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“He’s not my boyfriend.” Her whispered confession hangs in the air as the side door opens.
“Cassie?”
“I’m in here.” She sidesteps around me, giving us distance.
Bobby walks into the room and stops abruptly when he notices me. Disapproval clouds his expression. “Is everything okay?”
I don’t appreciate the accusation in his tone.
“Of course.” There’s a bite to her words. Cassie must not have appreciated his tone either. “I was showing Dalton the old ’57. He’s a pretty good mechanic. I figured he could tinker out here during his downtime.”
“I’m good with my hands.” I bite back a smirk when Cassie’s cheeks pinken and Bobby’s jaw hardens. I’m playing with fire, but let him think what he wants. Cassie handed me a small victory. I can’t bask in it too long. She gives me the key to the building and leaves with her supposedly soon-to-be ex-boyfriend.
Cassie’s voice echoes across the yard. I pick up a wrench, itching to work on this car and scope the inventory Coach has purchased. A funny feeling settles in my chest. Cassie gets me. Like really gets me. She knew I needed this outlet.
But is that a good thing? She has a boyfriend. One she doesn’t love, but he obviously is still in the picture.
I have to get my act together and show her I can be boyfriend material. That I take baseball seriously. I may be a worthless fuck-up, but I do care about things other than myself. I just need to convince her and her dad that.
Until I can figure out how to make Operation Sainthood work, I may as well do what my legacy is—work on this blown engine.
Chapter Thirteen
DALTON
If there were evera day I needed a hit from a blunt, today would be that day. But even I am not that brazen no matter how badly I need to calm the fuck down. Considering I’m standing outside the church and feeling like an imposter dressed in sheep’s clothing, I don’t think that will happen. However, I’m not claiming to be a false prophet, but a non-believer destined for hell, which can be just as dangerous.
This team requirement is pure bullshit. Not everyone belongs here. Take me, for example. Sure, the sign hanging on the glass doors may stateAll Are Welcome, but that isn’t what they actually mean. That’s apparent by each disapproving look tossed my way by the so-calledwelcomingcongregation.
“Dalton.”
I turn to where my name is called and face Carter closing in on me. He’s dressed in a navy sports jacket, white button-down shirt, blue tie with tiny white polka dots, and matching navy dress pants. He blends, looking settled as if he’s a member of the congregation. Where he fits in, I stand out like a sore thumb in my wrinkled khakis and a polo shirt.
“Why are you standing outside looking as if you could puke?”
“Just biding time. I rode with Coach. We got here forty-five minutes ago.” I glance back at the doors and shake my head. “I couldn’t go in there that early.”
The asshole chuckles. I’m worried about lightning bolts striking me down, and he laughs.
“Come on. Attending church isn’t that bad.”
I grunt in protest but follow him in through the hypocritical doors. When my feet cross the threshold, I scratch my forearm and resist the urge to tug at my collar. The damn thing is too restrictive, choking me, and I’m sure I’ve broken out in hives. I suppose my personal suffering is better than lightning bolts flashing through the windows and catching the building on fire.
“You look like a fish out of water,” Carter mutters under his breath. “Relax.”
“Church isn’t my thing.” Walking to the back pew, I run my hands down the front of the only dress pants I own. We have functions that require us to dress formally, but I don’t have an endless cash flow, unlike some of my teammates. I may have worked every summer since I was old enough to hold a wrench, but my dad never paid me. A roof over my head was sufficient payment in his eyes. The only money I received was from customers who slipped me tips when Dad wasn’t looking.
“At least we don’t have to volunteer for any other activities. Attending church won’t be that bad.”
“Says the person who blends.” My murmur comes across as condescending while we take our seats, but I don’t care. I don’t want to be here. Soft chatter fills the air, and I can’t help but search for Cassie. It doesn’t take long to find her. She sits in the front row next to surprise, surprise—Preppy Boy Bobby. A snarl rests on my lips. My first priority is to expose his weakness. The only way I can win her dad over is to see where I have a chance.But do I even have one?
I know the answer to that question already. I just don’t want to admit it.
I shouldn’t want her. I should ignore whatever spell she has over me and focus on playing ball. But as I said, I’m a sinner. A weak mortal. When she peered up at me with those smokey-lidded eyes and a hitch in her voice, I was a goner. I’m so mad at how she handled everything, but that doesn’t stop me from wanting her. It didn’t stop me from taking my dick out and jerking off to the thought of her. And now my dick is springing to life. My eyes land on the large cross hanging at the back of the altar.
Yep, I’m pretty sure getting hard in a church is a direct ticket to hell.
Forcing myself to look anywhere but at her, I take in the typical A-frame altar. There isn’t anything flashy about this place. I have no idea what denomination this church is—the ordinary white walls and muted rose colored carpet don’t scream anything but plain, generic—but it hardly matters. I’m only here because Coach demands us to be. There should be a law against forcing people to attend against their will, but I get it. This is his team, his rules. We’re here for discipline more than improving our craft, so whatever.
