Page 47 of Under Pressure

My teacher disappeared inside for a few minutes, and when she came back out, I couldn’t meet her eyes. I sniffled to try to stop the snot from running, but I wanted to cry so, so badly, and having her looking at me wasn’t helping. She wasn’t happy when she hauled me to her car and buckled me into the back seat, and she was even angrier when she parked in front of the trailer I directed her to and stared at it with this disgusted sneer.

I all but threw myself out of the car and ran along the rocky front path and up the porch steps without so much as a thank you. My backpack slapped against me with the force of my steps, and once I pushed open the tiny wooden gate at the top of the porch, I nearly dropped it with the force of my sob. I tasted the hurt and disappointment, the judgment with every salty drop that got in my mouth. My key chain I’d made from some string in art class had already begun fraying a few days prior, and when I started digging through my bag and yanked it free of where it had grown sandwiched between my library books, the entire thing fell apart.

It was too much for my twelve-year-old heart to handle. I held on to the key to the front door and jammed it into the lock with tears and snot running down my face, only to realize the lock had been busted. The key cut into my palm when I hauled my backpack behind me and stared out past the porch. I ignored the smell of cigarettes and the snarling voices from the couple who lived in the trailer across the way like I did every day before pushing the door open.

Mom’s singing voice was the angel to my street cat. I heard itthe moment I stepped inside and followed it through the house without bothering to take my dirty shoes off. She was on the couch when I found her, slung across two cushions with one arm tying the blue band around her upper arm and the other . . .

I looked away when I noticed what she was doing. It’s what my nan told me to do before instructing that I call her immediately. Mom never noticed I was at home because she was too busy getting high again. It was why she hadn’t picked me up, and I’d grown so used to the routine by this point that I knew this meant she’d lost one of her jobs. The spiral was about to begin, and I needed to get Callie out of there.

She was in our room like she always was because Mom hadn’t enrolled her in school yet, despite her being five already. I knew that meant she’d be behind all the other kids, even though she was smarter than most of the ones in my grade already.

Mom was so out of it by the time I’d packed our things, called Nan, and tugged my sister by the hand outside and to the cab Nan had ordered for us. We didn’t hear from Mom until after Christmas, and she never once brought up my concert or the one and only solo I ever had before I gave up on singing entirely.

I always say that I grew up fast. It wasn’t a decision I made, but one that was forced on me from . . . I don’t even know what age. For as long as I can remember, I’ve been this way. Focused, controlled, independent.

Letting people help you and see who you are beneath the appearance you give yourself in public? That’s not something I’ve ever been able to do. I don’t enjoy being vulnerable. It makes my skin itch and gives the memories I’ve shoved deep, deep down room to escape their cage. I’ve done everything in my power to remain vigilant with myself all these years, yet it’s Beckett fucking Rourke who’s threatening to mess everything up.

I spaced out on the drive from my place to his, but I’m still aware of the looks he’s giving me. While he doesn’t let his strayfrom the road long before he’s staring straight ahead again, he’s still stealing glances every chance he gets. I don’t know if he’s just curious or if he’s feeling pitiful after getting a full-frontal view of how shitty my night has been.

Either way, it makes me unnerved. On edge.

“If you want to ask if I’m okay, I’d advise you that you don’t,” I tell him.

“How do you know that’s what I’m thinking about? Maybe I’m just curious why you called me tonight when I’m sure you’ve got others who would have come to help.”

“Should I have called someone else? You didn’t have to come. Or answer your phone, for that matter.”

Fuck, I’m being such a bitch.

Glancing across the dark interior of his car, I’m instantly relieved to see that he’s smiling. I let my shoulders drop and my exhale fall heavy. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay, Quinn. You’ve had a long night.”

“So have you. It’s almost 4:00 a.m. I should have called someone else. You have a game at eleven.”

Looking out the passenger window, I swear I can see the sky warming up with the tease of sunrise. The sight does nothing to take away my guilt. It magnifies it instead, reminding me that not only am I being rude right now, but I’m also doing so when I should be thanking him a million times over.

I don’t know why I called him. It was a split-second decision that I’ll spend the next week mulling over. But in all fairness, it’s not like there was anyone else I could have called. Not someone who would have been able to help me, at least, let alone come running over to make sure everything got taken care of.

“Have a list of my games jotted down somewhere, do you?” he teases.

It’s the exhaustion that has me laughing. That’s got to be it.

“Who are we kidding? You had a thirty-pitch inning yesterday. The comments on the Instagram post the team made said you wouldn’t go out today because you’ll be ‘too tired.’”

He taps a beat on the steering wheel. “Oh? Is that what they said?”

“Mmhmm.”

“And what do you think?”

“Well, you’ll be too tired now.”

Beck’s snort draws my attention from the upcoming sunrise. Even in the dark cab, the dimple in his cheek is sunken deep, completely visible. I stare at it and rest my head against the seat, releasing the tension in my neck. His eyes flick my way for a heartbeat before floating back to the road, but that smile spreads. And that dimple holds my attention for too long.

“Maybe. Have you ever wanted to watch a game?”

“Not really.”