8. Chapter Eight

Chapter Eight

Carissa

A car would be really nice right about now. Or, you know, all the time.

While I thought I had the bus schedule all figured out—I got to work yesterday just fine—I've been standing here at the bus stop for more than half an hour. Not only am I stuck in the blistering California sun, but I've been hit on by no less than three skeevy men, one of whom might have tried to grab hold of my arm if a kind old man hadn't been walking past at just the right time. He stayed at my side until the creep left, then continued on his merry way.

Right now, I'm blissfully alone, but I don't know how long that'll last. I'm two minutes away from calling a rideshare even if it'll cost an arm and a leg to get me to the practice fields from here. Yes, Houston got me an apartment in a decent neighborhood, but it's so far from the Thunder stadium that I'm starting to think it might be a good idea to look for somewhere closer.

Sighing, I look down at my phone. I'm running out of time if I don't want to be late, but I'm also realizing I'm going to run out of money far sooner than I'd like if I miss the bus like this too many times .

Right as I'm opening the app store to download a rideshare app, a silver Prius pulls up to the curb right in front of me. Alarm bells start ringing in my head—stranger danger at its finest—but then the back window rolls down to reveal none other than Cole Evanson.

"Need a ride?" he asks.

I shield my eyes with my hand to see him better. "Um. No. I'm sure the bus will be here any second." It's a lie, and I'm pretty sure he knows it. I also don't know why I'm bothering, since the car he's in is exactly what I was about to order for myself anyway, and we're going to the same place. I think it's because he doesn't like me, which is not something I'm used to.

Glancing to his left, he lifts a single eyebrow and pushes the door open, scooting to the other end of the seat.

I'd be stupid to argue, so I scurry inside the air conditioned car before my stubbornness gets in my way.

"Uh." The driver, a young man in his early twenties, looks back at me. "I don't think I should—"

"I'll pay you extra," Cole says at the same time I say, "It's okay. I know him."

We look at each other, and though I can't say I know what Cole's thinking, I've got my guesses. He's probably wondering, like I am, which of our assumptions is right. Is the driver wary because technically I should be paying for my ride? Or does he think Cole is picking up some girl on the side of the road? Maybe it's both, but when Cole hands a hundred dollar bill up to him, the driver flips the car into gear and drives off.

I nearly choke as I watch that bill disappear into the guy's pocket. "Um, I thought rugby players had terrible paychecks."

Cole grunts, his eyes out the window now. "They do."

"That was like a month of groceries. "

That gets a chuckle out of him, though there's no trace of a smile. I've only seen him smile once, but it's something I would love to see again. What does it take to get a grump like Cole Evanson to smile? "You must not eat much," he says.

I mean, I don't, but that doesn't change the fact that he's seriously overpaying for this ride. Leaning closer, I drop my voice in the hopes that the driver doesn't hear me. It's unlikely, given how small this car is. "You paid him way too much."

Sure enough, the driver's eyes meet mine in the rear view mirror for half a second, narrowing slightly as if warning me to keep my mouth shut. It's not like Cole could ask for the money back. I mean, he could try, but we're at the mercy of the driver here.

It's a strange concept, trusting strangers to get us to our destinations safely. What if they're high? What if they're escaped criminals who stole the car? What if—a gasp escapes me—what if this driver is actually an international spy and we've just been inadvertently pulled into his mission?

"You okay?" Cole asks, and I realize I'm still leaning toward him.

I shift back to my side of the seat and nod. "Yes. Fine."

"I paid him so he won't ask questions," he says, louder this time.

The driver gulps. Maybe he's thinking Cole is the international spy.

I could see it. Cole has the build and the glower and the cash, apparently. What kind of person carries hundred-dollar bills around like that? I think I've only seen one or two in my lifetime, and they always go straight to the bank because I cannot be trusted with that kind of cash.

"Are you sure you're okay?" Cole asks, still watching me.

