He shifts, the leather a small thunder. “For the record, I’m not trying to make your life hard.”
I snort. “You don’t have to try.” It comes out sharper than I mean, serrated with fatigue and the way his voice doessomething low in my chest. I soften my grip, one finger at a time, like a hand-rehab exercise. “Look—we keep thisclean, we both keep our jobs. That’s the assignment.”
“Clean,” he echoes. The word hangs ridiculous in a car that smells like wet wool andhim. “Copy that.”
The wipers knock. The engine gives a little cough—like a laugh if cars laughed—and I ignore it, because of course I do. Tonight I am ignoring all kinds of things I should pull over and examine.
The engine coughs again, longer this time, a wet throat-clearing sound that lifts the hair at my nape. I nurse the gas. We lurch. Dash lights stutter like a heart that forgot the choreography.
“Don’t you dare,” I tell twelve bolts and a prayer.
The car dares. Power drops. Headlights dim. The wheel goes lead-heavy in my hands.
Jason straightens. “You losing?—”
“Everything,” I say, already signaling, already calculating angles: shoulder distance, trucks, hydroplaning risk. The wipers drag then die mid-swipe, frozen at a useless diagonal. Rain smears the windshield until the world is a suggestion. I muscle us toward the barrier, coasting on hope and bad language. The engine shudders once, twice—quits.
We stop. The rain does not.
“Hazards,” Jason says, reaching. His knuckles brush mine. Heat and cold confuse my skin. The blinkers strobe weak orange, tiny lighthouses in a storm that doesn’t care.
I exhale through my nose, a slow leak to keep from hissing. “Okay. We push. Passenger side to the barrier.”
He’s already unbuckling. “I’ve got it.”
“It’s a two-person job,” I clip, keeping the shake out of my voice. I kill the ignition, shove my door open against water thathits like a wall, and step into a cold that finds bone through denim in a second. The shoulder is a skinny, mean slice of safety. Traffic throws up rooster tails that slap my calves.
Jason rounds the hood, hair plastered, T-shirt turning transparent—cautionary poster for choices I don’t make anymore. He plants his hands on the fender. I take the driver’s side and we heave. The car rolls grudgingly, tires hissing on flooded grit. My shoes flood. My ponytail becomes a rope.
A horn screams as a semi ghosts past too close, wind-punch shoving me sideways. Jason’s hand clamps my elbow, yanks me back to the car with a force that will bruise. “Riley,” he bites out—not a question.
“I’m fine,” I snap, not looking at him because if I see his face I’ll see fear and I don’t have time for either of ours. “Push.”
We do. Three counts, then four, our breaths syncing whether I want them to or not. We angle the car tight to the barrier until the tires bump concrete. Safe enough.
I brace a palm on the hood and let my head drop for one beat. Rain needles the back of my neck. When I look up, he’s watching me like he can’t decide whether to shake me or wrap me up.
“Don’t,” I say, sharper than the rain. “Don’t look at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like I’m yours to worry about.” The words get out before discretion can catch them. My chest tightens at how true they sound.
He flinches—flicker fast—then masks it like the pro he is. “Call a tow.”
I already have my phone out. The screen is a wet fish, slick and uncooperative. I get the ride-share app open and stab at options with fingers that won’t stop shaking.Cold, not feelings.“Nearest taxi,” I say. “Hotel pinned.”
“Good,” he says, stepping closer to shield the screen from the rain, his body a wall I refuse to lean on. We share the square of light like a secret.
While it pings drivers, I turn on him because offense is easier than the way adrenaline makes me soft at the edges. “New rule,” I tell him over the roar. “No heroics, including in traffic. No grabbing me, no playing shield, no—” I gesture at the shape of him, big and furious and exactly the kind of shelter I don’t take anymore. “—whatever that just was.”
His mouth hardens. “You’d rather get flattened?”
“I’d rather keep this professional.” The word lands between us like a barrier I can hide behind if I say it enough. “We are not… anything. We are a player and a trainer trying not to end up as roadkill or a press release.”
For a second, I think he’ll argue. He doesn’t. He nods once, rain tracking down his cheekbones like he’s carved out of weather. “Got it.” He takes a step back—space without distance. It helps. It doesn’t.
The app chirps:Driver two minutes away. Red taillights fan by, turning the rain into moving rubies. I tuck my phone into my jacket, shiver hard enough my teeth knock, and decide anger is a better coat than anything in my bag.
