Total pages in book: 121
Estimated words: 115577 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 578(@200wpm)___ 462(@250wpm)___ 385(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 115577 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 578(@200wpm)___ 462(@250wpm)___ 385(@300wpm)
“I’m not ruining anything,” I finally managed, the car called as I tucked my phone into the waistband of my joggers. “Besides, I want a front row seat to your face when they tell you this car is D.O.A.”
That made his lips flatten, but I saw it — how he was fighting a smile.
“Admit it. I’m funny and you like me.”
“Like I like turf toe.”
“I don’t know what that is, but it must be amazing if you’re comparing it to my presence. Car will be here in five.”
Braden sighed, and then wordlessly, he ducked into his car long enough to retrieve his bag before he picked mine up, too.
“I can—”
My words died when he looked at me, like he dared me to argue with him. There was no other option. He was obviously carrying my bag.
It was me biting back a smile this time.
Braden Lock.
A gentleman even in crisis.
“Told you it was fucked.”
Braden and the very kind mechanic who had just assessed his car both shot me disapproving glares at my language. I just shrugged, popping a stale piece of auto shop popcorn into my mouth before pointing a finger at Braden’s chest and whispering to the mechanic.
“I told him it was fucked.”
Me doubling down didn’t seem to impress either of them.
Braden sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose before his attention was on the mechanic again. I snuck a peek at his name tag that read Giovanni. “Are you sure it can’t be fixed?”
“Not for less than what the car is worth as a whole.” Giovanni scratched his neck, looking through the lobby glass to where Braden’s car was hoisted up and still smoking slightly. “I can fix it, if you really care about the car, but honestly… I’d trade it in for parts and get a different vehicle if I were you.”
Braden nodded, his face grim. “All right. Can I leave it here for the night until I figure out my next move?”
“Of course. I know a guy who buys parts. I can call him and see if he’s interested, and then you don’t have to pick it up at all.”
Braden still looked sick at the reality of the situation. “That would be great, if it’s no trouble.”
“No problem at all. Especially for you. I’m a twelve,” Giovanni said, shaking Braden’s hand when he offered it. “And you had a hell of a rookie season. Can’t wait to see what you do this year.”
Braden managed a smile, though it was weak. “Thanks, man. Appreciate it.”
Seattle Seahawk fans were coined twelves — in other words, the twelfth member of the team. It was our organization’s way of saying that we couldn’t win without them, that they are as important to us as the guys we pay to fill our roster.
I smiled at Giovanni when he made the comment. We had the best fans.
It made me even more proud to be a dancer. Although, I would be prouder if our organization paid the dancers what we deserved. We worked our asses off — tireless hours at practice, games, and community events in a grueling sport that put so much strain on our bodies, most of us would require years of physical therapy, if not surgery, when we left this job behind us.
And we made minimum wage.
It was an honor to dance for the team. But I was also of the belief that we shouldn’t have to balance multiple jobs, or depend on our families to bridge the gap between our wages and cost of living — especially during the season.
Then again, no one was asking me what I thought, and I signed my contract happy as a clam — so I guess I didn’t have room to complain.
“Hey, don’t look so glum,” Giovanni said when their handshake was done. “The car is twenty-seven years old. She had a good life.”
I coughed on a popcorn kernel. “Twenty-seven?! Jesus, Braden, that thing is older than you are.”
That made Giovanni chuckle, and he hooked a thumb toward me. “Tells it like it is, doesn’t she?”
“Unfortunately,” Braden grumbled in return.
The word landed heavier than it should have, and I caught the tension still lingering in his shoulders, the way his jaw hadn’t quite unclenched.
Right. Still a sore spot.
Once they’d talked out the details of what came next, Braden and I trekked outside with our bags. He stopped by his car long enough to clear out the center console, glove box, and trunk with what little he had in there, and then he paused, his hand sliding over the roof of his car before he thumped it like it was a horse who’d gotten him through the Oregon Trail.
“Should we say a few words?” I teased. “Maybe get a wreath?”
“Do you ever tire of being crass?”
“Rarely. And usually long after I’ve crossed a line.”
Braden took one last longing look at his old car before he was pulling out his phone.