“What do I owe you?” he asks, trailing behind me.
As much as I need the money, as much as I want to take something from him or tell him to transfer me some on one of my money apps, it doesn’t feel right. It’s bad enough that I’m here. If I accept anything from him—or worse, leave a paper trail—I could very well be screwed.
I hold up a hand as I slip on my flats. “Don’t worry about it. Just tell your friends, and that’ll be payment enough.” I think about what I’ve just said. “You have friends outside the team, right?”
He stares at me blankly. “I barely have friendsonthe team.”
I pause to see if there’s a twinkle in his eye to punctuate the joke, but nothing is twinkling. He’s not joking.
“Oh… Just promise me you’ll repot those with some good potting soil sooner rather than later.”
“All of them?”
I hold back a laugh. “If you want them to survive, then yes. All of them. Well, good night, Ty. Goodbye and good luck this season.”
Before he can answer, I shut the front door and run to my car.
Slamming the driver’s door behind me, I suck in a long breath, opening my partially filled digital planner—note to self, stay on top of that more—and marking the appointment as fulfilled. Against my better judgment, I find my thumb hovering over Ty’s number. I should delete it. Wipe him from my memory. Block him, even. It’s what’s best for us both.
So please tell me why I save it instead.
CHAPTER SIX
TY
The glareof the drive-thru menu is blinding in the twilight of the pre-dawn day. There’s no practice this morning, but my body must not have gotten the memo. I used to enjoy the quiet of a slow start if I happened to wake up early, but today it feels empty. My fingers itch to dial Maggie. I know she’s awake; she’s always been more of a morning person than me. But considering the past few times I’ve called she hasn’t answered, I don’t give in. Instead, I busy my hands with something else, scrolling sports forums against my better judgment as I wait to move up to the drive-thru menu.
My name hardly pops up in the articles or comments, and that’s fine by me. Ramiel’s name is plastered everywhere, which is no surprise since he’s the quarterback and most likely up for a second year being honored with the league’s MVP award. Anything that has Ty Brewster attached to it mostly says they’re hopeful I’ll be able to carry the Kings to the Super Bowl despite the fact that itwould be my first time—both with the Kings and in general. It’s exciting but nerve-racking to be reminded that so many people are counting on me. Regardless, it’s nice to see that people have hope for me.
When it’s my turn, I roll forward, yawning mid-order at the crackling speaker, the backlight of the menu blinding me. I hadn’t realized just how tired I am. After Avery left, I stayed up too long thinking about things. A lot of things. Like how I might have screwed up everything with my twin sister, which could potentially screw up our mom’s impending wedding. If there’s one thing to know about the Brewsters, it’s that “sorry” isn’t really in our vocabulary, so even months down the road, there’s no guarantee Maggie will be up for mending things. The other thing I’m still racking my brain about is how I ended up with a forest in my living room. That comes with an easier answer.
Avery. That’s how.
What is it about her that possessed me to go out and stock up on a bunch of plants that I don’t know the first thing about caring for? I can keep telling myself it isn’t her, that it’s because I’d spent the day making wishes come true with Catch-A-Dream and that snowballed into other charitable gestures, but deep down I know that’s not true.
I shudder as I pull up to the window, dig out my credit card, and pass it to the drive-thru attendant. How much of a creep does Avery think I am now? Why did I pull her into it? Maybe it’s because my house has felt significantly emptier without the anticipation of my sister moving in, or maybe it’s the fact that sometimes I don’t know when to leave well enough alone, and half the team is mad at me forone thing or another. No one is coming over except maybe Ramiel every now and then. And I know why. It’s my mouth. I don’t know when to stop, so it’s better if I don’t talk at all most days. Like Avery said, I may seem scarier with my mouth shut, but at least I’m not destroying everything. Scary bodes well for my career, anyway.
I nod to the guy in the drive-thru as I take my coffee and place it in the cupholder. Shifting into drive, I pull out from The Bean Canteen’s parking lot. My coffee cools in the cup holder as I weave down the streets of Vista City, only blocks from Legacy Field, where we play all of our home games. Something familiar catches my eye as I come to a stop at the next intersection. A red rusted sedan with a taped taillight.
The sun barely peeks out from beyond the overpass before me, so the parking lot lights are still visible. The one over the vehicle beams down in a yellow haze, spotlighting the battered sedan like a beacon. It’s one big, glowing detour sign.Warning: Road closed ahead, follow detour to Avery’s car.None of the shops surrounding it are open, which I have to admit makes me even more curious.
I debate taking my planned turn to avoid racking up any more creep points, but my curiosity—and concern—get the best of me. Flipping on my blinker, I check my surroundings. No one is on the road yet, save for a few people at least half a mile ahead of me and gaining distance. Weaving out of my turning lane, I take a right on red into the empty lot and park next to the rundown vehicle.
A windshield sunshade spans the dash, blocking out any visibility from the front. I walk around the car,checking over my shoulder as I do. Like I told her before, crime near the stadium has been on the rise, and I’m not getting mugged for trying to reason with Avery. Who seems to be completely unreasonable.
As I round the car, I notice all other windows are barricaded with makeshift curtains and blockades. The pillows piled against the backseat passenger window tell me it’s supposed to be blocked off too, but there’s a sliver at the top that’s slipped. I crane my neck to get a better view, and that’s when I see it. A mess of dark hair splayed across the backseat. Avery’s eyes are closed, as though she’s sleeping.
But what if she’s not? What if she’s…
A sudden panic sets in, and I knock so hard on her window, I’m surprised it doesn’t break. She screams, popping up with wide eyes as a white cat scrambles out from somewhere near her and darts from my limited view.
Then it hits me. She’s fine. And she’s sleeping in her car.
“Ty?” she squints, crawling closer to the window and pulling down her makeshift curtains. “What are you doing here?”
“What areyoudoing here?”
Her brows crinkle. “Resting.”
