Page 38 of Thunderstruck
“It doesn’t matter.” Mostly because she’s wrong. “I’d rather be up front with you now than risk something later.” That probably makes me sound like a jerk again, but it’s the truth. My high school girlfriend got lucky, and it’s a miracle nothing worse ever happened to Sage during the time we were together. “I won’t be asking you out, Carissa.”
Thankfully, she smiles as her eyes trace my face. “I like your honesty, Cole. And even if you did ask me out, I would say no.”
“Good.”
“Good.” With her smile still intact, she looks around my yard for a moment, then lets her breath out in a heavy exhale. “I should go.”
I don’t want her to go, but it’s for the best. We can be friends, but that’s all we’ll be, so I don’t want to let myself get too attached. “You’ll take the car?” I ask.
The question prompts a giggle. “Yes, Cole. I’ll take the car. You and Moxie can stop worrying about me.”
“Not likely,” I grumble and follow her back into the house and out to my Audi.
I stand in the open garage and watch her drive away until I can’t see the taillights anymore. My idea to let her borrow the car that has sat idle for too long was desperate at best, a scramble to keep her safe, but I can’t be mad that it gave me this chance to get to know her better. My first impression of Carissa was so wrong, and I’ve never been happier to be corrected.
But now that the red of the brake lights has faded, leaving the neighborhood in the soft darkness of twilight, I press a hand to my chest and note the way I feel less hollow than I did this morning.
I feel more alive.
And that’s going to be a problem.
Chapter Twelve
Carissa
Coach Galvin is differentfrom how I expected him to be. When Darcy first told me about the job, she said the coach was an even-keeled man with a knack for strategy, and he came to the Thunder after coaching the Irish national team for several years, which supposedly means he’s good at what he does.
Today I’ve been mostly focused on Mel as she teaches me the most common way to tape players’ limbs for stability or support, but I’ve also spent a decent amount of time watching the coach direct his team.
And by “direct” I mean “shout at.” Profusely. I’ve learned some highly creative insults and curses over the last couple of hours.
“I’ve seen half-dead grannies run faster than you!” Coach yells when Bean gets hold of the ball and darts through the defense. Honestly, as far as I can tell, Bean is the fastest guy on the team and just now outran threedifferent guys before he got stopped. “Have you been lying around all week, Henderson? Taking it easy when you think the boss isn’t looking?”
It’s the first time I’ve seen Bean look anything but confident. He tosses the ball aside to reset the play as the coach keeps tearing into him. I’m pretty sure he’s trying not to let the insults get to him, but he’s failing. Even from several yards down the field, I can see the pain on his face.
“Is the coach always this harsh?” I ask Mel.
She looks up from the new roll of tape she was unwrapping and wrinkles her nose. “He didn’t used to be. He was a good coach at first.”
“What changed?”
She shrugs. “We lost the last two seasons? I don’t know. But he’s in an especially bad mood today.”
After the next play, Bean gets the ball again but is tackled almost immediately. It takes him a while to get up, and when he does, he’s limping. Coach shouts at him again and points to us before turning his furious attention to the rest of the guys.
For someone who’s injured, Bean reaches us surprisingly quickly and flops onto the grass in a heap.
“Are you good to take this one?” Mel asks. “I need to check on Raiden.” When I nod, she hops to her feet and heads to her office to check her phone, leaving me alone with Bean.
I grab the tape, determined to do the best job I can so I can avoid any shouting directed at me. Mel introduced me to the coach before practice started, and he only spoke with me long enough to confirm I’m the person the owners hired. And that was enough interaction for me.
“Where’s the pain?” I ask Bean.
“Hmm?” He was watching the drills the team started running, but he looks back at me and shrugs. “Oh. Uh. Here.” He points vaguely at his shin.
I purse my lips. So much for proving myself. Did he really fake an injury to avoid getting yelled at some more? “He’s wrong, you know.”
Bean grits his teeth, eyes on his legs. “About what?”
