Page 15

FIFTEEN

KIT

A brisk morning chill smacked me in the face as I walked out of the motel, cupping my hands around a cup of warm, watery coffee I’d brewed in my room. I took a sip and flinched. Every slammed door and drunken conversation floated through the paper-thin walls of the motel room after the adrenaline from the first day had worn off, and this crappy cup of coffee didn’t have nearly enough caffeine to get me through the morning.

At 6:05, only the stragglers remained in the parking lot. Trent stood by the Cougar, and I counted only four other rally teams preparing to leave. He leaned on the roof of the car, straightening as I approached. He held his phone in his hand and had a frown on his face.

He caught sight of me and shook off the frown, plastering on a smile. “Good morning!”

“Good morning.” I narrowed my eyes, trying to read his expression. “Everything good?”

“Yeah.” He tapped the phone through his jeans but reached for his back pocket, pulling out the guidebook. “Totally fine. I mapped out the route last night.”

I’d fallen asleep nearly immediately, awoken only by the couple in the room next to me amid a massive fight an hour later. “Really? We went to bed awfully late.”

“Yeah, but I had to clean up our posts, respond to comments, and check our hashtags. I figured I could spend another hour mapping out the best route for today.”

I nodded, suppressing how impressed I was that he stayed up to plan for us. “How are we doing? Points-wise?”

Trent might have been dead set on placing, but I aimed for finishing. Preferably with our car intact, though after Trent’s stint as driver, that seemed like an ambitious ask. Still, he’d opened up to me the night before about the Phoenix incident, and if he was doing all the legwork of finding the route, I could at least act invested.

“Not bad,” he mumbled, opening the trunk.

I fitted my bag beside his. “But not great?”

“Barely in the top half,” he admitted. “I have a plan for that, though.”

I studied his face. “Should I be scared?”

He shook his head with a Cheshire-cat looking grin. “There are bonus points. Lots of them.”

Papers fluttered in the dimly lit parking lot as he flipped to the end of the route book and handed it to me. I squinted, tilting the page until I could make out the highlighted portion.

“In 1994, Team Rust in Peace earn five points by finding the biggest yard sculpture.”

I frowned. “Someone forgot to proofread this.”

“No, it’s on purpose.” Trent flipped back two pages, pointing to another highlighted passage.

“In the Prison Break Rally, the most ambitious route decided the winner. Team Shall win for points if they travel through the most states.”

Grabbing the book from his hands, I slipped into the driver’s seat, fumbling for the overhead light. Trent slid into the passenger seat, watching my face as I reviewed his work.

“They hid points,” I breathed.

Trent’s smile was blinding. “They did.”

“And if we get them all?” On the back page, Trent had written each hidden set of points in his tiny, neat script, and a box to check when completed.

I counted them up, comparing them with the points we earned on the first day.

“We could get top three if no one else finds them.” His fingertips slid over mine as he took the book back, flipping to the Day Two itinerary. “But, I think, if we’re quick, we can finish the mountain leg early and knock out a couple stops on the flatland leg before it’s time to check in.”

My heartbeat quickened. “I don’t actually care about winning.”

“Sure,” Trent agreed. “But we could.”

“We came all this way.”

“For your dad.”

“Alright,” I snorted. “For my dad. But some of these look pretty tough.”

Sure, we could probably search for an outdoor store with giant lawn sculptures or take a picture darting into an adjacent state, but half of them looked quite a bit stickier. Get a bartender to give you the shirt off their back. Sing Tubthumping by Chumbawamba at a karaoke bar. Perform a five-minute set at a comedy club. My stomach churned with anxiety at the thought.

“You focus on driving, and I’ll take care of the rest.”

“Convince a brewery to name a beer after you? You think you can handle that?”

“I already have a cider named after me. Trent Yard Line. It’s made with chili peppers and chocolate.”

I wrinkled my nose. “That sounds disgusting.”

“It’s amazing, and thanks to that reaction, I’m taking you out for a pint as soon as we’re back in Virginia.”

Another team wandered out of the motel, pulling a tarp off their convertible. I grimaced. “The leak. We didn’t fix it last night.”

“Way ahead of you,” Trent answered, opening the backseat.

Threadbare white motel towels lined the seat and floor. I pressed my palm against the roof, searching for the source of the leak. “So, you stole a bunch of towels. We still need to plug it.”

His hand cupped mine, dragging it away from the back windshield and toward the center of the roof where a mound of something hard blocked the leak. A patch.

A vision of Trent grinding gears on the way to a 24-hour superstore filled my mind. “Please tell me you didn’t drive this car in the dark alone.”

