Page 4

Chapter 4

Trevor

W hat Lana MacDonald— I still can't get over that name —doesn't know is that she's only half right.

No, I did not just get by because my dad is rich, though I can't say the same about my brothers and their careers.

And if she really thinks I used Izzy because of her connection to the Heatwave—then she's more delusional than I can ever help her see.

But she's not wrong about women having a harder time in sports. You don't have to look too far to know that is a stone cold truth. One that my own mother had to face as a woman's hockey player.

And if Lana MacDonald did more than just run that pretty little mouth of hers, then maybe she would see that the reason I'm even playing hockey today is because of a woman—one that's so much like her, it's a little scary.

"So tell me then, Lana, what makes me entitled versus someone like your brother?"

"God, please no. Don't bring me into this," Mick says, lifting a hand from the steering wheel and shaking it at me.

"What? It's a solid argument. Why am I the problem and not just every male athlete ever? We were both selected from college. We both play for the same team. How am I the problem and not Mick here?"

"I didn't say you were the problem," Lana protests.

"No, you did. Just in so many more words."

Mick knocks the back of his head against the head rest a few times and shoots me a glare.

"You know what. The very fact that I have to explain this to you, is why you are the problem," she says with finality. She's sitting arms crossed and not looking at me as she does.

"So that's it? You're done talking to me."

Her eyes glide to mine only momentarily. But she quickly looks away again.

Clearly we're done here. Lana has officially shut down.

I sigh deep and heavy before turning to away from her and looking out my window.

A few hours go by with Mick just jumping from music station to music station. And the sun has slowly risen up over the horizon to my right just as I'm trying to get comfortable and fall asleep.

I flip to the other side and catch a glimpse of Lana. She's also asleep. Her body folded across the back seat and she's using her baby blue sweatshirt as a pillow. Her dark curls are spirally and wild and have fallen over her face, a few strands sticking to her glossed lips. Pink, full lips. Pink, snarky, stupidly tempting… lips.

Mick clears his throat, and I realize that he's caught me staring at his sister.

"What?" I murmur.

"I didn't say anything." He grins and messes with the stations again.

He skips over a song I like and I sit up straighter. "Oh, put it back, put it back."

Mick gives me a look. "Seriously?"

"Yes, seriously! Change it back, Mick."

The radio plays Stargazing by Myles Smith and I sing aloud to the chorus.

The grinch laying in the backseat stirs and slowly rises, just as Mick joins me in singing too.

The song ends and I look back to see her face buried into the sweatshirt she was just using as a pillow. Her shoulders are have the gentlest shake to them, and for a second, it looks like she might be crying. She takes a deep breath before pulling the sweatshirt away from her face revealing wet, red eyes.

She was crying. She quickly wipes her face and breathes in deeply before meeting my eyes.

"Man, I really gotta pee," Mick says, breaking up our shared gaze. He hasn't picked up on his sister's tears. "I'm just going to pull over here."

He pulls the car into a tiny gas station off the highway in a small town that I'd never considered stopping in.

"I'm good," I say, pulling the hoodie down off my head.

"Lana?"

She clears her throat. "Nothing for me. Thanks, V."

"Alright, well. Text me if you guys change your minds. And try not to kill each other," he adds, shutting the door behind him as he bounds to the entrance of the gas station.

I turn to Lana. "Was it the song?"

She takes another deep breath. "I'm fine."

I don't believe her for a second. "That's literally what every woman says when they're not fine."

"I'm not every woman, Sincaid."

I watch as she looks out the window avoiding me again.

"Stargazing is a pretty romantic song… maybe it made you think of an old fling?"

"Stop digging. You're not going to find out so just stop."

"Alright, little grinch. You've been burned that much is clear."

"And none of your business," she adds.

"And none of my business," I agree.

"So let's not keep doing this," she says, motioning between us.

"Talking?" I harrumph. "My bad, let me stop being a friendly human to the grumpy woman who happens to be related to one of my best friends. It's called being nice, Lana."

"I don't want your niceties, Trevor. I want your silence."

"Well that's too bad," I say, pushing the door open to the SUV. "I slam it shut and round the vehicle, popping back up at the driver's seat. "Because now I'm driving and it's driver's choice."