I'm going to assume all of my thoughts are painted right across my face because, unlike my sister, I'm crap at hiding things. "Do you know how many candy bars that money could buy?" I resist the urge to clap a hand to my face. That's what I decide to go with? Candy bars? Maybe I got heat stroke standing in the sun .

Cole laughs again, this time with the smallest upturn of his lips. "Candy bars," he repeats, and his eyes do a slow head-to-toe of my body.

"I can't help it if I have a fast metabolism," I say, folding my arms as if that might hide my painfully thin frame.

"And a serious sweet tooth," he counters.

"That's more by choice."

"Did you get home safely last night?"

The question catches me so off guard that my response is snarkier than I usually allow myself. "No, I spent the night on the street."

The driver coughs, though I can't decide if he's laughing or genuinely concerned for my safety. I hope it's the second one. Cole, on the other hand, curls his hands into fists on his lap and clenches his jaw until it looks like a muscle might snap. It's another argument for him clearly despising me, and I still don't know why.

But then he takes a deep breath and softens. "I get that it's none of my business," he says, his voice low and rough. "But if any of the guys were to put you in any kind of danger like that, I'd…" He shakes his head. "Maybe don't joke about it? I'm stressed enough as it is."

Wait. Wait . Was he actually worried about me? Ignoring the bubble of warmth in my belly, I twist in my seat so I'm facing him, one leg curled up beneath me. "First of all, I'm pretty sure Bean is more afraid of me than anything after the way I manhandled him on that table."

The driver coughs again, but I ignore him. He can make whatever conjectures he wants about what I just said.

"Second of all," I continue, "he walked me all the way to my door and wouldn't leave until I'd locked it behind me."

Cole's eyebrows rise. "Oh. Good."

"And third of all, you're right. It's none of your business. You clearly don't like me, so there's no reason for you to worry about me." Even if a part of me yearns for his concern. I put up a confident front, but especially after my career-damning relationship with Peter, I have zero faith in my own abilities. I couldn't figure out a bus schedule more than one day in a row! I only have a part-time job, I'm not paying my own rent, and the homesickness hit me so hard last night that I almost called Darcy at three in the morning to ask if I could go back to St. Louis to stay with her. Newlywed stage and all.

It's only when Cole's expression softens that I realize tears are welling up in my eyes.

Sniffing, I turn to look out my window and will myself to calm down.

"I realize we're not friends," Cole says. "But if you need to talk? I'm a good listener." We're both quiet for nearly a minute before he adds, "And I don't know you, Carissa. I don't have the right to dislike you."

Huh. That's actually really…nice. "I'm extremely likable," I mutter, mostly to fill the silence. Not because I think that highly of myself, though history would agree with my statement. Honestly, my likability causes problems sometimes, like when a high profile client starts wanting to spend time with me away from the PT office because he tells me I "bring sunlight to his life" and he "doesn't want to give me up."

"I don't doubt it," Cole says, and we fall into silence again.

In general, I'm not a silence kind of person. Darcy and I are both talkers, so our childhood was filled with endless conversation that sometimes drove our parents mad. So I last maybe two minutes before I blurt out a new topic.

"Why don't you drive?"

Never would I have called Cole relaxed, but he must have been because he suddenly tenses up.

"You don't have to answer that," I say quickly. "It's none of my business."

But I do think the driver thinks it's his business because his head is tilted toward the backseat, like he's hanging on our every word.

Cole notices this too, his eyes narrowing into slits as he looks forward at our eavesdropper. Without saying anything, Cole unlocks his phone and opens up a text. He reads for a moment, and then he curses under his breath. "You can drop us off here," he says, though we're still several blocks from the stadium.

The driver's shoulders slump. "But—"

" Pull over. "

He does, and fear grips my heart as I reluctantly slip out of the car, followed closely by Cole. Cole grabs his bag from the trunk, and we stand there in the sun next to a cinder block wall until the Prius is out of sight.

