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It’s gonna be a no this season, Reese.
Try harder next year.
Don’t need you on the squad.
We hang so long, my bad shoulder shakes like a rusty hub-cap, spinning to pop off.
Sol hisses. “How bad is it?”
Busted, same as ever.
I roll my joints to check the damage. Then my good shoulder spasms.
Oh, right.
Took a fucking bean-ball to the scapula.
Then forgot about it, soon as I had her out of danger.
Another thing I almost forgot?
The rest of what Jin said.
We know who she is.
The kid who cleaned my batting blisters.
The princess who timed out of her own auction to scrape glass from my booze-slicked palms.
The secretly soft-hearted warrior with pockets full of pepper spray and rainbow bandages.
Instead of swallowing the pain, I wince again. Harder. “Stings.”
“Stop putting weight on it.” Solly pushes me away—but not the way I feared.
Soft hands on my forearms, she helps me sit up, not blinking as she rakes me for damage. Like she’s devastated to find a crack in her favorite cup.
I’ll fucking take it.
Anything that keeps her looking my way, forgetting the plan to cut me loose.
“Where did it hit you?” she murmurs, fingers tap-dancing my bicep.
“Dunno. It’s kinda radiating.” Abandoning whatever’s left of my pride, I rip off my shirt from the hem.
Can’t make any promises about my winning percentage, but my body?
That’s one-hundred.
Shout out to the training plan from hell.
I inhale as I strip, hoping to catch Sol’s scent spiking.
It doesn’t.
But those brown eyes snap to my abs, then she’s inhaling too.
One blade-sharp breath.
