Page 60 of Falling Offsides

For just a moment, wrapped in my dad’s arm, with the team ahead and my camera swinging at my hip, I feel like I’m part of something.

Like I belong.

Like I’m home.

The rides are exactlywhat I remember and nothing like I expected.

I scream my lungs out onSpace Mountainwhile Auguste sits next to me, completely stone-faced, like he’s preparing to face down death with nothing but his jawline and quiet rage.

Jayden and Oliver are behind us, cackling so hard I think one of them is going to choke. I’m half-convinced they’re trying to tip the car with their laughter alone.

By the time we hitThunder Mountain, Auguste looks like he’s braced for war. Arms locked. Shoulders tight. Jaw clenched.

I lean in. “I thought you played a sport where people throw themselves into you with knives on their feet.”

He doesn’t even glance my way. “This is worse.”

I nudge his arm—accidentally-on-purpose—and our arms press together for one too-long beat before I shift back with a breathy laugh.

“Poor Uncle Auggie,” Lily coos from the row ahead. “Don’t worry. We’ll start in the baby section next time.”

“She planned this,” he mutters, glaring at the back of Lily’s head like she’s his arch-nemesis.

I’m doing my best to hold in my laugh at the green look on his face. “She’s ten. And smarter than all of you.”

He finally turns toward me, slow and suspicious, like I’ve justrevealed I’m in on the conspiracy. “Did you help her come up with this plan?”

“I mean… I didn’t not encourage her.”

“Traitor,” that’s all he says.

“Coward.”

Another nudge.

Another press of skin.

His arm’s warm. Hard. The kind of solid that makes me want to lean into him completely as the train lurches forward with a screech, throwing us back against the seats, and my hand flies out to grab something—anything—steady.

I catch his thigh.

His verysolid, verywarmthigh.

I gasp, pulling away like the contact burned me.

But not before I see his head tip slightly. A muscle jumps in his jaw.

Neither of us says anything. We don’t need to.

Not with the way my pulse won’t settle.

Not with the way his fingers flex on the lap bar, like he’s fighting the urge to reach for me right back.

Not with the way the next drop hits, and I scream again—this time for a completely different reason.

TWELVE

AUGUSTE

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