"Driver's choice?" She parrots questioningly, arms crossing over her chest.

"Yes, and in order to stay awake, we're going to play a game to get to know each other." I pull the mirror down a bit and glare at her through it.

"I'm out of here," she says, pushing her door open and sliding out. Without saying another word, she slams the door and stomps over to the mini-mart entrance, swinging the door open as she glares back at me and disappears.

"Tough crowd," I mutter to myself.

I didn't ask for this. And right about now I feel an anger boiling in my stomach at the way this girl is treating me. I mean, what the hell did I personally do to her to become the villain here?

I get it if she doesn't like me because I'm a male athlete in professional sports. One who she assumes had it easy because she doesn't have the whole story. But Lana doesn't know the half of it.

She doesn't know that mom already had me practicing in little mites at four years old, falling on my ass over and over and over until I was too sore to sit. Or that by the time I was in middle school, I was hardly ever home. I was traveling and hoping to get scouted. My mom was the one driving me everywhere, making sure that I was always the best. That I was the one the scouts watched.

My mom was—until very recently—my agent.

And I trusted her more than anyone to help me get to the top. The only problem is that I wanted her as my mom even more.

Life in sports is tough. People are constantly criticizing you. People always have opinions. Case in point: the beautiful ice queen I'm now stuck sharing a small vehicle with.

There's a knock on the window. Mick is back.

"Sup?" I mouth to him.

"You driving?" he says, muffled by the glass between us. I nod at him, and he pumps his fist.

I expect him to occupy the seat next to me, but instead, he opens the door to the back seat and slides in. The top of his head almost hits the roof of the car.

"That's great because I need a nap."

He hands me a paper cup.

"Why do you keep buying me drinks?" I ask, eyeing it in his hand.

"It’s hot chocolate. I'm trying to set the tone."

I take it from him. "For what exactly?"

"For the rest of this trip, man. I need you and Lana to be sweet, warm, and in the Christmas spirit. Because up until now, I regret bringing either of you.

I take a sip of the proffered cup. And I can't help the way my face scrunches at the taste.

"Blech... well, you'll have to do better than gas station hot chocolate. Jeez, what's in this shit? Diesel?"

Mick laughs as he opens a bag of pretzels and pops a few into his mouth. "I knew you'd hate it."

I give him a look through the mirror, and I watch as he turns his face, and it drops. "Quick, lock the doors."

"What? Why?"

"Now!"

I do as he says, just as his sister approaches the back door and pulls on the handle. Mick shakes his head at her and points to the passenger seat. She slams a fist against his window, and he barks out a laugh again.

"For somebody that wants us to get along, you're really setting us up for success here," I deadpan.

Lana rounds the back of the car and appears at the window across from me. I kindly unlock the door, and the second she pulls it open, I blurt out, "It was your brother!"

She slides in and slams the door shut.

"I don't want to talk. I just want to get to Breckenridge and as far away from you as possible."

"Because I'm entirely irresistible, and you can't breathe around me?" I say, adding a playful smirk.

"Because if you say anything else, Sincaid. I might push you out of this moving vehicle.”

"A homicidal Christmas. That's the spirit, Lana," Mick says from the back seat.

She glowers. "I'm sure we can come up with a great Christmas album along the lines of Trevor got ran over by his teammate's sister," I sing.

Nothing. I get no smile. No acknowledgment. Yeah, this officially really sucks. I'm sitting next to what just might be the world's most beautiful woman, and I can't even formulate coherent thoughts, let alone make her just fucking smile.

I settle on an instrumental station and pull away from the tiny roadside mini-mart.

An hour later, Mick is totally out snoring in the back seat, and I have to put the volume up higher just to drown him out.

Lana is scrolling through what looks like a photo album on her phone and deleting things as she does.

I notice they're pictures of her with a guy from my peripheral. Photos of the two of them together. Some of just him. One of him with Mick. She hesitates over that one. Like if she's not sure she should. But deletes it, too.

"So," I find myself saying into the dead silence, lowering the music.

