Page 17 of The Break Down

I groan and swing my legs down.

I need air.

Or sugar.

Or maybe both.

The campground's quiet now.

Most of the players are asleep, bunked up on the team bus.

It’s peaceful, with the hum of insects and the occasional whoosh of wind through the trees.

Carolina and Dane are probably in their hotel room by now, doing whatever engaged people do with one another.

I’m just happy to not have to listen to it.

Seriously, my headphones are grateful for the break.

I slip out, hoodie over my tank, flip-flops barely making a sound on the gravel.

Two seconds later, I’m sweating. So I leave the hoodie hanging on the RV doorknob and continue my journey.

The vending machine is past the makeshift rec shed, just around the corner from where the bus and RV are parked.

I should really avoid snacking, but now that I’ve got my mind set on something to nosh, I know I won’t rest without at least checking out the options.

I’m almost there. The chirping of insects and hooting of an owl are the only noises.

Until…

“Couldn’t sleep, Red?”

I nearly leap out of my skin.

And of course he’s there.

Leaning against the open shed, arms stretched overhead, fingers loosely hooked around a metal support beam like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Like he doesn’t know exactly what it does to someone walking up on him in the dark.

Which, for the record—I am that someone.

The man is a giant. Freakishly tall.

Like, of course, he can reach the exposed beam overhead.

Why wouldn’t he be able to casually drape himself on architecture like a living statue of intimidation and abs?

The floodlight behind him casts him in shadows and sharp lines, half his face hidden, the rest carved from something ancient and moody.

He looks like trouble.

Like a warning.

Like a whole-ass red flag with muscles.

And because the universe fucking hates me, he’s shirtless. Again.

---