Page 73 of False Start

“What the hell is she doing here?” Marty said.

Their voices collided and I spun in the direction they faced…to find Tilly standing in the doorway, uniform on, her duffel slung over her shoulder.

“She,” Priest said, his unyielding gaze on mine, “is your fifteenth player.”

My teammates all started in at once, their voices rising with anger, but the sound disappeared with the buzz of white-hot rage filling my head.

Remember…there’s a reason for everything.

There were no evasive glances this time around. None of my teammates hung their heads being confronted with their less than grateful reception to Priest’s help. Nope, they were all hands on hips, chin jutting indignation, circling Priest and ripping into him.

Not that I could hear them.

Because my blood surged through my blood vessels like I’d sucked down a handful of speed before practice started.

My stomach ached; a band squeezed my chest like a vise—everything hurt.

Body…and heart.

He’d found the one part of me that just wouldn’t heal no matter what and he’d poured acid into it. I blinked back tears, grateful for the sweat burning my eyes to hide the way he cut me deep.

I wouldn’t let him have that power over me.

It was bad enough I let Tilly.

Here I was, paralyzed with betrayal, and my team defending me. I never realized we’d arrived at this place where they saw me as weak, too weak to speak up for myself. I thought this was between me and Eve.

Maybe not.

Maybe what was going on between Eve and me had bled onto the team as a whole.

We had work to do to change the dynamic—and very little time to do it.

To start, I needed to defend myself.

Just not like this. Not in some dressing down in front of everyone.

“Guys…stop.” When their chatter died down, but didn’t stop completely, I raise my voice. “Just stop!” My voice almost broke—almost.

And the way Priest cut a glance at me made me think he heard it.

I didn’t know why he did this. At the moment I didn’t care. I hurt too much to care. The only thing keeping me from bursting apart in a million little pieces—the big picture—the kids hanging in the balance.

My team’s rumblings faded away and an awkward silence filled the room.

Priest looked at me, but those feelings, his thoughts, he kept them close. He didn’t show me one damn thing to reassure me that he hadn’t done this to be cruel.

All I had was the echo of his words in my head.

And the memory of raw kisses that weren’t polished or by design. If anything, they were pieces of our hearts—bursting from the cages we’d tried to keep them locked in—finding their way around old wounds, clawing their way through the scar tissue we’d both built up to protect us from others.

From ourselves.

“We need all the help we can get,” he said, his voice low and final. “A fifteenth player means three fresh sets of five. It’s one more powerful player to use to your advantage. She’s in it for Crossroads too. She knows what hangs in the balance.”

The bit of camaraderie that had bloomed in reluctant smiles and winces of pain on my team’s faces retreated to wary distrust. Maybe not back to the beginning, but he practically demolished the fragile bridge he’d built in the past hour with this addition.

I didn’t feel one bit of sympathy for him. Not at all.

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