The trees outside are rushing past us, and there's been a noticeable change in the terrain since leaving Houston. More greenery. Chiller air. The sun is up.

She shifts uncomfortably in her seat, legs crossing one over the other as she attempts to move further away from me.

"What?" she says when I don't continue.

"Was he a friend of Mick's?"

Her eyes flick to mine as she catches what I'm referring to.

"Do you make it a habit of yours to stick your nose where it doesn't belong?"

"Not just my nose," I tease.

"You're disgusting," she mutters.

"What? I was going to say my head, too," I say.

"Which head?"

I fake gasp. "Now, who's being disgusting?"

"Please," she mutters. "You players all talk the same. I've been around Vance and his friends my whole life. I know what you guys talk about the second a girl leaves your vicinity."

I sit up straighter, excited that she's actually engaging in conversation with me.

"Oh, do tell," I urge her.

She shakes her head. "You comment on her ass. Or her tits. Or where you'd like to dip your stick, and all of those remarks will never have anything to do with her as a woman. Her dreams. Her desires. And everything to do with you and yours."

A feminist… this should be fun.

"So what are your desires, Lana?"

"It was a hypothetical scenario," she explains.

"But this is a real question," I say back. "What are your desires?"

Did my voice just drop an octave? I didn't mean to do that. Something about the way the vixen is tugging at her bottom lip as she takes in my question has my body reacting in a way I can't even fully control.

She studies me a beat longer before answering. "In a perfect world?"

"Sure," I say. "In your perfect world."

"I'd want every little girl to get the same opportunities as every little boy. Regardless of their family's financial status. Or the color of their skin. I'd want them to achieve their dreams because they're good at what they do. Bottom line."

I was expecting to hear a different answer, but then again, this is the Ice Queen.

"And that's not something that's currently available?"

"No," she says sternly. “Not usually.”

"Well, then, what needs to change?" I genuinely ask.

She adjusts in her seat again, this time, her body language opens up to me. I welcome the small gesture.

"It starts by not celebrating poor behavior," she says matter-of-factly, bringing her coffee cup to her lips and taking a sip. "By promoting athletes who earn their merits. And are true role models for the next generation. Not just turning a blind eye because someone happens to have a nice smile and washboard abs."

I look down at my midsection. "You think I have a nice smile and washboard abs?" I bait her.

She stops the coffee cup coming up to her mouth. "I think you're very attractive," she states, and I almost slam on the breaks at her admission. "Until you go and open your mouth," she adds, studying me before she takes another sip, her lips splitting in a pleased smile.

I roll my eyes and turn the volume back up but she reaches for the knob to change the station.

"What? Christmas music too cheerful for a Grinch?"

"Not really in the spirit," she says dryly.

"You don't say," I glance at her as she wriggles out of her sweatshirt. This time, the t-shirt underneath clings to it as she tries to slip it off, and I catch a glimpse of her midsection. She's so fit. Copper skin taut over muscles that show this woman knows hard work.

I'm so captivated by the sight that I don't see when the traffic comes to a complete stop ahead of us.

Lana frees herself from her sweatshirt prison, and the second her eyes take in the cars ahead, she yells, "Stop!"

I react just before I connect with the back of a black pickup truck. Mick riles from his slumber, muttering incomprehensible words as he shoots up from his resting position.

"Shit!" I breathe out as the entire vehicle jolts to a stop. I don't even realize when my arm instinctively shoots out to protect her from the impending hit, cupping a handful of her tender breast.

We all catch our breaths as the adrenaline hits. Our eyes meet briefly before Mick says, "You wanna take your hands off my sister's chest there, Sinc?"

She doesn't say anything; she just watches me as I snatch my hand away. "I'm so sorry," I rush out.

She puts a hand out, dismissing me as she takes in the scene around us. "What the hell is this?"

We hear distant honking at the sound of sirens down the road.

"Might be an accident." I open my car door and step out to get a good look. The truck in front of me doesn't have anybody in it, the driver seems to be approaching from ahead.

"Hey!" I call out to him. "You know what's going on?"

He walks up to our car–an older man wearing buffalo print, boots, and a ball cap. "Cops are turning around traffic. There's an accident with a few 18-wheelers up ahead. Looks pretty bad."

