Page 14

FOURTEEN

TRENT

My fingers nervously tapped the steering wheel as I pulled up to a stop sign at the Bat Mountain exit. Recalling all the two minutes of video I’d caught the night before and the five minutes of driving before the shotgun start, I downshifted to first and promptly stalled the car.

Kit pursed her lips. But she didn’t sigh, which felt like progress.

I started the car again and shot her a winning smile. “I’ll get it.”

Or we’d replace the transmission which, according to the rulebook, if we made the swap ourselves, it would net us extra points. Not exactly an optimal situation considering I didn’t have that automotive know-how, and judging by her earlier comments, Kit didn’t want to take on a giant repair mid-race.

Scanning the intersection, I eased the car into first. The clutch caught the gear, rolling forward. I hit the gas and swapped into second. Kit’s eyes jockeyed between the shift stick and the road, a worried line across her forehead.

“I’ve got this,” I reassured her, and myself. “Figure out where we’re going.”

She picked up the guidebook but kept her eyes on the road. I pushed in the clutch, moving the car to third.

“You can shift straight from first to third.” She pursed her lips. “In case you didn’t know.”

“I didn’t, actually. I fell asleep before I got to that part of the video.”

She shimmied in her seat as I reached cruising speed and finally turned her attention to the book.

“I’m trusting you not to destroy the car while I find our next spot. Were you looking ahead or…” Her voice trailed off, and she tilted her head, brow furrowing. “Huh.”

“Huh what?” I peeked over her shoulder. She rotated the book so she could make out the notes I’d jotted on the margins of the page.

“You have really nice handwriting.” She slipped her fingers over the margins. “Like, beautiful nice.”

“Is there something about me that makes you think I have bad handwriting?” I asked, weirdly offended. This woman thought I was all that was everything wrong with humanity, but somehow bad penmanship was a bridge too far.

Her eyes lit up playfully in a way I’d only ever caught glimpses of with Derek. “Are you mad I assumed you were a messy writer, Texas?”

“Well, Kitten ,” I emphasized the nickname, satisfied when her cheeks went pink. “I thought you were done teasing me?”

“I meant I wouldn’t tease you about rally things, not that you write like a fifteen-year-old girl. Do you dot your I’s with hearts, too?”

“Ouch.”

“These are good notes, though. Legitimately.” She ran her fingertip over a line, picking up her phone with the other hand and typing. “We’re close to the next stop. I think it’s just down the road. Take a left up here.”

One giant rocking chair, the world’s largest peanut, a Trolls museum, an alien-themed pizza joint, and a sulfur hot spring later, we reached the day one checkpoint.

Last, of course, but we’d only missed two stops.

Other than rally cars, there weren’t many patrons at the rundown motel that served as the checkpoint. I stretched my back after exiting the Cougar while Kit pulled her backpack from the trunk.

“It’s dry at least.” She shouldered the bag, grabbing mine and handing it over. “Maybe we should have stopped at a parts shop on the way. Do you think it’s going to rain tonight?”

I’d driven the better part of the afternoon and honestly had no clue. “Probably not. We’ll find a shop to buy a patch first thing in the morning.”

Having a plan seemed to ease Kit’s anxiety, so the white lie didn’t hurt anything. Worst case, we’d bail out the backseat pool and drive with the windows down.

I took my bag and followed Kit into the motel. Laughter and conversation drew us away from the unattended front desk and into the bar and restaurant connected to the motel.

“Team All Gas, No Clutch!” Mike called over the noise, holding up a drink. “You made it!”

“Barely,” I admitted. Kit veered off toward a table where Ashley and Tom sat while I flagged down a bartender. “We flooded the car and got a little lost. Missed some stops.”

Mike shrugged. “No worries. It’s your first rally and if you take some pictures of the flood, you might get extra points. We placed top three at a rally two years ago because we broke down on the side of the road and had the tow truck take us to the next two stops before getting the car fixed. Cost us an arm and a leg, but worth it.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.” Maybe I should trash the transmission after all.

“Alright, we’re checked in,” Kit said, exhaustion coloring her face.

“What place are we in?” I took a sip of my beer and pushed a rum and coke toward Kit.

She picked up the glass, taking a sip with a satisfied hum. “Last. What the hell do you think? We’re terrible.”

