Page 5 of False Start

“How would you be able to tell?”

Derek’s automotive knowledge rivaled my own: none.

The 1979 Mercury Cougar was in rough shape when my dad died. Then it sat in his garage for a few years before my mom decided it was time to get rid of the house. Throughan assortment of tutorial videos and a mechanic willing to take monthly payments for repairs, I’d gotten the hunk of rust drivable, but hadn’t eradicated all the critters that had made the car a home.

I brushed away a collection of leaves stuffed between the hood and the windshield and shrugged. “Exposed wires, I guess. Sparks? Fire?”

“Just close your eyes and let the automotive knowledge of your ancestors flow through you?” Derek joked.

“That’s my next plan. Or pick up a few more shifts.” I sighed, not knowing when I’d find the time. Between work and school and kickball, I barely had time to sleep. To think. To study. I pushed myself away from the car and sighed. “I should have quit the team this year.”

“Don’t say that.” He flung an arm around my shoulder, sweeping me into a hug. I leaned my head against Derek’s chest, inhaling the familiar smell of flour and sugar that clung to him even when he had a day off from the bakery. A familiar scent that eased the tension in my chest. “We need you on the team. Who else is going to make snarky comments from the outfield?”

“You put me at second base,” I whined. “You know I hate second base.”

“I wanted you to keep an eye on Trent. Help him out.”

“And you know I hate helping even more than I hate second base.”

“But you’re so good at it.” Derek let me go and walked across the garage. He opened the small mini fridge that had followed us around since college. When the barely-running car ended up with me, I’d rented out a garage spot and the fridge joined the car. He rifled through the cans and pulled out a sparkling water for me and soda for him.

I shut the hood of the car with a resigned sigh.

“Couldn’t sleep?” Derek dragged out two folding chairs stacked against the wall, opening one for me.

I shook my head as I sat down. “Nope. I studied for a few hours, laid on the couch trying to get sleepy, and when you didn’t come home, I wandered out here.”

The post-practice ritual was normally short: juice and orange slices in the dugout and then a single drink at a nearby bar. Dom had two toddlers at home and Steff and Mark started their workday at 2 A.M. Bakers weren’t exactly a “stay up late” crowd. On a normal week, Derek and I would be curled up on the couch, eating snacks and watching TV by eight.

Not that I minded the few times Derek stayed out late. I just didn’t care for his newest best friend.

“Sorry about that.” He rubbed his neck, eyes slanting toward the open door. “We ended up grabbing a couple of drinks.”

“You and…” I prompted, already knowing the answer. When Derek found out Norwalk Breakers bad boy wide receiver wanted to play kickball, he’d swooped at the chance to have him on our team.

“Gavin hung around for two drinks. Marcus, too.” He flitted around the name, his smile growing each time he avoided Trent’s name.

“And that Texas asshole.”

“He’s not an asshole,” Derek corrected gently.

“He sounds like an asshole.” I huffed. “Treats people like an asshole.”

Derek screwed up his lips, eyes flitting around the cement floor. “He seems like he’s in a bad place.”

I huffed out a laugh. Of course. A project. Derek loved a project. It explained at least a decade of our friendship. I liked my projects slightly more concrete: a bachelor’s degree, an oil change, a kickball game. Not a person.

“I don’t think he’s fixable.”

The words tumbled out as if I had anything more than a terse conversation with the guy.

“You don’t?” He laughed, raising an eyebrow as his eyes shot toward mine. “You barely talked to him.”

“I know enough about him.” Or at least guys like him.

“You know not every charming rich guy is a complete douche, right?”

“Just most of them?” I sucked down the rest of my water and stood up with a wave. “It doesn’t matter. He probably didn’t even clock me as a real person.”

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