Page 12 of The Perfect Game

“Yeah, I was hoping that too. My mom will go a little crazy when she finds out and will probably drag me to the hospital. I’m sure they’ll just tell me to come back again when the swelling has gone down.”

I heard a laugh and turned to find Ben’s smile wide, his eyes twinkling.

“I take it you’re familiar with hospitals, then?” he asked, pulling his knees to his chest. He draped his arms over them and turned to look at me, the intensity of his gaze making it hard to breathe.

“Maybe. My dad has gotten a few injuries over the years, so I’m getting fairly good at predicting what the diagnosis will be.”

Ben motioned with his thumb behind him to the truck. “Can I give you a ride home?”

My attention moved up to Ben’s face. I shook my head, not even entertaining the idea. “My dad said he would be here. Still just waiting for him to show up.” I looked down the nearly empty parking lot and sighed, wishing I could just go back to that moment in the sand and avoid Courtney’s leg. Then I’d be almost home from a good run, ready to enjoy a bubble bath and maybe even a pint of ice cream right now.

Without saying anything, Ben reached over and took my phone from my hand.

“What are you doing?” I asked, gritting my teeth. I tried to think of why he would need my phone or even what he’d be looking for. Nothing exciting there; that was for sure.

His thumbs tapped the screen several times before he handed it back to me. I looked down at my phone, seeing the message screen up. The wordHiwas on the screen with Ben Clark at the top. He’d given me his number? And then texted himself to get my number. Original.

“If you need a ride, just call or text. I have to run something to my mom’s friend a few blocks over, but if your dad isn’t here anytime soon, just let me know. I’ve got room in my truck.”

He gave me a small smile as he stood, hesitating for several moments. “You left your candy at the play. Was everything okay?” His eyebrows rose, waiting for an answer.

I debated whether or not to spill it. “I just thought I’d bugged you with all my chatter, and then you said, ‘Finally,’ and it just triggered some memories from my past.”

A deep line formed in his forehead, and he shook his head. “You definitely weren’t bugging me. I like hearing about your life. It had been a long day anyway, and I kind of wanted the play to be done so I could talk to you after.”

Searching his face, I only saw sincerity. “You wanted to keep talking to me?”

“Yeah,” he said, shifting his feet. He looked like he wanted to say more but settled on, “Let me know if you need anything.”

With a quick wave, he turned, and I watched him walk away, maybe admiring the back of him a little too much. It was a relief that I’d misread the situation at the play.

A few seconds later, my dad’s cherry red Lamborghini pulled up. “Hey, doll! Let me help you out there.” My dad jumped out and ran around to my side, lifting me by my arms and practically dumping me into the car. That’s what happened when he was six-foot-six and nearly three hundred pounds. I just wished he’d gifted me more of his height.

My cheeks burned that he’d just lifted me like a rag doll. At least Ben had already taken off.

I slunk down in the seat, using my hand to cover my face. “Let’s go, Dad. I need some ibuprofen or something.”

“No problem, kid.” He revved the engine and took off out of the parking lot.

I dropped my head and relaxed against the seat.

“Long day?”

I turned to look at him, trying to decide which direction I was going to let my emotions swing. “You could say that, yeah.”

“How’d you get hurt again?” he asked, pointing to my ankle.

I shifted, accidentally bumping my ankle against the door. Closing my eyes, I breathed in, trying not to let the tears from the pain overtake me. This was definitely not a simple sprain.

When I knew my voice wasn’t going to give me away, I said, “I tripped over a girl on my team when I went to set the ball.”

“Weren’t you supposed to have a tournament today?”

I glanced at the road before shaking my head. “That was last weekend, Dad.”

“I’m so sorry, Rena. You should have said something.” He slowed down as we came to a stoplight. “When’s the next one?”

“That was the last one for club volleyball. I’ve got all of my stuff on the calendar in the kitchen. I have two months until the high school season starts, and I’m hoping I didn’t do serious damage to my ankle.” I pointed to my ankle and waited for whatever was about to come out of his mouth. Steve Gates was definitely a wild card when it came to sympathy.

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