Page 75 of Thunderstruck
Bean drops his arms from Carissa, like he’s completely forgotten he was in the middle of a dance as he gapes at me. “Yeah,” he says after a long time. “Yours?”
I nod. “It’s just my dad and grandpa, though.”
“His mom died when he was born,” Carissa adds. Anyone else, and I might not have loved someone sharing that little tidbit, but there’s something in the way she says it. Like that detail is crucial to understanding who I am.
Maybe it is.
“That sucks,” Bean says.
I nod. “It does.”
Carissa glances between us and reaches out for French Roast’s hand. “Grayson, didn’t you tell me your dad died a few years ago?”
He nods, meeting my gaze. I wonder if the rest of his family are all in New Zealand or if he’s here on his own, but I’m too much a coward to ask. “I got to spend twenty years with my dad, though,” he says. “You didn’t get to know your mum.”
“I don’t know if it’s harder to know and lose or to not know at all,” I say.
“My oldest brother died when I was a kid,” Tink says.Noah, I remind myself. His name is Noah. This isn’t a conversation for nicknames. “My mom tells me all the time that I’m just like him, but I barely knew himso it feels like I’m just a copy and paste of someone else and not my own person because I only have memories to compare to.”
My eyebrows rise, and a few of the other guys seem just as surprised as I am. That’s not the kind of thing a guy willingly says out loud. “Hey,” I mutter and touch his arm. “You get to be your own person. And sorry about your brother.”
He gives me a grateful nod.
A silence settles over the group, heavy but not uncomfortable. I’m feeling a shift among us, not just between me and the team but with all of us. Like some of these guys have never connected this deeply with each other. Of all the ways tonight could have gone, I did not expect a somber conversation about lost loved ones in a noisy bar, but here we are.
“Death sucks,” someone says. I don’t know who, but murmurs of agreement follow his comment, along with a couple of chuckles.
Carissa, still holding Grayson’s hand, looks at me in a way that makes me regret even more than I already did staying away from her. “Well,” she says when no one has any other family deaths to add to the conversation, “in an effort to lighten the mood, anyone want to bet on if I can beat Evanson in an arm wrestle?”
The guys chuckle, but to my surprise they actually start placing bets, most of themagainstme. Either this is a fun way to tell me how they really feel about me, or I missed something from the earlier match with French Roast.
Frowning as they shuffle around to give us both space at the table, I try to read Carissa’s expression. Obviously she could never win—her arms are tiny—but I’m happy to allow her the victory if she thinks it will help me break down more barriers between me and my team. I made some strides just now, but I’ve got a long way to go.
Carissa sets her elbow on the table, hand at the ready, and fixes me with a smug look. “You should know, Evanson, that I’ve beaten everyother guy here so far. Grayson even tried for a rematch and lost, so battle at your own risk.”
Is she serious? I glance at the guys, and their barely concealed laughter worries me. “What am I missing?”
“You can take the coward’s way out,” Wyatt says. “Or you can take the hit to your pride like the rest of us.”
He’s serious. They all are. Despite the amused looks they’re giving each other, they all seem pretty convinced I’m going to lose.
I rest my elbow on the table and narrow my eyes at the woman across from me. “You’re looking pretty smug for a woman who couldn’t open a jar of pickles yesterday.”
She gasps. “You saw that?”
“Saw Gator open it for you? Yes. Also, who eats pickles straight from the jar?”
“I do. Are we wrestling or not?”
Taking hold of her hand, I make sure I’m situated properly so I don’t give Carissa any advantages. I still don’t see how she could possibly beat me, but the guys all wait without breathing, like they’re anticipating the match of the century.
“Ready?” Wyatt asks, standing beside us.
Carissa wiggles her fingers, adjusting her grip, but my focus is fully on the smirk on her lips. “Ready to lose, Rihanna?”
Oh, she didnotjust call me that. “In your dreams, Paxton.”
“Go!” Wyatt says.
