Overall, he was a merciless son of a bitch.
I wanted to hate him, and right when I was almost at that point, he climbed on the bank with us. He didn’t demand one thing that he couldn’t or wouldn’t do himself up there.
The man didn’t have to say he had integrity, he showed it with his every single action, making it really freaking hard to stay mad at him for his misstep.
Until the son of a bitch broke us into the three sets of five he was so bloody fond of.
Guess who was in my set of five.
Tilly the Fucking Cyborg. That was her new name.
A name that matched her blank fucking expression.
He put the jammers on the spot first, examining our footwork as we tried to break through and dash around the blockers in front of us. Testing our ability to hop, spin away from a block to dart around and through the pack, and our skill at gaining speed when we broke free.
When I’d told him he would make me a target if he kicked Tilly off the team, he clearly took it to heart by going the complete other direction in making us work together. Apparently, he wanted to send the message that not only was I cool with Tilly on the team, but we were ready for matching tattoos or some bonding shit.
Super.
Everything changed on the bank; our balance changed depending on where we were on the track. The angle of our hips being on a constant tilt threw every other part of us off. But after a week, we finally had it.
If anything, being on flat ground felt weird as hell, but at least when we transitioned to the infield, we didn’t look like calves taking their first steps anymore. Sad visual, but true—although, appropriate being in an old dairy barn and all.
Finally happy with our progress—if you called a grunt and a little less resting asshole face, happy—we moved on to jumps so when the time came and bodies hit the track in a jam, we could avoid running over our teammates and hurting ourselves.
At least that was the theory.
We scoffed at his never-ending need to drive the skills home—earning a dark glare—his new natural state over the past week since he found me at Banked Track pouring out my bruised heart to Rory.
He kept everything absolute derby. Nothing personal. But all the things we weren’t saying, built up there between us. I could feel it. The air practically vibrated around us.
After all, even my team noticed. The shits probably formed a betting pool behind my back.
The unease made me itchy.
And bitchy.
They thought I needed to get fucked.
But really, I needed to unclench. I was wound so fucking tight I might snap, a completely new sensation for me.
Okay, they also thought the prescription for that was a good seven inches or so of girthy goodness—and they were probably right.
With every bit of control I gained on this track, I lost control over something else. I’d become so fucking disgruntled and short with everyone, even Milton and Gerald had stopped making jokes and prodding each other. Instead, they stopped in for breakfast like their hour there was obligatory, and grumbled into their coffees over my recent lack of charm.
Apparently, they didn’t appreciate my new prison guard energy.
But I didn’t know how to let go of it and I had to guard my heart.
Though silent, I’d catch Priest watching me, not the judgmental kind of stare from the first night I saw him, but something else.
Dejected and grim, but with flashes of longing so fucking cutting I’d forget to breathe.
I’d spot it, he’d blink, and it would be gone, or he’d turn away, his focus needed elsewhere. Even though he spent a fair amount of time on that track with us, he held himself apart from us—from me—ever since that night at Banked Track.
I didn’t like it.
I didn’t know how to change it.
And my every instinct begged me to roll right off the track and wrap my arms around him—only I knew I couldn’t.
When I’d finally let myself look away from him and return my attention to the team, I’d find Eve watching me, her face hollow. Her mouth tight.
I found myself searching out Tilly of all people. When I found her, she’d look at me with a blank stare, hence her new cyborg status, something I found a whole lot more uncomfortable than her attitude. At least I knew what she was thinking when she was attacking me.
This whole blank look came straight out of horror movies, for fuck’s sake.
And now she’d flipped the script and done something nice, which only felt more sinister.
I didn’t know when our showdown was coming, but it had to be coming. Right?
Or maybe she was trying and I was the asshole here.
I couldn’t tell anymore. All I knew was we were getting better, but nothing was right. Not one damn thing.
The void in her eyes—the one she’d just aimed my way for the hundredth time this week—had my nerves stretched so tight, I had to get out of here before I snapped.
Even if for just a few minutes.
I skated off the track straight to the bench and yanked on my laces.
“What are you doing?” Priest asked, skating right up to me.
I flicked him a glance. “I need break.”
Hands on his hips, he glowered down at me. “You just had a break.”
I straightened and kicked off my skate. “Goddammit, Priest…back off.”
“What’s going on with you?”
“God, you’ve got to be kidding me,” I muttered as my phone started to vibrate again with another bullshit call. I slipped it from my duffel, but didn’t recognize the number, and tossed it back into my bag as I kicked off my second skate. “I need one damn minute where I’m not under a fucking microscope. If you’ve got a problem with that, you’re going to
