CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Lucas
I’ve got the hood up on my truck under a tree in the apartment parking lot. It’s hotter than hell, my knuckles are scraped to shit, and my head is somewhere else entirely.
The engine doesn’t need fixing.
I do.
It’s late enough in the afternoon that kids are out of school and riding bikes or playing in the nearby park. My morning practice has long since been over and given me enough time to second-guess more shit than I’d like to admit.
And revel in even more of it.
The high from the game and waking up without my shoulder throbbing.
And the memory of her mouth on mine—and then the way she stopped me like it mattered too fucking much.
I tighten a bolt I already tightened ten minutes ago.
“Is that your truck?” The voice asking is high-pitched, curious, and way too close for me not to have noticed.
I glance over and see a kid standing a few feet away.
He’s about ten, wearing a Rebels hat that’s too big for his head, and there’s a smear of dirt on his cheek.
He’s straddling a bike that’s a little too small for him and has definitely seen better days.
Who knew kids actually played outside these days?
“Sure is.”
He has that curious but fearless look in his eyes that kids get before the world shows them otherwise. I glance around to see if there’s a parent in sight, and he points to the park on the other side of the street where a woman has her hand shielding her eyes and is watching us.
“You know anything about engines?” I ask.
He shrugs. “Not really. I mean, I know they make my dad curse when ours doesn’t work right. But he says they’re just puzzles and you have to figure out what’s wrong with them.”
I chuckle. “He’s not wrong.”
“What’s your name?” I ask as he lays his bike on its side and steps over the frame so he can get a closer look at what I’m tinkering with.
“Simon. It’s a horrible name, but it’s not like I have a choice, now do I?”
I bark out a laugh. “It’s not a bad name at all. I’m Lucas.” I reach out a hand, and he looks at it and then up at me, surprised I guess that an adult wants to shake his hand.
“Nice to meet you,” he says, his hand disappearing in mine as we shake. He rocks back on his heels, craning his neck to peer under the hood like he might magically understand it if he looks hard enough. “You play for the Rebels, right?”
I’ve been found out. Was waiting for that to happen.
“Sometimes,” I say.
“If you play for the Rebels, how come you have a truck you have to fix? Why don’t you buy a fancy sports car and have a mechanic?”
“Well,” I say and wipe my hands on the red rag I had placed on the fender. “Because all shiny things get dull eventually and dull to me means it has character.”
“Huh?” His brow furrows.
“Shiny and fast is fine, but older and consistent is also something to value.”
I don’t know who I’m trying to convince, the kid or myself, and by the way he just stares at me, he doesn’t really care either way.
“My mom said you played good the other day.”
“She did?” I pause, wrench in hand. “She watched the game?”
“It’s Texas,” he says like it’s the most logical response in the world.
I laugh. “Guess you’re right.”
“She yells at the TV during the games like you guys can hear her.” He rolls his eyes. “We tell her she’s ridiculous, but that only makes her yell louder.”
“Passion is passion.”
“Yeah, well you might not say that if you heard what she yells when you guys mess up.”
“Don’t worry. We say it to ourselves when we screw up.” I tighten the distributor cap. “And probably with worse language.”
He shakes his head and makes a funny sound. “Hmm. You ain’t never heard my momma.”
“True.” I smile and turn to look at him as he knocks his knuckles on the headlight as if that will fix whatever it is I’m tinkering with. It makes me smile. “Do you play?” I ask him, thinking of the Pop Warner game the other day and how, it is in fact Texas.
“Nah. I play soccer. Midfielder.” He glances over to where his mom is still standing and watching us. “I’m fast.”
I nod. “You’re lucky. Speed is something that can’t be taught.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” he says like a twenty-year-old adult mulling over the conversation. “Can I ask you a question?”
“Shoot,” I say and set the wrench down.
“Do you ever get nervous?”
The question lands harder than it should, because I never used to. But now? “Before games?”
He nods. “Before . . . stuff.”
“Stuff?”
“Anything really. Before games. Before interviews. Before flying to games.”
I lean back against the truck, one knee up with my foot resting on the bumper behind me. “Yeah. All the time.”
“But you still do it?”