“We’ll make a comeback,” I asserted, ignoring Kit’s shaking head. “We know the game now.”

“The point of the rally wasn’t to win.” She sighed, exasperated. “It’s just to finish.”

“But winning is fun too,” Mike interjected. “You came all this way.”

“We came all this way,” I repeated to Kit. “And I hate losing.”

“That’s a fact.” Mike barked out a laugh. “I remember that game in Phoenix last season. Trent, you’ve got to tell Hayden about that one.”

Mike’s girlfriend smiled shyly, clearly curious. My stomach pitted. Phoenix was a shit show of a game, and the fans only saw a small piece of the fallout. I didn’t want to tell that story. Certainly not in front of Kit, who disliked me for my own merits. She didn’t need another example of what a fuck up I was to cement her beliefs.

To my surprise, Kit reached across us, grabbing her drink from the bar, her eyes briefly finding mine.

“I’ve heard football stories all day,” she sighed dramatically, before an inviting smile grew on her lips. A lie. I hadn’t mentioned football, and if I had, Kit would have blown me off immediately, but I caught what she was doing. “I get it. Trent is famous, talented and very handsome. But I’m going to bed if we have to talk about him all night.”

“You have a better suggestion?” I took a sip of my drink, relieved.

Kit shrugged. “How about a game? We’re not winning the rally, but maybe Trent can dominate us at a bar game. Have you all ever played Skulls?”

She swiped a stack of coasters, rooting through her purse and pulling out a pen. She marked a flower on three coasters and a skull on one before passing the set of four coasters to me.

“I’m a little tipsy. Will I understand the game?” Hayden asked.

“Yeah, absolutely.” Kit winked at me as she set out the rules.

After the third round of Skulls, we attracted enough attention to make Skulls become unwieldy. Kit transitioned us to Werewolf, which then became No More Jockeys, and finally, Win, Lose, Banana to choose the winner of our impromptu game night. Kit edged me out in the last round, securing her crown and refusing to share.

As midnight approached, the bar emptied, teams heading to their hotel rooms for a full night of sleep before the rally restarted in the morning.

I lingered at the bar with Kit as she ordered us both water.

“Fuck,” I shook my head, staring at Kit with fresh eyes. “You didn’t warn me you were fun.”

She sputtered out water, covering her mouth with her hand. “Of course I’m fun. You thought I wasn’t fun?”

“Honestly?”

She pursed her lips, pressing her finger to her lips. “Never mind. Don’t answer that.”

Her cheeks blushed red before she pulled her finger away. “I guess I can’t act offended. I haven’t exactly shown you my best self.”

“Same,” I admitted. “Why is that?”

“Do you really want me to answer that?” Her incredulous look told me it should have been obvious, but it hadn’t been. Not really. Football fans loved me. Most women loved me. Kit had been annoyed with me right from the start.

“I do, actually.”

Her eyes flitted over me with a frown that cleared with a nod. “You know what? Let me show you.”

She stood up, straightening her spine and relaxing her shoulders in an eerily good impression of my stance. Her eyes traveled down my body and back up again in a way that somehow felt invasive and judgmental all at once. Once she reached my face, she dropped her eyes down again with a nod. “Hi, I’m Trent.”

She slid on a dramatic Texas accent and nailed the rhythm of my voice. Her lips spread into a Cheshire Cat grin that rang slightly hollow. A little too friendly when coupled with a bored gaze.

I winced. “It’s more charming when I do it.”

“It’s not.” She fell out of the impression and grabbed her drink. “I mean, I’m sure some people think it is. But it’s so rehearsed and calculating.”

“Calculating?” I’d been called a lot of things over the years. It came with the territory. Cocky. Arrogant. But not calculating. “You’re making me sound like a James Bond villain.”

She laughed. “Don’t think that highly of yourself. It’s more like you’re sizing people up to decide what they’re worth. When you sized me up, you decided I wasn’t really worth the effort.”

I recoiled. She wasn’t entirely right, but she wasn’t wrong either. “I don’t think I meant to do that. I’m sorry.”

She set her empty glass on the bar and waved off the bartender’s offer for another. “You’re only saying sorry because you found out I was fun.”

“That’s not the only reason.” I grinned. “Part of it, but not the only reason. How can I make it up to you?”

