Page 33 of Renegade Rift
“Juliet, please.”
“Alright.” I concede. “I’ll just head down.”
“Are you sure you’re okay?”
“Mmhmm.”
God, even I don’t believe me.
The click of the fridge closing, followed by his sure steps in my direction, sends my pulse skyrocketing.
Five steps. I’m five steps from the door.
I just need to get out of here.
Which is why I say the one thing I know will stop him in his tracks. “I’m free Thursday morning. What time do you have to be at the field?”
He sucks in a breath. “You’re actually going to help me?”
Two steps. “I pay back my debts.”
“I—” He hesitates like he’s going to argue, but then continues, “I’m on the injured reserve for the next four weeks.”
One step. “I’ll be here at seven.”
“Here, take this.”
I keep my face down as I turn, finding Ford’s hand with a bag of what looks like takeout leftovers.
“It’s from a place up the street. All gluten-free. I…uh…I wanted to know if their gluten-free option was any good.”
God, he makes it so hard to hate him.
“Thanks,” I mutter, taking the bag without question so I can get the heck out of there.
“Breakfast Thursday then,” he confirms, a lilt to his voice like he’s afraid I’ll change my mind.
I nod and scurry out the door before he can say anything else.
It’s only when I’m in the car that I allow myself to fall apart to the terrifying thought that maybe I’ve been wrong about Ford all this time.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
FORD
In baseball, we learn to play hurt—physically and mentally. Injuries happen, and early on we learn to push past the pain. We leave our families and adapt to compartmentalize home time and game time. We push and we push, never fully healing, until one of two things happens: Your career ends in flames, or you learn to trust the team around you.
I’m really trying to do the latter. Trying to trust the process as I workout with the guys before the game. But I hate that because of the small metacarpal fracture I earned when I punched Earl, I’m not going to be on that field tonight.
Not that I regret it. Not when all I see is the fear in Juliet’s eyes as Earl grabbed her. Or the tears she thinks she hid when she hightailed it out of my apartment three nights ago.
It’s taken everything in me not to check in on her.
Well. Not show up at her apartment, that is. Because I have definitely sent food to her house every day to make sure she’s eating. And every night she has nicely told me to fuck off. Never those exact words, though.
Juliet could never.
Logically, I know she’s probably fine. Especially now Earl has no reason to show up at her apartment. But that doesn’t stop every other worry. Like where she’s living is in a shitty part of the city. Or that some asshole will think her revealing bar uniform is an invitation to take advantage of her. And don’t get me started on the fact that she’s keeping the job as a topless maid.
