Marcus elbowed me in the ribs afterward, grinning. “You’re so screwed.”
“I’m not doing anything,” I whispered back.
“Yet.”
And he was right.
Because here I am, walking across the empty street toward a woman who told me no, whose father could bench me for the rest of the season, and whose entire existence screamsbad ideain flashing neon letters.
“Need a hand?” I call out when I’m close enough not to shout.
Ava spins around, her ponytail whipping over her shoulder. Recognition flashes across her face, followed immediately by annoyance.
“Are you following me?”
“I finish games around this time,” I say, nodding toward the stadium. “You finish work around this time. It’s called proximity, not stalking.”
“Feels a lot closer to stalking.”
“If I were stalking you, I’d be way more subtle.”
“Comforting.” She turns back to the door, grabbing the handle again. “I’ve got it.”
“Clearly.”
She shoots me a glare over her shoulder. “Idon’tneed help.”
“I didn’t say you did.” I step closer, hands in my jacket pockets. “But you’re going to throw your back out if you keep yanking on it from the wrong angle.”
“There’s no wrong angle. It’s a door.”
“It’s astuckdoor. And you’re pulling straight down instead of angling the force toward the track.”
She straightens, crossing her arms. “Oh, are you an engineer now? In addition to being a professional athlete and unwanted tattoo customer?”
“I’m a guy who grew up helping my dad fix things. Garage doors, roller shutters, his ancient truck, basically anything held together by hope and rust.” I move past her, crouching to examine the base of the door. “When was the last time you oiled the track?”
“I don’t know. When was the last time you minded your own business?”
“Tuesday,” I say, running my fingers along the metal edge. “But I’ve been working on it.”
I hear her huff, a sound somewhere between exasperation and reluctant amusement.
“Fine,” she says after a beat. “What’s wrong with it?”
“Track’s jammed.” I stand, brushing my hands off on my jeans. “Probably debris stuck in the runner. If you pull it up slightly, like, an inch, then push it to the right while lowering it, it should pop free.”
“Should?”
“Ninety percent sure.”
“And the other ten percent?”
“We both look stupid, and you call a locksmith.”
She stares at me for a moment, then steps forward. “Show me.”
“Bossy.”
