“Do us a favor and grab the other cooler from Logan’s car,” Moxie says.
French Roast doesn’t look much happier to see me than his friend, but he nods and looks back the way we came. “The black Audi, yeah?”
I grit my teeth and grunt in acknowledgment.
“And here I thought I only had one diva to worry about today,” Bean says with a roll of his eyes. But he follows French across the car park anyway, his shoulders tight with tension.
I should probably check my tires when I get back to my car, just in case they’re no longer intact.
Moxie grabs the cooler’s handle again. “Come on.”
We walk in silence for a minute, but once we get inside the building, I can’t hold back the question that seems to crawl out of my throat. “He really hates me, doesn’t he?”
Moxie chuckles. “You haven’t given him a lot of reasons tolikeyou.”
“I’ve been trying to help him.”
“I doubt he sees it that way.”
Because Bean and I play the same position, I know how much work goes into every match and how much pressure there can be. The Thunder won their match on Friday, but only because of a solid forward kick from the scrum-half that led to a try from one of the centers. Bean didn’t get anywhere close to scoring, and from what I could tell by watching replays of the match, his heart wasn’t in it. He’s had far better plays in practice than what he delivered last weekend.
When talking to Blaze at the high school, I realized I can’t help anyone if I don’t know the real pain point. Moxie reinforced that idea last week when he asked what the real cause of my anger was. Without knowing anything about Bean or his life, I’ve just been poking at his sore spots instead of offering solutions.
No better time than the present to learn who he is beneath the gusty personality.
“Who’s the other diva?” I ask, glancing behind me to make sure Bean and French haven’t caught up to us.
“Hmm?” Moxie follows my gaze. “Oh, someone he’s working with, I think.”
“What does he do for work?”
“Music. He’s a producer.”
I nearly drop the cooler and have to scramble to adjust my hold. “Yeah?”
That gets a laugh out of Moxie. He opens the door to the small kitchen area and leads the way inside. “You don’t know anything about your team, do you?”
They’re not my team. Those words sit on my tongue, waiting to be said, but they don’t taste right. I may only be with the Thunder temporarily, but theyaremy team. I’m finally starting to recognize that. “Reckon I don’t,” I mutter. Moxie’s the only one I can say I’ve had a whole conversation with, and that’s mostly because he does all the talking. None of the rest of them try.
Can’t say that I blame them.
After we set the cooler on the floor near the fridge, Moxie gives me a long, searching look that seems to confuse him. Before he can say anything, Bean and French shuffle into the room with the second cooler between them. Neither man looks at me as they place it next to the first, which wouldn’t have bothered me a week ago.
It bothers me now.
“Hey,” I say before they slip out the door. “Thanks. I couldn’t have brought that in on my own.”
French Roast offers a nod, but Bean stares at me like I’ve spoken nonsense. I’ve been prickly, yeah, but is gratitude so far from his expectations that he thinks he misheard me? I can imagine the laughter in Savannah’s eyes if I were to ask her that question.
No matter how hard I try to keep her at arm’s length, she sees right through me and knows exactly who I am, and that’s almost as terrifying as the notion of having an actual conversation with Lola.
Ever since that moment I got my first look at the woman who gave me life then gave me up, something has felt out of place inside me. A piece of my soul has been knocked loose, making it harder to breathe properly. It hurts less when Savannah’s around, but when I’m on my own…
I nod at French, then look Bean in the eyes as I resist the urge to try to rub the pain out of my chest. “Have a good practice, mate. We need a solid wing out there while I’m benched.”
He clenches his jaw, hands curling into fists as he takes a stiff step back. Being this tense isn’t going to do him any favors during practice, and he’s likely to get himself hurt if he doesn’t loosen up. “Sorry I’m not up to snuff, Hero,” he grumbles. “We can’t all be you.”
“Not what I meant,” I snap, then take a breath before my frustration gets the better of me. Soften my tone. “I meant I’m glad you’re out there.”
