“Oh, Iammad at you, don’t worry,” he cuts me off, finally looking at me. “But he came onto you.”
“That’s not true. I came onto him.”
Dane snaps his laptop shut. “Alaina, you were in love with him since you were thirteen. He should’ve known better. You’re just?—”
“Don’t you dare say I’m a fucking child, Dane. I’m twenty-four. He’s thirty-four. We’re consenting adults.” He looks like he’s about to open his mouth to argue, but I’m not done yet. “And Piper’s thirty. So what? Because she’s only four years younger than you, that makes it better than our age gap?”
“Yes,” he bites out. “And the tiny fact that I didn’t watch her grow up!”
We glare at each other, and the silence between us buzzes like tension on a start gate until I break it by rolling my eyes. “I’m going outside. Gonna sit on the bike for a bit.”
“Sure, whatever. Everybody does what they want anyway,” he mutters.
Rolling my eyes again, this time even harder, I grab my gloves, step through the bus’ door, and let it slam behind me. I glance around and, sure enough, there’s Finn, sleeves rolled up, muscular forearms on full display, hammer in hand, fixing something on the bus like redemption can be welded together.
He notices me staring and turns around with a smile on his face that almost takes my breath away. “Hey, Al. I didn’t know you were in there.”
I don’t answer. Just keep walking toward the back of the bus.
I don’t trust my voice to come out neutral.
“Did I wake you? I’m sorry,” he adds, a little softer as I pass him.
What do you want, Finn?
Do you want me to ask what you’re doing?
Well, guess what? I won’t.
Even if I’d love to know why the fuck the white CREWS on the bus suddenly looks not so shitty anymore.
I pop the lock on the back of the bus and swing the doors open, already reaching for the frame where it’s strapped in, when I feel warmth at my back. A shadow falls over mine as Finn reaches over me, fingers brushing past my shoulder, going formybike.
“Don’t touch it,” I snap, grabbing his forearm before he can lift it.
He goes still. Hands up, backing off without argument. “Sorry.”
Pulling the bike out myself, I don’t bother hiding the grunt it costs me. I grab my helmet, too, swing my leg over, and pedal off toward the tree line without another glance at Finn. Just getting there is a chore. I’m stiff, sore, and I already know this is a terrible idea. Still, I go, because I have to figure out how fucked I really am, preferably before practice.
There are trails everywhere, and because I’m at the far end of the park and it’s still early, I’m alone between the trees.
Ugh. Trees.
I get off the bike and push it up the hill, legs already burning from the stiffness in my hip, biting through just long enough to gain a little elevation, before I turn the bike downhill and get on again. I keep my speed low, cautious, with only my forefinger on the brake and my middle finger curled awkwardly around the handlebar, trying to compensate for the two taped ones that can’t hold anything, let alone the weight of my body shifting on a descent.
I try to grip tighter, try to hold on, but it’s useless.
The brake lever shudders under my touch, and the lackof tension makes everything worse. My balance wobbles as the trail levels slightly, and the moment I feel gravity start to pull me forward, I realize I’m not in control. I can’t stop. I can’t even slow down properly.
So I let it roll, and when I hit a shallow rut, I can’t even react fast enough. The bike pitches wrong beneath me, and my fingers slip, my body twists, and the next thing I know, I’m on the ground.
It’s not a brutal fall, and there’s no sharp shock of pain, but I land wrong, my leg tangled with the frame, my elbow scraping dirt as I skid sideways. And even though nothing is seriously hurt, I scream anyway, not from pain, but from fury.
I scream again as I push myself up, every part of me shaking from the effort, the shame, and thehumiliation of falling like a rookiewhen I’ve spent the last seven years turning myself into someone whodoesn’tfall.
Seven fucking years.
For fucking nothing?
