“What are you doing?”
“Calling a car.”
“I’m fine, Emily. You don’t need to ruin your day dealing with this shit.”
Fuck. The way he said my name had me pausing where my thumb hovered over the phone screen. It was half disciplinary and half devastating, like he didn’t know whether he wanted to yell at me or thank me. It had me wondering how he’d say my name in a different setting, if he’d punish me for being so mouthy, or if he’d fall at my feet and worship me like a goddess.
“I’m not ruining anything,” I finally managed, the car called as I tucked my phone into the waistband of my joggers. “Besides, I want a front row seat to your face when they tell you this car is D.O.A.”
That made his lips flatten, but I saw it — how he was fighting a smile.
“Admit it. I’m funny and you like me.”
“Like I like turf toe.”
“I don’t know what that is, but it must be amazing if you’re comparing it to my presence. Car will be here in five.”
Braden sighed, and then wordlessly, he ducked into his car long enough to retrieve his bag before he picked mine up, too.
“I can—”
My words died when he looked at me, like he dared me to argue with him. There was no other option. He was obviously carrying my bag.
It was me biting back a smile this time.
Braden Lock.
A gentleman even in crisis.
“Told you it was fucked.”
Braden and the very kind mechanic who had just assessed his car both shot me disapproving glares at my language. I just shrugged, popping a stale piece of auto shop popcorn into my mouth before pointing a finger at Braden’s chest and whispering to the mechanic.
“I told him it was fucked.”
Me doubling down didn’t seem to impress either of them.
Braden sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose before his attention was on the mechanic again. I snuck a peek at his name tag that readGiovanni.“Are you sure it can’t be fixed?”
“Not for less than what the car is worth as a whole.” Giovanni scratched his neck, looking through the lobby glass to where Braden’s car was hoisted up and still smoking slightly. “Icanfix it, if you really care about the car, but honestly… I’d trade it in for parts and get a different vehicle if I were you.”
Braden nodded, his face grim. “All right. Can I leave it here for the night until I figure out my next move?”
“Of course. I know a guy who buys parts. I can call him and see if he’s interested, and then you don’t have to pick it up at all.”
Braden still looked sick at the reality of the situation. “That would be great, if it’s no trouble.”
“No problem at all. Especially for you. I’m a twelve,” Giovanni said, shaking Braden’s hand when he offered it. “And you had a hell of a rookie season. Can’t wait to see what you do this year.”
Braden managed a smile, though it was weak. “Thanks, man. Appreciate it.”
Seattle Seahawk fans were coined twelves — in other words, the twelfth member of the team. It was our organization’s way of saying that we couldn’t win without them, that they are as important to us as the guys we pay to fill our roster.
I smiled at Giovanni when he made the comment. We had the best fans.
It made me even more proud to be a dancer. Although, I would be prouder if our organization paid the dancers what we deserved. We worked our asses off — tireless hours at practice, games, and community events in a grueling sport that put so much strain on our bodies, most of us would require years of physical therapy, if not surgery, when we left this job behind us.
And we made minimum wage.
