Page 31 of False Start

“Let me go get my equipment set up,” she tittered. “Give me five.”

As she scurried away, I smacked Trent’s arm.

“What was that for?” He rubbed his arm, raising an eyebrow.

“Don’t do that,” I snapped.

“Do what?”

“Flirt with the judges. You’re shameless.”

“Jealous?”

Jealousy was the farthest emotion possible. Disgusted? Annoyed? Absolutely. He was talented and rich. He didn’t need to charm people, too.

I snorted. “Hardly. Listen, I know you suck at driving, and you probably aren’t great at navigation, but we don’t need to flirt to win.”

“Thank God for that,” he muttered under his breath.

“Excuse me?”

“Well, if that were the case, we’d really be screwed.”

“Just because I haven’t flirted with you?”

Or anyone in months, at least. Except for the maintenance guy for the coagulation instrument at my work, who was hot but definitely married, I barely talked to any single men. Less interested in women. And I certainly didn’t flirt with them.

“You know, Iama little hurt. You’ve never even tried to flirt with me.” He played the words like a joke, but his eyes narrowed. I’d hit something, though what was a mystery.

“I’m a great flirt. And you’ve given me absolutely no reason to flirt with you, which is really your loss, when you think about it. Wait,” I paused as his eyes flitted across the field to where Ashley retreated to her car. “Are you upset that I called you an acquaintance?”

He bobbled his head before nodding. “That stung a little.”

“Fine, if you’re going to be whiny about it, I’ll call you my friend.”

“Platonic friend.”

I snorted. “Right, like anyone’s making that mistake. I think your reputation is safe, even around a bunch of gearheads road tripping through the middle of nowhere. Now, stop being whiny and let’s get this interview over with. Unless you’re waiting for hair and makeup.”

“I do my own hair and makeup for most interviews, thank you.” He raked a hand through his blond hair, almost red in the sunlight, and then threw an arm over my shoulders. “You know I’m not worried about my reputation, right?”

“Well, I am,” I said, slipping out of his grasp. “So, let’s not pretend we’re super chummy.”

“Save that for day three. Good call.”

ELEVEN

TRENT

We metAshley under a black canopy tent set up in the middle of the gravel lot. A gaggle of twenty-somethings dressed in Hawaiian shirts and fanny packs smiled as they vacated the camp chairs positioned in front of a sign that read “Road to Nowhere Rally!”

“Take a seat right there.” She motioned for us to sit down, brow furrowed as she concentrated on the phone in her hand. Kit grabbed the closest chair and inched it away from the second.

“Let’s start with your names, what you do, and where you’re from.” Ashley pulled her gaze from the phone and beamed at me. Not Kit. Me.

I kind of understood Kit’s earlier annoyance.

“I’m Trent Vogt, first-string wide receiver of the Norwalk Breakers and top player in the NFL, and I’m originally from Dallas, Texas.”

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