"Damn." I look around as vehicles veer off the main highway and cross the grass to turn around. I wave the guy a thank you and slip back into my seat. "Looks like we gotta take a detour."

"Great," Lana rasps.

Mick's already pulling up an app to help us find another direction. "Here." He hands me his phone, and we pull away from the back-to-back traffic.

"Holly Ridge," Mick sounds out as we pass an old wooden sign on the side of the road covered in Christmas lights.

I've been driving for hours, and a heavy snowfall is making it harder to see the road in front of us. I lean in to see better as Lana messes with the settings on the windshield to help the snow melt faster.

"This isn't looking too good," she whispers, mostly to herself.

Holly Ridge looks like a small, quiet town at the base of a mountain. It's one of those places with tiny shops wafting the smell of warm cinnamon and baked goods. The people we pass walking the streets are bundled up in coats and scarves, and it's clear we're not in Texas anymore. We're also nowhere near Breckenridge yet, with hours still to go.

"What a storybook town," Mick says, sitting up and watching the scenery pass us slowly.

"I think we should stop and get gas," I say.

"Then I'll take us the rest of the way," Lana adds.

I glance at her. "In this weather? Absolutely not."

"Excuse me? Which one of us grew up on the sunny beaches of California while the other one of us practically grew up building igloos?" she protests. "I'm driving us up the mountains."

"No," I say.

"What? You don't think I can?" She crosses her arms like she's done so many times on this trip.

"I think you can do anything I can do and probably do it better," I say.

"Then?"

We pull up to a tiny gas station. There's a brown crown vic with the words Sheriff scrawled across the doors parked next to me. A uniformed man tips his hat at us as we park.

"Nothing. I just can't in good conscience let you take on the toughest part of this trip," I continue saying to Lana.

"Because you don't think I can," she says.

I look back at her brother in the back seat.

"Just let her drive, man. You won't hear the end of it," Mick confirms.

Lana extends an empty hand and flexes her fingers, asking for the key.

I reluctantly pull it from the ignition and drop it into her hand. "Fine."

She snatches her hand away before I can change my mind and grabs her sweatshirt and purse before pushing the door open.

"You should probably put on something a little warmer," I say, popping open the trunk to grab my coat from my luggage.

"I'm fine," she says, sashaying past the gawking young sheriff as she slips the hoodie back on.

"You folks staying in town for Christmas?" He asks her.

"Passing through, we're headed up the mountain," Lana says, flashing a sparkling smile that could knock the pants off any man. And I resent the fact that it wasn't directed at me.

"Not tonight you aren't," the Sheriff says with a shake of his head.

I pull my coat out from my bag and slam the trunk before taking the spot next to a now-shivering Lana.

"What do you mean?" she asks.

"Roads are closed. No one's going in or out of town the rest of the night. There's ice on the roads, and we can't have any preventable accidents the day before Christmas Eve."

Mick joins us, throwing on a jacket. "Are you saying we're stuck here?"

The sheriff looks at each of us. "'Fraid, so."

Lana shakes her head. "We don't have any place to stay. Our family is expecting us tonight, and we're already running late due to a detour."

"Sorry, miss, but you'll have to let them know you'll meet them once the storm passes."

"Storm?" We all repeat.

"Mmhmm, big one too, coming in from the Northwest."

"Fucking fantastic," Mick says, zipping up his jacket.

"Are th-there any hotels?" Lana stutters out through chattering teeth.

"Unfortunately, I think the inn is at capacity. The nearest hotel is over thirty miles back the way you came, but like I said, roads are closed." He's rubbing the side of his jaw like he's trying to think of something for us.

"Are we s-supposed to just stay in our car?"

"Do you not have a coat?" I ask the shivering woman next to me.

When she ignores me, I shrug out of my jacket and stretch it over her shoulders. She opens her mouth to say something, but then I rub both sides of her arms to warm her, and she shuts her mouth.

"You know what, let me see if there's something we can do for you nice folks. Why don't you come inside the general store while I make some calls."

"Thank God," Lana says, shifting out of my jacket and handing it back to me as we follow the sheriff through the doors.