Wild Ride (South Florida Riders Book 1) by Breezie Bennett

Author:Breezie Bennett [Bennett, Breezie]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Palm Island Publishing
Published: 2019-10-17T16:00:00+00:00

SIXTEEN — Leo

Three. Not one, not two, but three separate times I fucked up in today’s game. And on our home field. I grit my teeth and clutch the steering wheel so hard my knuckles turn white. I hate screwing up. I hate losing. I know exactly why my hands and my head were not in that game at all.

It’s been five years to the day since Dad died. I swallow a pound of sadness and back the Mercedes out of the stadium garage. It was my rookie season. Five years exactly, and I can’t even have a decent fucking game in his honor.

Frankie is quiet. I assumed she would be completely unaware of the hurricane of emotions swirling through my mind, and I’m hoping she just thinks I had a bad game, but I can tell she’s worried and has a very clear sense that something is off tonight. She’s usually an endless chatterbox after every game, like the world’s sexiest windup toy, giggling about touchdowns or passionately venting about how Those refs were on some new bullshit. I always smile. Her vibrant energy never fails to intensify the joy of a win, or amuse me enough to forget about a loss.

But not tonight. Frankie’s so sweet and empathetic, she took one look at me after the game and knew. I hope she doesn’t think I’m shutting her out. I’ve just never been one to bitch and whine about my feelings, especially when it comes to Dad.

“Sorry,” I mumble, breaking the tense silence.

Frankie turns to me, surprised that I’ve spoken. Her eyes are full of pure kindness as she places a gentle hand on my knee. “Don’t beat yourself up. Everyone has a bad game now and then.”

Of course she would assume the only thing going on with me is the bad game. She has no idea about the distraction and pain that caused that bad game. Most of the guys on the team don’t even know about my dad. I don’t need to burden Frankie with a sob story. She’s not wrong, either. I played a terrible game. So I’m just gonna leave it at that.

“I know. I’ll shake it off.” I turn to her and force a smile. “Thanks.”

“Is that all that’s bothering you? Just a couple missed passes?” Her voice is slow and sympathetic, sounding far more concerned than curious.

“And a fumble. Don’t forget the fumble.” I squeeze her hand, trying to bring a smidge of humor into the heaviness of this car ride.

“Well.” Frankie flips her hand around and threads her fingers through mine, which sends an unexpected wave of comfort through my body and mind. “The fumble was because of a bad pass. That Chase Kennedy, he really needs to learn how to throw a football.”

We both laugh, and I keep her hand in mine. She is the physical embodiment of sweetness, and suddenly I am struck by the overwhelming urge to dump my entire dead-dad story on her, to just pour out every emotion and thought and regret, because somehow she would make it better.

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