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Must’ve been all the vodka shots we drank to celebrate our teammate Sergei’s return from an injury. I’ll never admit it out loud, but hard liquor packs a meaner punch at age thirty-two than it did at age twenty-two.
I’m going to be late no matter what at this point. I was supposed to be at practice at eight a.m. at the college arena our team is using while our new one is under construction. At least it’s not a road trip day. If I’d missed a flight, Coach would have ripped me a new one.
It’s October, so I can still get by with just a T-shirt and a flannel, even though it’s a little chilly this morning while I wait for my ride. I’d give my left nut for a cup of coffee, but I don’t have time.
My Uber driver is jamming out to some shitty New Age music on the drive to Mountain Top, where I left my car, so I use the time to check my socials and text my teammate Rowan.
Dom: Running late. Cover for me if you can.
Rowan: I’ll try.
Dom: You feel like death walking this morning? Or is that just me?
Rowan: I’ve felt better. But I stopped after four shots and you didn’t.
I put my phone back in my pocket. No one needs to have last night’s mistakes shoved in their face before they’ve even had a sip of coffee. However, I think I need water more right now. I could down half a gallon easily.
Dehydrated on game day. It’s not ideal, but it’s also not the first time. I pop a couple of mints into my mouth to mask my puke breath until I can brush my teeth in the locker room.
“Anywhere?” the driver asks as we arrive at Mountain Top.
“Uh, I’m the gray Mustang in the back of the lot.”
He glances at me in his rearview as he pulls up behind my car. Sizing me up, I suppose. I probably look as shitty as I feel.
“Thanks, man,” I say as I slide out of his back seat.
I unlock my vehicle and start it up, mentally running through the list of excuses I’ve used for being late in the past year. It’s only happened a couple of times, and both were practice days. Once, I was honest that I overslept. The other time, I got locked out of my own house by a pissed-off woman when she found a note another woman had left me after a night together. I think I told Coach I had car trouble.
When I put my car into reverse to back out of my parking place, it feels like my car is operating at about half power. If karma’s trying to give me legit car trouble to make up for the time I lied about it, today is not the day. On a practice day, karma can deal me a dick punch if it wants to. But not on a game day. I put on my sunglasses and keep driving.
It’s only a twenty-minute drive from Mountain Top to the area, thirty if traffic is heavy, and I’m almost halfway there, ignoring how off my car’s engine seems to be when I look in my rearview and see a cloud of white air.
It’s smoke, and it’s coming from my car’s tailpipe. Fucking great. I haven’t even had this car for a year. I’ll have to call the dealership from the arena and have them come get it to figure out what’s going on.
When traffic starts to move and I put my foot on the accelerator, my car lurches and refuses to move any farther. I try to put it in park and drive again, but I can’t. Shaking my head, I put it in neutral and get out to push it, steering it toward the shoulder of the road. White smoke is pouring from the back of the car now.
Shit. I know how to change the tire on a car, but that’s about it. I turn the engine off and get out, walking around to the back where the engine is located.
What the hell do I do? I can’t leave it on the side of the road. It’s too damn expensive to risk anything happening to it. Besides, I can’t exactly call an Uber to pick me up on the side of the road.
I scrub a hand down my face and laugh humorlessly. Actual car trouble. Now I have a valid excuse for being late. Everyone I could call for an assist is at the arena right now, though—they’re all my teammates. It may be time to call Coach and tell him what’s going on.
“Need some help?”
I turn at the sound of a female voice. The woman walking toward me on the shoulder of the road is beautiful, her dark, shoulder-length hair partially covered by a knitted pale-pink beanie. She’s wearing jeans, a long-sleeved black T-shirt and a black apron with “Deb’s Diner” embroidered on the front pocket in white thread. A lanky boy who looks like a teenager walks beside her, an old baby-blue minivan parked behind them on the side of the road.
“Hey there.” I flash her a confident smile. “I just stopped to make a little adjustment on my car. Are you having car trouble, too? I can take a look at it if you want.”
She shakes her head. “No, mine’s good. I just stopped to see if you need help. I saw the white smoke coming from your car a few miles back.”
She’s close enough now that I can see her striking forest-green eyes, which are framed by dark lashes. I sneak a glance at the nametag pinned to her apron. Tess.
“Yeah, it does that.” I wave a hand dismissively, my lateness to the arena forgotten.
“Why?”
I blow out a breath as she waits for me to answer. Fuck. I have no idea why, but I can bullshit my way through just about anything.