Trent snorted, his thumb brushing my wrist and sending an electric tingle down my arm and into my chest. “Team Hasbro has a whole damn repair center in their trunk. They helped me patch the hole this morning before they took off.”

His chest rested against my back, hand shockingly soft, all things considered. Sure, he wasn’t a plumber or a carpenter, but the man worked with his hands, and they had no business being that soft. And I had just as little business wondering how it would feel if his hand slid down my arm.

“You’re crowding me, Texas.” I shook his hand off, brushing my palm on my shirt and waiting until the scent of ocean water dissipated before I took a step back. “We should head out. Thanks for handling the repair.”

I avoided eye contact as I shut the back door, convinced Trent could sense the waves of awkward desperation wafting off me. Wherever that temporary insanity came from, I needed to rein it back in.

“Well, I hope you’re hungry because our first stop is a fine dining establishment where all the servers dress in chicken costumes.” Trent rounded the car and slid into the passenger seat.

My stomach rumbled. “As long as there’s food.”

Trent patted the cracked console. “Then let’s blow this joint, Kitten. We have four states to visit in the next fifteen hours.”

A podcast about dairy and beef droned on in the background. After eight stops and lunch, Trent retreated into his passenger seat hole for the afternoon: a pillow wedged between the center console and his seat, route book precariously balanced on the dashboard, and phone in hand.

He didn’t look like a famous NFL player here. He didn’t look important or even that untouchable. His hair mussed, chin burrowed into the neckband of his hoodie, he looked like a nobody. A random guy on a road trip, exhausted from a long day in the car.

Only that frown.

I’d caught it a couple of times throughout the day. Not that Trent didn’t frown, but usually the cause was apparent: an insult lobbed his way, a wrong turn off the highway, an extra stop that didn’t pan out.

“You okay, Texas?”

The words sounded unnatural coming out of my mouth, but I pushed them out just the same. I’d lost the plot on the beef and dairy podcast, so I figured I may as well ruin the rest of the afternoon by informing Trent that I actually cared if he was in a bad mood.

“Fine.” He rushed out the answer, pocketing his phone as if I’d grab it out of his hand.

I raised an eyebrow. “If you’re trawling Raya or Tinder, I really don’t care, but you don’t have to act all weird about it.”

“It’s not that.” He picked up the route book, staring at it as if he hadn’t memorized the whole day’s itinerary at this point.

“You know if someone asks for dick pics and then claims they’re underage, that’s an extortion scam, right? You shouldn’t send that person or their alleged father gift cards.”

“Thanks for the tip,” he scoffed. “But I don’t send dick pics unless I know them in real life and they ask real nice.”

My cheeks burned. Why had I brought up dick pics? Why was I thinking about Trent’s dick pics? “What’s really going on?”

“It’s dumb. And unimportant.”

“If it’s upsetting my partner, it’s not dumb.” Which is exactly what I would have said to Derek. I shook my head. “Alright, it might be dumb, but since I’m the only person around and you’re stuck with me for three more days, you sort of have to spill.”

The long silence that followed made it clear that Trent didn’t have to do jack.

“Do you know about Breaking the Breakers?”

I turned down the beef index, inhaling and preparing myself for a flat out lie. “Breaking the Breakers?”

“It’s a gossip site.” He studied my face. “That you’re clearly aware of.”

“I may have met the account owner a time or two.” More than a time or two. Dozens. The Norwalk social scene was surprisingly small, and Poppy DeRosiers and Derek got on like a house on fire.

“Please don’t tell me she’s a friend.”

“An acquaintance, but your bestie is obsessed with her.”

He tipped his head back onto the headrest, closing his eyes. “Well, she has an absolute hard on for me ever since I signed with the Breakers.”

Poppy and I were soft acquaintances. Not even friends. I knew she ran a gossip site and made the bulk of her living through social media. And she was sort of hard to forget.

Poppy rocked brightly-dyed hair and an alternative grunge style of dress. She didn’t gush over football players or post stretching videos with sultry music playing underneath. Her preoccupation with the team seemed at odds with her persona.

But she also had an unnerving ability to sense drama. She easily could have segued that skill into private investigation or politics, but she seemed happy enough to eke out all the covered up late nights and backroom drama around the local area professional teams.

“Let me guess: you forget to call her back?” I gave him an exaggerated frown, and he cracked a smile.

“No, I think I would have remembered sleeping with her. Maybe one of her friends, but I didn’t even know the woman until a friend pointed her out. How the hell does she have fifty-yard-line seats?”

I shrugged. “No idea. What’d she say about you?”

My eyes wandered toward his screen, but Trent tucked away his phone before I could get a good look.

“You haven’t even done anything. Unless you snuck back out to the bar last night and made a scene.”

