinking. I want to reach through the screen and—
Focus, Wilder.
“Okay,” she finally says. “Six PM tomorrow. Where?”
I send her the address. The house address. She doesn’t know it yet—doesn’t know what it means.
“Is that near the stadium?”
“Sort of. Just—be there. Please.”
“You’re lucky you’re cute when you’re mysterious.”
“I’m cute?”
“Shut up. You know you are.”
We talk for another hour—about her classes, my practice schedule, about nothing and everything. By the time we hang up, some of the nervousness has faded.
Replaced by something else. Something that feels like hope.
The next day moves like molasses.
Practice. Meetings. More practice. Coach talks about plays I’m not absorbing because my brain is three hours ahead, figuring out what to say tonight.
By five PM, I’m in my car, driving to the house. Our house.
Wyatt and Jordie are already there, both standing in the driveway, looking at the place like they still can’t believe it’s real.
“You’re late,” Jordie says when I pull up.
“I’m five minutes early.”
“Exactly. Late by Grant standards.”
Wyatt is quiet, just watching the house with an expression I can’t read.
“You good?” I ask him.
“Yeah. Just—” He stops. “This is really happening.”
“This is really happening.”
“We bought a house.”
“We did.”
“For her.”
“For us,” I correct. “For all of us.”