Her fingers danced around the top of her glass. She thought about the offer before signaling the bartender back over. “One more round, and put it on his tab.”

The bartender nodded.

“That’s it?” I asked skeptically. Kit hadn’t given me an easy out on anything. I couldn’t help but sense a second part to the apology.

She shook her head. “I wouldn’t have asked otherwise, but since you really were an asshole when we met, I feel like I’m allowed: What happened in Phoenix?”

The air rushed out of my lungs, and although I’d promised myself just one drink, I gratefully took the second. “You sure you don’t want to know something else? I’ve met a bunch of douchey celebrities. I’ll spill all their secrets.”

She tipped her head back and laughed, a throaty giggle that made her cheeks rosy and her eyes light. “That’s tempting, but in my heart, I know you’re the biggest douchey celebrity I’ll ever meet. I want to hear about Phoenix.”

Unlike earlier, my stomach didn’t twist, and my palms stayed dry. I sighed. “It was week 18, last week of regular play, right after New Year.”

She rested her chin on a balled fist, sipping her rum and Coke. “Did you make a bad New Year's decision?”

I nodded. “I flew out to New York City to watch the ball drop when I should have stayed in Norwalk. Luke, he’s our kicker, owns a bunch of bars, and he opened a nightclub. Most of the team stayed in town to attend the grand opening. I flew ten of my ‘friends’ out with me. Just an overnight thing. I had practice the day after.”

“At first, it was fine. We drank, partied. And then, I don’t really know what happened.” I shrugged and took a sip from my drink. “The night got away from me. We stayed out until dawn, and I was having such a good time, I just wanted to stay. So, we crashed at the hotel until late and went back out.”

I sucked in a breath, still mad at myself. “By the time I got back to Norwalk, I’d missed two days of practice. They couldn’t bench me. Not with a wildcard slot on the line. You’ll hate me for saying it, but on the team, I’m untouchable.”

For a split second, Kit’s stony look faltered into a faint smile. “I do hate you for saying it. So, what’d he do?”

“It’s not important.” I rubbed the back of my neck, a sudden burst of self-consciousness rushing through me.

“Yeah, probably,” she urged me on. “I still want to know. Come on, you owe me.”

“I came back the day before the team left for Phoenix. I knew everyone would be pissed, so I made sure my flight came in after practice. Coach Simmons, the head coach, was in the lobby of my apartment. Just sitting there with a magazine, waiting. As soon as he spotted me, he stood up and told me to follow him. He drove me to the practice field.”

Kit’s eyes widened.

“Yeah, that was my reaction. I said I’m untouchable, but right then, I wondered if I actually was. He told me to get dressed for practice. He wouldn’t run me, not right before a game, and certainly not hard. I got onto the field, and he had a 40-meter dash set up, stopwatch in hand.”

“Why a 40-meter dash?”

“Do you know how many NFL players can run a sub-four-point-three second forty-meter dash?”

She shook her head.

“Eleven, and most of them could do it for a couple of seasons before they slowed down. I’ve never slowed down. Not a single season. I hit a sub-four-point-three forty-meter dash in the combine, and I’ve only gotten faster. Until this year.”

“You were hungover,” she pointed out.

“I was slow. Four-point-three-six seconds. So, I did it again, after Phoenix. Four-point-three-nine. And again. Four-point-three-two. And again. Four-point-three-five.” I sighed, my stomach twisting. “And when I bobbled that catch in Phoenix, Coach Simmons came right up to my face and told me I was crashing. In a year, with my declining talent and attitude, I wouldn’t have anywhere to go. Free agent wouldn’t help me.”

“He sounds like a dick.”

“He is a dick, but he’s right.” I sighed, pushing the still-full drink across the bar. “I’m fucking up my career, my livelihood.”

“So, you stayed in Norwalk so you don’t get in trouble?”

I nodded with a rueful smile. “And now you’ve dragged me out of Norwalk.”

Kit finished her drink, signaling to the bartender for the check. She slid her elbow onto the bar top, cocking her head with an earnest stare. “You’ll get it back. You’re only a little bit of a fuckup.”

“That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me,” I chuckled.

“Well, don’t get used to it.” She handed me the tab and stood. “I’m exhausted. I’ll see you in the morning?”

“Try not to leave without me.”