Page 46 of False Start

“You focus on driving, and I’ll take care of the rest.”

“Convince a brewery to name a beer after you? You think you can handle that?”

“I already have a cider named after me. Trent Yard Line. It’s made with chili peppers and chocolate.”

I wrinkled my nose. “That sounds disgusting.”

“It’s amazing, and thanks to that reaction, I’m taking you out for a pint as soon as we’re back in Virginia.”

Another team wandered out of the motel, pulling a tarp off their convertible. I grimaced. “The leak. We didn’t fix it last night.”

“Way ahead of you,” Trent answered, opening the backseat.

Threadbare white motel towels lined the seat and floor. I pressed my palm against the roof, searching for the source of the leak. “So, you stole a bunch of towels. We still need to plug it.”

His hand cupped mine, dragging it away from the back windshield and toward the center of the roof where a mound of something hard blocked the leak. A patch.

A vision of Trent grinding gears on the way to a 24-hour superstore filled my mind. “Please tell me you didn’t drive this car in the dark alone.”

Trent snorted, his thumb brushing my wrist and sending an electric tingle down my arm and into my chest. “Team Hasbro has a whole damn repair center in their trunk. They helped me patch the hole this morning before they took off.”

His chest rested against my back, hand shockingly soft, all things considered. Sure, he wasn’t a plumber or a carpenter, but the man worked with his hands, and they had no business being that soft. And I had just as little business wondering how it would feel if his hand slid down my arm.

“You’re crowding me, Texas.” I shook his hand off, brushing my palm on my shirt and waiting until the scent of ocean water dissipated before I took a step back. “We should head out. Thanks for handling the repair.”

I avoided eye contact as I shut the back door, convinced Trent could sense the waves of awkward desperation wafting off me. Wherever that temporary insanity came from, I needed to rein it back in.

“Well, I hope you’re hungry because our first stop is a fine dining establishment where all the servers dress in chicken costumes.” Trent rounded the car and slid into the passenger seat.

My stomach rumbled. “As long as there’s food.”

Trent patted the cracked console. “Then let’s blow this joint, Kitten. We have four states to visit in the next fifteen hours.”

A podcast about dairy and beef droned on in the background. After eight stops and lunch, Trent retreated into his passenger seat hole for the afternoon: a pillow wedged between the center console and his seat, route book precariously balanced on the dashboard, and phone in hand.

He didn’t look like a famous NFL player here. He didn’t look important or even that untouchable. His hair mussed, chin burrowed into the neckband of his hoodie, he looked like a nobody. A random guy on a road trip, exhausted from a long day in the car.

Only that frown.

I’d caught it a couple of times throughout the day. Not that Trent didn’t frown, but usually the cause was apparent: an insult lobbed his way, a wrong turn off the highway, an extra stop that didn’t pan out.

“You okay, Texas?”

The words sounded unnatural coming out of my mouth, but I pushed them out just the same. I’d lost the plot on the beef and dairy podcast, so I figured I may as well ruin the rest of the afternoon by informing Trent that I actually cared if he was in a bad mood.

“Fine.” He rushed out the answer, pocketing his phone as if I’d grab it out of his hand.

I raised an eyebrow. “If you’re trawling Raya or Tinder, I really don’t care, but you don’t have to act all weird about it.”

“It’s not that.” He picked up the route book, staring at it as if he hadn’t memorized the whole day’s itinerary at this point.

“You know if someone asks for dick pics and then claims they’re underage, that’s an extortion scam, right? You shouldn’t send that person or their alleged father gift cards.”

“Thanks for the tip,” he scoffed. “But I don’t send dick pics unless I know them in real life and they ask real nice.”

My cheeks burned. Why had I brought up dick pics? Why was I thinking about Trent’s dick pics? “What’s really going on?”

“It’s dumb. And unimportant.”

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