Sweat was trickling down my spine and my breaths were coming thicker, heavier and faster as I gritted my teeth and started to work the panel out of place. The bottom corner had split enough, but not shattered. I could pull pieces out and eventually, I’d manage to create enough of a gap for me to get through.
Once I jumped down there, I was surrounded by the engines of my rivals.
I was at the heart of my enemy’s MC. And I didn’t intend on leaving this place until I’d caused enough damage to put them all on a life support machine.
But then I heard movement outside.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Ayda
“Ayda!”
The hotdog was halfway to my mouth when I heard my name through the half time crowd. Tucking my soda under my arm and wiping my mouth off with a napkin, I turned to find Shane jogging up to me. Shane Odle wastheBulldogs’ number one fan and could read back any statistic from the last forty years of games. Considering he was thirty-two, I thought it was quite a feat. His favorite thing to do was beat his own predictions, so it wasn’t unusual for him to hunt me down and ask about what Tate was eating or why he was a tenth of a second slower than he had been a week earlier.
“Hey, Shane. How’s it going?”
“It’s good. I heard Tate’s missed a couple of practices. Everything okay?”
I stumbled over my own feet at the words and tried not to look surprised. As far as I was concerned, he’d only missed one. That he’d skipped more than that was concerning. I’d worried every second of every day that he was being led astray by the very people he’d tried to rip off, and all behind my back. The irony of it wasn’t lost on me, but it didn’t make it any less disturbing.
“Yeah, everything’s fine, Shane. He’s in good shape for tonight.”
“I have no doubt. I see him running down the county road every night. He’s got power, and he could play receiver if he wanted to.” He gave me a grin, waiting for my usual response.
“Ah, but he doesn’t want to. He’s happy where he is,” I said, leading the way back up to my seat. I waved my hotdog at Shane and laughed. “And stop putting ideas in his head. I get random calls from coach in the middle of the day asking why Tate’s asking all these questions about receiving and running times.”
“He’s a good kid, and he’s eager. He actually asked me if I thought he could break the Bulldog record.”
“To which you said?” I asked, raising an eyebrow as I found my seat and dropped into it.
“I said yes. He’s fast, he’s driven, and he’s focused.”
I rolled my eyes and sucked some of my drink through the straw before setting it on the bench beside me. “Careful, or I’m gonna have to tell coach where to find all his answers.”
I’d only just bitten into my hotdog when Shane’s eyes moved away and widened. When he met mine again, he smiled politely and took a step back, his pallor a little more white than it had been. “I’d better get back to my seat. Talk to you later?”
“Sure. Okay,” I said, following his line of sight down the stairs and seeing the leather and patch. I almost choked on the hotdog bun, grappling for my drink as the rest of Drew Tucker came into view. Resigned to him being there, I slid across, giving him enough room to sit as I put my drink by my feet.
I sucked in a breath and took another bite of hotdog to stall. I knew why he was there. When I’d said I was taking mylife back, I meant it. I’d very purposefully not gone into work for him that day, choosing instead to go back to my regular schedule at Rusty’s, after a heartfelt apology for my behavior the day before.
Swallowing, I tapped my feet on the ground, ignoring my body’s response to his proximity. I couldn’t stop the reaction, but I could make sure he would never know about it, because nothing would ever come of it. He’d been more than clear about that.
“Two games in as many weeks. People may start to think you like football, Drew.” I gave him a sideways glance and sucked in a breath. The line of his jaw was darkened with a vicious looking bruise, and his cheek was swollen making him look like he was storing nuts for the winter.
His face was murderous as he stared back out to the field and brought his hands together between his legs. There wasn’t a hint of humor, not a drop of sarcasm or arrogance—just pure, heated, terrifying hatred for someone, something or maybe even everything around him. “You didn’t show in for work today,” he said calmly.
“That’s not true,” I told him. “I was at work.”
Having lost my appetite, I wrapped the leftovers of the hotdog in the paper and clasped it in my hand as I suddenly found the white tip of my shoes very interesting.
“One of these days your smart mouth is going to get you in the kind of trouble you can’t run away from, Hanagan.”
The threat in his voice made my eyes slide closed. I knew he meant it, and I could understand his frustration with me. I was the one thing he seemed to put pressure on that refused to bend. I was trying very hard to be respectful, and had from the moment he demanded penance, but there was only so muchI could take before I broke. Refusing to go was, at this point, exponentially safer than going and insulting him or one of the others.
“I think I’ve more than repaid my debt, Drew. You won. I’m terrified of you. Congratulations.”
“Not terrified enough to show up and finish what you started.”