“Yep.”
“Why?”
Because not doing it feels worse?
I don’t give that response despite it being my gut reflex. Instead, I say, “Because sometimes wanting something doesn’t go away just because you’re scared.”
He bites his bottom lip, clearly thinking about it. “My dad says if something’s hard, it’s usually worth doing.”
Smart kid. Or smart dad.
“He’s probably right,” I say.
He nods, and then I can see him gaining the courage to ask the next question. “You ever want something you’re not supposed to have?”
My laugh is a chord of disbelief as Emery flashes in my mind. I swallow. “Yeah. More than a few times. Should I ask what we’re talking about here?”
“Nothing specific. Just asking questions so I can use the answers later if I need them.”
This kid, man. He’s adorable with his dark curly hair and the sprinkle of freckles across the bridge of his nose.
“If you need them later, huh?”
“Yep. If you store knowledge, then you get to keep it for when it’s needed.”
“Another thing your dad taught you?”
“Nah, this one is my mom.” He angles his head to the side. “So, what do you do when you want something you’re not supposed to have?”
I glance back at the engine. At my hands. At the grease under my fingernails. At the way I keep trying to fix things that aren’t actually broken.
“I try to convince myself I don’t want it,” I say finally and ignore the way Emery and that goddamn kiss pops into my head. The way she tasted. The way she felt. The way I keep telling myself that had to be enough when I know damn well, it fucking isn’t.
“Does that work for you?”
I shake my head. “Not really,” I say with a healthy dose of sarcasm.
He seems satisfied with that answer, like it confirms something he already suspected. “My mom says pretending doesn’t make stuff go away. It just makes it louder in your head.”
“Your mom is a wise woman.” How many times have I stood at Emery’s door with my fist raised to knock since that kiss and then backed away?
How many times have I stared across the PT room to where she’s speaking with Grant or Coach, those sexy-as-fuck glasses perched on her nose as she explains something to them?
“Yeah, she says she lived a whole life before having kids, whatever that means.”
I bark out a laugh. This kid’s funny.
“Good for her,” I say. “You should listen to your parents. They have good advice.”
He shrugs like he’s not convinced but then takes a few steps back so that he can straddle the bike, and lift it up, handlebars in hands. “Hey, Lucas?”
“Yeah.”
“I thought you played good too. Maybe they’ll let you play more next time.”
“That’s the hope,” I say, feeling oddly proud that a kid just complimented me. It means more to me than he’ll probably ever realize.
“Later, Lucas. Mom’s calling me.”
“Later, Simon,” I call out as he pedals down the sidewalk without a look back, the soft squeak of the old pedals fading until it’s just me again. The truck. The afternoon hum of life around me. The quiet in my head.
And the truth I’ve been avoiding since the parking lot kiss that rocked my fucking world.
A kiss is a kiss is a kiss.
At least that’s what I’ve always thought. But not this time. Not hers.
It was . . . devastating in all the best fucking ways.
And all I want is more. Of her. Of it. Of what might come next.
I close the hood of the truck, wipe my hands on my rag, and lean back against it.
I’ve followed the rules my whole life. Coaches’ rules. Doctors’ rules. My own self-imposed ones.
No distractions.
No complications.
No crossing lines you can’t uncross.
But that kiss already crossed one.
And she sure as shit didn’t stop because she didn’t feel it. She stopped because she did.
I glance over my shoulder to where Simon is standing with his bike next to his mom, gesticulating wildly as if to relay our conversation.
Hell. If I’m already breaking the rules . . .
If I’m already risking something . . .
Then pretending I don’t want her might be the biggest lie I’m telling myself.
Brendan’s right, I didn’t get this far by playing it safe. Didn’t survive thirteen seasons by ignoring what my instincts were screaming at me.
And right now?
They’re insisting that I need to figure out how to convince her of the same. Yes, I took a risk and kissed her. Perhaps it was rash and adrenaline-fueled, but fuck if it didn’t feel right.
She said it was a mistake.
But was it? By the way I can still taste her kiss, I’m not sure it was. Mistakes don’t feel as good as that did.
So the question is, what am I going to do about it?
How do I show Emery that we can have what we both want?