Page 101 of False Start

“I did,” he said with a laugh. “Didn’t want any injuries up there.”

“What, like poking an eye out?” I said with what I thought would be a snort but came out a hell of lot more like a whimper.

“Sounds like you might be about ready to get rid of that no kissing rule,” he murmured as he dragged a lazy finger along the edge of my collarbone over the word “belonging” tattooed in script there.

“Or maybe you destroyed it when you got all manhandley with me out on the track the other day,” I said, forcing the words when his touch had sucked all the air out of the room, but enjoying the way he opened up ever since I managed to avoid steamrolling my own player on the track.

The rigid set of his shoulders had eased. He didn’t tunnel his hands through his hair in frustrated spurts quite as much, and he smiled showing off that deep dimple along the edge of his cheek I didn’t get to see nearly enough of.

Happiness looked damn good on the man.

A hot, promising grin curled his lips. “Don’t give me any ideas, Mayhem. We’ve got a long day ahead of us.”

“Hey, I’m not the one all reaching out to touch someone,” I said despite doing just that when I swatted his ass as I skated away, giving him a firm squeeze while I was at it.

We started out slow, not because he had us start out that way, but apparently now that we were actually doing this in full force, we’d gone all duh on putting the moves together. We’d turned into a nightmare cheesy montage of 1980’s bloopers from Cocoon full of agonizingly slow exaggerated movements and unsure glances.

Followed by the surprised look you get when you trust a fart only to have it betray you.

Gerald almost melted the vinyl of a bar stool one day with one of those.

I had to do something about what was unfolding here. I was a jammer. I set the tone with my takeoff in a way. If I just came in hard, fast, and confident, they’d follow.

Clearly the anaconda smuggler on the infield agreed since he started pacing alongside us, shouting the entire time.

“Go harder!”

“You’re not one team on the bank now, you’re opponents. Act like it!”

“Push, push, push!”

“Mayhem, don’t make me come up there!”

That one got everyone’s attention.

If he was going to stomp around like that, he should just wear his sneakers, it’d be better for his arches.

Two hours in, we finally managed to blast past the awkwardness and go for it. Bodies crashed into rails, players slid down the track and hopped back on with ease, gaps opened and closed, and I managed to shoot through the pack and zip around the corner to battle Carmen for lead jammer position several times over.

By lunch, the jitters gone, we sat on the infield benches, grabbing more water than food, our feet tapping to the beat of the music Priest pumped into the barn.

He stood by the front office with Jackson, their heads together, while Jackson scrolled through his phone. In the few quiet minutes, I could actually study him, so I took full advantage.

But studying meant wanting, if it was possible to want more than I already did.

I’d developed a taste for a bit of self-torture.

How did I know? Because my yearning went way beyond the physical. I wanted him here. In Galloway Bay. I wanted him to take his power back and stay.

Finally beyond the monotony of constant repetitive footwork and finally dipping our toes in the fire that came with real derby, my body hummed with energy. It skittered under my skin, making it nearly impossible to sit still.

My brain latched on and turned that energy into fantasy.

What if?

What if Priest had followed me up to my apartment the night we mauled each other in my hallway?

What if he hadn’t brought Tilly onto the team without warning me?

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