Page 68 of A Fighting Chance

“Thank you, sir,” I say as I hop into the seat behind the wheel and buckle my seatbelt.

He leans in and kisses me before closing the door. Then he rounds the truck and gets in, fastening his seatbelt and pressing his hands together as if in prayer.

“Oh, don’t be so dramatic.” I roll my eyes and rev the engine, wagging my eyebrows at him.

His eyes widen, faux fear gripping his features.

We roll onto the road and head toward town, Gentry’s hand on my thigh, my eyes on the road.

“So, now do I get to know where we’re going?” he asks.

“Not specifically,” I say. “But I will tell you this. When I lived here, I wasn’t old enough to drive into the city to drink and dance, but I always heard it was what people did when they were older.”

Gentry nods toward me, appearing to understand. “Fair enough,” he says, settling into his seat. He peers out the window and I wonder if he’s watching the passing trees the way I try to, the way your eyes can focus and blur and focus again on the next one.

“Are you hungry?” I ask him.

“We can just get food at the bar,” he says.

“Oh yeah, I’m getting mozzarella sticks for sure,” I say, my mouth salivating at the very thought.

“And onion rings,” Gentry adds.

“Yes. Mmmm.”

“I didn’t peg you for a junk food eater,” he says, laughing.

“Are you kidding me?” I ask. “Junk food is my reward for all the running I do.”

“I noticed your trophies. You’ve been running for a long time,” he says, and the way he phrases it makes the statement feel so much heavier.

You’ve been running for a long time.

Yeah, that’s probably true…

“I really enjoyed it, and after school, I just kept doing it,” I say.

His hand squeezes my thigh and silence falls over us again.

“Did you play any sports?” I ask him.

“I was a swimmer, believe it or not,” he says.

But judging by his long, lean form, and the way his stomach forms a perfect V, it isn’t hard to believe at all.

“I figured you were captain of the football team—quarterback or something,” I tease.

He scoffs. “No thank you to brain injuries.” He has a point there, but I assume that, even without that title, he was popular in high school.

“I bet you still had all the girls chasing you,” I say, glancing at him.

“Not really. Or, if they were chasing me, I was unaware,” he says with a shrug of his shoulders.

Now,thissurprises me. He’s so confident, so charming. “Interesting,” I say.

“What is?”

“You were just completely unaware of your beauty, and I wouldn’t have guessed that,” I say.

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