With my hands squeezed into fists, I raise my chin in the wind and march forward, wrinkling my nose as the diesel fumes saturate the air. It’s four steps up, and I meet a bus driver with blue hair. Blue hair is not the “in” style by any means, but this lady looks cute with her short, pixie cut. I breeze past her, and my eyes widen as I stare down the center aisle.
I learned in grade school to never try to sit by anyone. People always save seats for their friends, and the humiliation of walking down the aisle to be turned down, again and again, is something that’s been burned in my brain.
I will never do that again.
Instead, I take the least desirable seat, the one directly behind the blue-haired bus driver, and slouch, pulling my phone in front of my face as a shield of invisibility.
“Excuse me, miss,” the driver hollers, turning her head a measure as if her neck is so stiff she can’t risk turning it even ninety degrees. “You need to move back. That seat is reserved for the coaches.”
“It’s fine. I don’t mind sharing.” Dropping my gaze to my lap, I pick at my thumbnail and cringe at how embarrassing it is to be the girl sitting next to the coach. Yet, that scenario is better than the walk-of-shame down the center aisle.
“Ah, no, miss. There are two coaches coming and as you can see there’s only two seats per bench.” She hikes her thumb over her shoulder. “Head on back and find a seat.”
My gaze cuts to the exit. This was a mistake. I slide one foot in the aisle, en route to the door. When the driver shifts the handle and closes the exit door, my expression freezes hard and my heart sinks.
I’m trapped.
A pig in the slaughterhouse.
I’m about to be bacon.
Unless I want to make a scene and beg her to open the door, my only option is to move back.
My heart hammers like a drum as I slowly pivot to face down the center aisle. Every seat is filled with either team staff or players chatting to each other. I inch back, straining my eyes, praying under my breath.Please don’t make me walk all the way down, and then back again.
That’s the worst.
With each row that I pass, the guys raise their eyes to stare at me but don’t utter a word of invitation to sit. As I arrive at the halfway mark—the emergency exit door—sweat slaps on my back. I eye the door longingly and fight with every fiber of my being to not run out of it. This is high school all over again.
I mean, my internship is over soon, and I’ll leave this little town and never come back. Nobody will ever remember me.
“Paisley.” A familiar voice firmly beckons from my left, and I shift my eyes, wanting not to turn my head, but I already know.
Noah.
I’m so desperately trying to hate him because he’s one of them, but hating him is getting harder and harder.
I slowly turn to him, and he’s sitting next to Jackson Owen. I frown, but Noah stands, and says, “Why don’t you sit here? I can move to the back with Axl.”
A sigh slips from Jackson’s lips, and he jolts to his feet. “I’ll sit with Axl.” I blink, and Jackson’s already heading down the aisle. I’m cringing hard, but Noah has a full smile on as he waves me forward. “There, the seat is already warmed up.”
My skin is practically burning as I drop onto the seat, keeping my gaze low. “You didn’t have to do that,” I mutter as I drop my purse off my shoulder, letting it hit my feet. Even the bus driver was waiting for me, and the bus suddenly shakes into gear, and we pull forward.
“I wanted to.” Noah’s eyes sparkle with gold flecks that brighten his face so much it frankly infuriates me. Why does he get to look hot when I’m struggling to just do life? I let out a low overwhelmed chuckle. This guy must have some GPS that is locked on my coordinates and always knows what I need.
It’s getting old.
Possibly a little weird.
How is it even possible?
“Well, thanks for saving me, again,” I mumble out, relief flooding my chest. I’m slowly coming to the realization that it’s impossible to hate Noah. Trust me, I’ve been trying hard to keep my wall up while around him. Even though he wears a Granite Ice logo, he is not like the rest of the guys. He might actually, maybe, be a little nice.
Not to mention the most shocking turn of events from the other day—the dude sent me home with a whole slice of cheesecake that he paid for. It doesn’t get better than free cheesecake.
He playfully taps his finger to his lips and lets out an indulgent sigh. “Well, you know, you’re going to have to make it up to me.”
My body is positioned forward, but I toss a helpless look in his direction. “Now what?”