He shook his head. “No scene. It’s really not a big deal.”

“But you think it’s a big deal?” I probed. Downshifting the car, I pulled over to the side of the road. “Hand it over, Texas.”

Trent scoffed. “Don’t be ridiculous. We don’t have time to waste.”

“I’m not racing the rest of the day with your cranky ass in the seat next to mine. So, let me see what she said, what’s obviously getting under your skin. I’ll tell you it’s ridiculous and we can both move on.”

He flipped his phone over in his hand, eyes flitting between it and me. “I think it’s better if you don’t see it.”

I tilted my head, eyebrows furrowed. “Why the hell not? If Poppy is writing shit about you, I’m the first one who wants to know.”

“It’s not just about me.”

A cold, sinking feeling nestled in my gut, but I held out my hand until he passed the phone over.

TRENT VOGT ON THE RUN?

It’s the off-season which normally means a lull in gossip, but Trent Vogt sightings have reached an all-time high this off season and not in the usual spots. Vogt has forsaken the Norwalk late night community, and the local bars and nightclubs are all the worse for it.

Instead, the charming wide receiver is spending his time at yoga classes, kickball games, and now a car rally?

Vogt took off with a mystery brunette two days ago in a beat-up Mercury Cougar to compete in an offbeat car rally. Sure, he’s staying out of trouble…for now. But how long will that last?

We followed him through last season’s blow up: the clubs, the bottle service, the carousel of model girlfriends, and the sideline blow-ups. Is Vogt turning a new leaf, or is this off-season a temporary pause in a downward spiral? Time will tell.

And before you ask, no need to search through Fashion Week and Victoria’s Secret to find his mystery woman. She’s a townie. So, ladies, you’ve got a chance!

I winced at the last line.

“She tagged our account.” I tapped the profile icon on the bottom right corner. “How many followers did we have yesterday?”

“Thirty. Mostly the other cars and the judges.”

11,000 followers. And counting. I grimaced.

“Well, we’re definitely not winning now.” I gave Trent a small smile. He didn’t return the gesture.

“They can’t disqualify us for having a big following,” he grumbled.

“You don’t actually know that.” I pointed out. “It’s their rally. I don’t think there’s a governing body besides what Ashley and Tom want.”

He shook his head with a laugh. “Okay, I don’t, but we’re still gunning for a win. Poppy can fuck off.”

I handed his phone back and turned the car back on, shaking out my hands before pulling onto the road. “And she clearly doesn’t remember me, so good news there.”

Honestly, there were worse things than being labeled a mystery brunette. The back-handed jab about knowing I wasn’t a model didn’t feel great, and referring to me as a townie sucked, but all things considered, all was innocuous.

“She shouldn’t have pulled you into this. I’ll call my agent at the next stop and ask her to pull that post.” He raked a hand through his hair, eyes floating out the passenger window.

I shook my head. “Don’t be ridiculous. I’ll have Derek call her. It’ll give him something to do.”

Gravel crunched under the tires as I pulled back onto the road. Trent restarted the Beef and Dairy podcast, but his body language stayed closed, shoulders hunched and a frown on his face.

“You don’t seem like you’re over it,” I prodded. “Do I need to block Breaking the Breakers from your phone? Because I can probably figure out how to do that.”

He slouched in his seat. “I just…I don’t know, I hate that even when I’m not doing anything, they can’t leave me alone. She’s just waiting for me to fuck up. They all are.”

“But you’re not going to.”

“You don’t know that.” Trent’s words held an edge of venom.

His breath came heavy. I gave him a beat, watching the road impassively until his shoulders fell.

“I do know that, actually.” I said the words softly, firmly. “Because you’re my partner, and we’re in this together. You wouldn’t let me down.”

“You don’t actually know me very well.”

I grinned. “True, but I know enough about you to know that she doesn’t know you at all. Charming? Sure.”

He shook his head, a hint of a grin building on his face.

“Besides, what she says about you doesn’t matter.”

“A lot of people think that site means something. Fans, locals, hell, even my coach occasionally.”

“If your coach believes a dumb gossip blog over you, find a new team. Fuck that guy.”

Trent startled. “Fuck him?”

“Fuck him. And her, for that matter. She’s not that great. You’re Trent Fucking Vogt.”

He smiled. “I am Trent Fucking Vogt.”

“And maybe you screwed up this past season,” I shrugged. “Who cares? You’re still the best wide receiver in the NFL.”

“Best receiver in the NFL and adequate stick shift driver.”

“Maybe just stick to ‘adequate navigator’ for now.” I laughed, relieved when the frown fell away from his face, his entire body seeming to lighten. “Now, where are we going?”