“Hey, don’t slip, Bambi!”
The mocking whistles rose like a pack of wolves. He didn’t bother looking up. Everyone got roasted in the locker room sooner or later, and today it was his turn. Whatever. Let them get it out of their system.
He rubbed the towel through his shaggy hair until it stuck up in damp tufts, then tossed it over the bench and reached for his clothes. Every movement made his sore muscles complain, and pulling on his jeans was a battle that left him breathing harder than he wanted to admit.
Wallet. Keys. Phone. He scooped them up in one hand, juggling the lot as he shoved his feet into sneakers. When he finally glanced at his phone, the easy rhythm of his post-practice routine stuttered.
Two missed calls. A voicemail. One text.
From Nettie.
His chest tightened, a pang of worry chasing away the exhaustion as he thumbed open the voicemail and lifted the phone to his ear.
“Um, Tate, I just got to service and they don’t have my car. Could you call me, please?”
Her voice was uncertain, hesitant.
He exhaled slowly, pressing the phone to his temple. Nettie wasn’t the type to call unless she had to. If she’d left a message, something had rattled her.
The text came next. Just as vague.
Hey – there is a guy here who said he grabbed the keys from the night drop box. I’ll keep you posted on what’s going on…
Tate checked the time stamp. Nearly an hour ago.
He stared at the screen, his thumb hovering over her contact, debating whether to call. Then, despite the ache in his body, a knot at hearing the concern in her voice was still lodged in his chest, he felt a tug of a smile… in awareness.
CHAPTER 17
NETTIE
Nettie’s handswouldn’t stop shaking.
Her pulse thrummed hard in her ears as she stared across the parking lot at the sad, humiliating sight of her car. The little silver sedan she’d been so proud of—because it was hers, because it was paid off, because it had always, always started when she needed it currently looked like roadkill waiting for the vultures.
Two tires sagged flat against the asphalt, rubber warped and wrinkled in defeat. Across the windshield, scrawled in a thick wax crayon like some childish prank, were the yellow letters:
AUCTION.
The word screamed at her, cruel and final.
It wasn’t the fanciest car in the lot. Not even close. In fact, it was probably the sorriest vehicle parked out there among the polished SUVs and gleaming sedans. But it had been hers. Reliable. Safe. A little piece of independence. And now?—
Her throat tightened, the pressure of panic rising as she tried to blink back the sting in her eyes. Saturday. Five o’clock. The service department was closed because she had nothing but bad luck some days, so of course, it was closed. They probably closed the second she arrived.
Dragging her feet, Nettie walked back inside, clutching her phone like it might save her. No one was answering—she’d tried three times. Gina had already dropped her off in a rush for class. Tate had practice. And she would rather chew glass than bother her boss on the weekend. She was stuck. Stranded. Trapped in this stupid situation.
A knot twisted in her chest. She hated this—hated the helplessness.
“Miss Yarborough?”
The voice startled her, and Nettie turned to see a salesman strolling her way, hand raised in a polite wave. His suit jacket was a little loose at the shoulders, his graying hair combed neatly to the side. He had the kind of practiced smile she usually distrusted immediately.
“Are you Miss Yarborough?”
“Yes.” Her words came out thin, clipped, teetering on the edge of tears. “I’m trying to pick up my car, but service has closed. My friend said the keys would be at the cashiers—but those aren’t my keys.”
“They aren’t?” The man’s brows pinched with concern. “That’s odd. I got the keys out of the night drop box as instructed by my boss. Hmm. Well, let’s see if I can help you out.”
