Page 3 of Chasing Wild Heart

“What?” My head whips around to take in her smug expression. With my hands tightly curled into fists and resting on my hips and despite my furious glare hidden behind my sunglasses, anyone within a ten-foot radius could probably feel my anger and annoyance vibrate through my solid posture.

What kills me is the sassy, petite freshman not batting an eye or even looking the slightest bit intimidated. When her watch chirps, her gaze drops for a second before resuming our staring contest with a bright smile.

“She and Tabby just finished,” Daphne reports, lightly tapping a perfectly manicured nail against the watch screen a few times. “Landed in ninth and tenth place.”

The anger simmering inside immediately erupts into an all-consuming rage. The clench in my jaw tightens even more, holding back a barrage of words I will immediately regret.

One, where the fuck is the modicum of respect I deserve for pushing these girls? With the amount of talent and camaraderie, the team shouldn’t settle for sitting in the middle of the division. They could be in the top three if they took this seriously and stopped acting like a bunch of junior high students.

Two, the stunt Juniper just pulled proves she’s more than capable of winning. If she would stop dicking around for a second or two, she could crush the competition like she did in high school. Where the hell is her drive? Her instincts? The fire to win?

Three, with twenty-one other teams here, I expected Tabby to finish somewhere in the top twenty and Juni top thirty. While finishing ninth and tenth is amazing, pushing that hard without proper training could lead to serious injury.

I frown at the last point, instinctively shifting my balance from one foot to the other.

“How do you know this?” I ask evenly after sucking in a deep breath.

Daphne pops a shoulder, either ignoring or not noticing my barely controlled wrath. I suspect the latter. “A few of her friends are here and stayed near the chute, and one texted me.”

“Fuck me,” I mutter, incredibly tempted to ignore the disapproving looks from a few nearby parents. Except I could beeasily associated with the team, considering I’m wearing a navy t-shirt with the university name printed across the chest and my last name on the back.

Daphne is basically a walking billboard in the school branded warm-up suit of navy joggers and matching hoodie.

Hoping my sunglasses hide my annoyance, I unlock my jaw to soften my tight facial expression before giving the offending spectators a slight nod. I pray they interpret the silent gesture as an apology because I’d like to avoid a reprimand three months into a new job.

“What the hell is she thinking?” I grumble more to myself.

“Have you ever asked her?”

“I’m not asking her out,” I reply flatly, exasperated at the thought of the team discussing my social life.

“Psssh,” she tsks, waving her hand around as if to bat away a pesky fly. “I know you’ll never ask her out because you’re too much of a chickenshit. No, dummy, I’m asking if you ever asked her whatshe’sthinking?”

“What?”

Daphne rolls her eyes before answering with an enormous sigh. “You’re coaching her based on her stats and achievements. You haven’t once talked to her or ask about her goals.”

I open my mouth to argue when she plows ahead, shaking her head for emphasis. “Talking to her is nowhere the same as telling her what she’s doing wrong and what she should be doing.”

My lips slam shut as my mind processes the distinct difference. Slivers of shame and confusion tread through me as I realize she’s right. Right about everything minus the crush.

“Like I said, moron,” Daphne harrumphs, accepting my silence as the end of the discussion, and literally bounces away.

I stand still, feeling oddly disorientated, and watch her disappear into the crowd heading toward the finish area.

What the hell just happened?

“Sit.”

Istopdeadinmy tracks and scowl at the bane of my existence since August.

Dashwood freaking Black.

Sitting by the window in the first row of the mini bus, he lifts his chin toward the empty row across the aisle.

“I'm not a dog,” I reply tightly, loosening my grip on the strap of my gym bag to prevent myself from “accidentally” swinging it toward his stupid, handsome face.

His broad shoulders slump slightly as he sighs tiredly. “Please sit. I'd like to talk to you.”

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