“Slack? It’s Lennox’s fucking sister.” He slams the driver’s door harder than he normally would. I know it’s because he’s upset.
Taking a deep breath and blowing it out, I try one more time to get him to see reason.
“When was the last time you saw your brother this excited about a woman? He fucks and dumps them. Never taking an interest in them, much less messaging them. But since he’s met her, he’s had a permanent smile on his face.” I turn my head and look directly at him, noticing how his knuckles have gone white from gripping the steering wheel. “Maybe it’s time to end this rivalry.”
Korbin doesn’t answer, just starts the engine and backs out of the parking spot.
I open my phone and pull up the Kraken website. I scroll through the photos of the team, pretending like I’m checking their stats just in case Korbin tries to be nosy.
As I’m scrolling, I spot Bayleigh in a background shot—smiling, next to Benton—and I feel a weird twinge in my chest. Guilt, maybe. For teasing Lincoln about her. Or interest. Because I want to know why Lincoln is so invested in her.
I try to lie to myself and say it’s nothing, but I’m already imagining the scent Lincoln described—mint and green tea—andI can’t shake the thought that maybe, just maybe, Lincoln’s right about her being different.
14
Lincoln
The cabof my truck smells like dust and the ham sandwich I’m halfway through. I’m parked a few streets over from the site, thirty minutes to kill before I’ve gotta head back.
My phone’s propped up on the dash, YouTube open.
A woman on the screen smiles too brightly. “Let’s start with the ASL alphabet.”
I wipe my hand on a napkin, hold it up, and follow along.
“A.” I shape my fist, thumb to the side.
Easy.
“B.” Fingers straight, thumb tucked. I have to flex my hand to get it right.
“C.” Curve.
Okay, still alive.
By “F” I’ve already screwed it up twice.
“Shit,” I mutter, trying to get my fingers to cooperate. They don’t. They never have. My hands are built for wire, tools, and hauling cable, not delicate shapes that actually mean something.
I pause the video. Unpause. Try again.
“A. B. C. D…”
My “E” looks like a claw. I fix it. Kind of.
People walk past in the lot. One guy glances over, sees me signing badly at my phone. If he thinks I’m losing it, he minds his own business. Or it could be he thinks I’m throwing some kind of gang symbols.
I hit restart.
The sun beats in through the windshield, warming my forearms. Sweat sticks my shirt to my back. My sandwich sits with a few bites left beside me now.
Every time I get the letters half-decent, I see her.
Bayleigh on that lower-bowl seat. Hands moving, quick and sure. Her brows pinched when she’s focused. The way she’d light up when she laughed at Riptides. The studious way she watched my mouth when I talked, like she was meeting me more than halfway.
I want to meet her the rest of the way.
I fumble “G.” My fingers won’t sit right.
