Chapter 6
six
I’m acting like a damn virgin, and I know it.
“Griffin!”
Nicky stands with his arms flung wide.
“Where’s your brain?”
Across the indoor field. On the women’s side. Where Scout’s playing.
And looking obscenely good while doing it.
Tight leggings. Sports bra. Compact little body. Long chocolate hair in a high ponytail. She looks good enough to eat, and I still owe her for last night…
My tongue drags over my lower lip, imagining what she tastes like.
She hasn’t looked at me once this entire game. I keep checking. Even slammed a goal to show off. Nothing. Not a flick of her eyes. Not even when I took off my shirt.
I must be losing it. Probably eating too much of my mom’s food lately.
Their game is ending just as ours is starting, and a sinking disappointment settles in my shoulders. I try to refocus. I really do. But then she bends over the bench to grab a water bottle, and my heart slams against my ribs like a trapped animal.
Finally, finally, she looks my way. I grin and wave. She turns around and walks off. And the ball hits me square in the head.
A few teammates slap my chest as they jog past.
“What the fuck is wrong with you? Did Delta rage last night?”
“No.” I inhale, exhale, then mutter, “Probably coming down with something.”
Yeah…something named Scout Turner.
It’s Saturday. I have her number on my phone; I could text her and ask her out. I’ve never done that before. Never had to. Most women stay away or just want a fling. Carrie asked me out. But we weren’t that serious and just sort of drifted apart after a few months.
“Forget those sorority bitches,” an opponent sneers as he runs by.
“Huh?” I blink at him.
He obviously has no idea who I am…and something about that makes my skin prickle with irritation.
“Yeah, they’re all looking for guys with money and futures more expensive than we can afford.”
He smacks my arm, not gently, then jogs off. This prick thinks I’m a scholarship kid. I mean…I am, but still.
I glance down at my holey shorts. My worn shoes. Okay. Maybe I need new ones.
Shoving my sweaty hair off my forehead, my jaw cracks as I set my sights on that asshole.
The moment Scout leaves the field? My head clears. My game sharpens. And I aim my old cleats right for his shins. Maybe they’ll give him tetanus.
He goes down screaming like a bitch. I steal the ball and thread a pass to Nicky.
The ref’s whistle shrieks. “You. Out.” He points at me, then the sidelines.
Fine.
I grab my towel and walk off toward the locker rooms. I deserve the card; I know it. Still felt good. Nicky watches me the whole way like he’s waiting for me to sprout fangs.
Showered and dressed, pulse jack-hammering, I head to the parking lot. I need to get to my place. The only space that shuts my brain up. Where I can breathe again.
I tie my bandana over my face, slap my brain bucket on top of my head, and shrug into my leather jacket. Then, I swing a leg over my bike—a custom, built from my brother’s sweat and whatever scraps I could afford from junkyards. Engine growling under me, I ride out of the city.
A few minutes later, I’m standing in front of her.
Karina.
Air moves easier in my lungs just looking at the place.
Anyone else would laugh. Hell, maybe they should.
It’s a shithole: cracked windows, crumbling brick, a sagging awning that looks like one strong wind could rip it off.
But I can see her the way she used to be from the photos I found in an old shoebox:
My grandparents, young and proud, arms around each other, standing under a polished sign. Tables packed. Steam on the windows. The smell of grilled lamb and lemon and oregano drifting out onto the street.
A full home-cooked Greek plate for less than a dollar. A whole life carved out of nothing.
Owning this building would be a horrible financial decision. And I don’t even have the money for it anyway. Which is why I haven’t told a single soul.
Especially not my family, who love to turn dreams into gossip the second they smell weakness. They expect me to manage a franchise of Griffin Motors. Work in the chain of automotive and motorcycle repair shops Dad and my Uncle Adon built. Run diagnostics, fix bikes, keep the books.
It’s a solid paycheck. Suits on important days. A fine life. A good one. Same as my family and my uncle’s. One he reminds us he fought hard to give to us all.
So why do my fists clench inside my leather gloves at the thought of it?
Why does every muscle in my body ache to stand behind that ruined counter and scrub until it shines? To open those old shutters and fill this place with the smell of garlic and frying dough? Why do I want this broken building more than anything else?
Because it’s a piece of history that my family forgot. I haven’t.
But I can’t afford to remember it.
Not yet.