Page 135 of False Start

“Really. You’re one hell of a package,” he said with a smile. “And you guys are about to be up,” he said, jutting his chin at the bank right as the whistle peeled through the air.

“This is it,” I said quietly, pressing a hand to my stomach.

“This is it,” he said, pressing a kiss to my forehead. “Now go kick their ass out there.”

We went up against Death Knell first. A banked track team out of California. Players who’d been practically born on the track according to their bio.

But Priest was right.

They dismissed us, and the minute we got an edge in points, they started to fracture. Glares, harsh words, ignored direction—their communication tanked entirely, giving us pocket after pocket. We broke away, finally taking the bout with a lead of fourteen points.

“Yes! That’s what I’m talking about. You have an hour before you’re up again. They’re going to dismiss this as beginner’s luck. You’re going to go in and show them that it’s not. You got me?”

“This is fucking great. Guys, I’m totally getting lady bone for the idea of a banked track at Sid’s. We really need to figure out how to make that shit happen,” Marty said as we skated to our seats.

“Money. We need money,” Sean said.

I laughed, slid my helmet off my head, and brushed my fingers through my hair. “One thing at a time, guys…Crossroads first. World domination after that.”

I glanced over at Priest, looking for a sign that he overheard Marty’s comment, but he had his attention on plays, his head together with Jackson’s as they looked out at the track and the team that had just started.

When he came home, I wanted there to be no flicker of doubt as to what he came home for.

Round two unfolded almost exactly like the first, until the last half of the second and final quarter. Shrewd stares replaced eye rolls; the communication tightened up as did their plays on the track.

We took the win, but the points margin narrowed to nine. I did everything I could to put the numbers out of my head, knowing it wasn’t logical to assume the point gap would continue to close by five points each time.

“You better not be thinking about those numbers, Mayhem,” he said quietly, stepping up behind me.

“Get out of my head, Priest.”

“Never,” he said, resting his hands on my shoulders, his fingers curling into the muscles there, making me groan.

“How’s the hand?”

“A dull throb. Jackson jumped up my ass about icing it before. I should probably thank him for that,” I said, letting my weight fall against his chest for just a second.

Warm and strong, he dug at the knots as we watched a penalty play out for Black Heart Barbies, giving Maximum Penalty the chance to take the lead.

“You’re up against Smoke Screen next. Number 268 gets overzealous. There’ll be more illegal hits.”

“Shouldn’t you be telling everybody.”

“I will, but she goes for jammers. She likes to be in the heart of the action. She’s going to come for you. Just remember why you’re here and don’t let her bait you and you’re going to be fine.”

He was spot on. Number 268’s eyes tracked me every time I set up on the jam line with the tenacity of a bloodhound. The minute the second whistle blew, I caught up to the pack, her moves so much like Tilly’s had been but without the personal vendetta, making it a whole lot easier for me to resist the trap.

They were all just pieces fueled by the pursuit of a win, their chance of success shaped by how tight they tried to hold on to the control. How adept they were at shifting and changing.

By the time the final whistle blew, we’d taken them by twelve points.

Priest looked at the score and shot me that “told you so” grin.

Flaming asshole.

But my flaming asshole.

He looked good here...coaching, encouraging—completely at ease despite the stakes.

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