Page 7 of Penalty Box

“You know you don’t have one of those, right?”

I scratched the back of my neck. “I’m better with trucks.”

“What kind of truck?” It was the first real interest she’d shown this whole time.

“Uh, ‘87 Ford. F-150. My uncle gifted it to me when I moved out here, but I haven’t been able to get it started. It’s a work in progress.”

Something flickered over her face, and although I couldn’t name it, it made me feel like I’d passed some kind of test.

“Respect,” she said, snapping her granola bar in half and tossing a piece into her mouth. “Give her a swing.”

I jumped back into the driver’s seat, all too happy to do her bidding. Unlike every other time I turned the key, I mumbled over and over for it not to start. That way she’d stick around longer.

The damn thing roared to life with one try. Of course.

“I know a guy who’d give you a good deal on an alternator,” she said when I got back out. “Let me know when you’re ready and I’ll hook you up.”

She picked up her toolbox. She was walking away. She was still ‘she’ and I still had no idea who the hell refused to leave my brain since that whole fire alarm incident.

“Let me take you to lunch,” I yelled after her. She turned back looking more confused than I’d hoped. “As a thank-you. Let me buy you lunch.”

“Already ate.” She licked peanut butter off her thumb, and continued on her way.

Just like that.

I stared after her like I’d just been pickpocketed and liked it.

“At least tell me your name.” My voice echoed around the deserted lot.

Her footsteps didn’t slow, and she didn’t tell me her name. Just wiggled her fingers in a type of wave over her shoulder, and disappeared.

3

Cass

Nepotism can be one hell of a shield, especially if no one knows about it. But when that email from Frost Bank’s admin landed in my inbox, I stared at it for a long while before clicking. The build-up wasn’t worth the body: Coach wants to see you.

Coach, because nobody knew who he really was to me. No subject line, no other details. Just that. Like I hadn’t already been running worst-case scenarios through my brain since the fake fire drill fiasco.

I scrubbed the grease off my hands and threw my apron aside. It didn’t matter that I technically worked for Facilities and not the Surge. I still looked like a walking liability. Jeans, hoodie, and just enough mascara to look alive, not like I was trying.

The ice had been resurfaced and set. The hallway past the training room echoed with skate guards clacking against tile and low locker-room banter. I walked fast, head down, past the trainers’ office, until I spotted my dad’s familiar stride rounding the corner near the equipment cage.

Clipboard. Whistle. Coaching face on.

“You wanted to see me?” I asked, casually falling in step beside him.

He didn’t look over, but said, “You put in the work order for the replacement visors?”

“Yesterday morning.”

“Gatorade restock?”

“Handled.”

“Stick tape?”

I pulled a roll from the pouch of my hoodie and held it out. “Need a demonstration?”