"I'm sorry," I whisper. "I shouldn't have asked about—"

"I'm not angry about that." He holds his phone out to me.

I have no idea what I expected, but it certainly wasn't a tabloid article about a football player in Oregon. What does this have to do with… oh . There's a picture. Of me . Well, the back of my head, anyway, but I'd know those unruly curls anywhere. The focus is on Cole, but that's definitely my hair. Still confused, I read through the article quickly. It kind of feels like I'm suddenly outside of my own body, like this moment isn't real. I've heard of this tabloid. Houston was in it once, several months before he met my sister, but that makes sense because he's famous and he was dating a movie star. Bonnie.

And Cole is friends with famous people, but this article is insinuating he's just as famous as his friends.

"I'm sorry," Cole says when I hand his phone back. His lips are pursed as he reads through the article again. "I didn't think anyone would bother hanging around practices."

I think I'm going to have to do some Googling as soon as I'm away from this man. Just how famous is he? Famous enough that he doesn't bat an eye at handing a hundred bucks to a rideshare driver.

"Okay, so…" I don't even know what I should ask. "What does this mean?"

Cole shrugs and adjusts the strap of his bag. We are definitely both going to be late to today's practice, but he doesn't seem to mind. "That depends."

"On what?"

"On if Hot Scoop decides you're important."

"I'm not important." In fact, I cannot stress enough how much I do not want to be important. "And it's not like you and I would ever date."

"Obviously not."

Okay, well, that was a bit uncalled for. He didn't even hesitate. And while I've accepted the fact that he doesn't like me, I refuse to let him brush me off so easily. I told him I was likable, and I am determined to prove it. There's no obviously about it. "I'm a great girlfriend," I say as casually as I can manage.

Cole's eyes jump down over my body once more, leaving me feeling like I'm on display. "Girlfriend," he repeats, like he's seeing how the word tastes in his mouth. "Not a fiancée?"

I frown. "I don't think there would be much of a difference."

"I suppose it's a matter of commitment."

"That's usually how engagements work." And I have no idea what we're talking about now. I'm good at having inane conversations, but this is…different. This isn't a ninety-year-old man who just had a hip replacement and wants to talk about his days as a typist in the Army. This is a big and burly rugby player of undetermined fame who is talking in a way that makes me think I should know what he's trying to say underneath the words he's actually speaking.

I fold my arms. Might as well just ask. "What are you implying, Cole Evanson?"

His eyes slip downward again, but this time they rest on my hand. "Does your husband-to-be know you're not wearing your ring while you're at work? "

"I never wear rings at work. And I'm not getting married." But then I realize what he's really asking, and heat floods my face. "Oh. Oh, that ring the other day wasn't mine."

Cole scoffs. "The very expensive, very real diamond on your finger wasn't yours?"

"First of all, how do you know it was real?"

Rolling his eyes, he starts walking toward the stadium like this conversation is over.

It so isn't. "Second, it really wasn't mine. I was holding on to it for my sister."

"Why?"

"Because she didn't want any of the team to…" Oh no .

Cole stops dead in the middle of the sidewalk, and though he doesn't turn around to look at me, I see every bit of his tension in his massive shoulders. Is it too much to hope he's too dumb to make the connection?

That question is dumb. Of course he's smart enough to figure out what I just let slip.

As I slowly creep forward to get close to him again, Cole grips the strap of his bag, knuckles turning white. He turns when I reach him, and I swear his dark eyes shoot lasers straight through me. "Tamlin Park is your sister." It's not a question. "Darcy goes undercover as Tamlin, doesn't she?"

I nod, only because at this point I don't think I could get into more trouble than I'm already in. "Please don't tell anyone," I squeak. "I signed a whole contract thing that says I'm not allowed to talk about it."

He clenches his jaw as another realization hits him. " Tamlin Park was in Derek Riley's house ."

Oh, he's really angry. And I don't blame him. Still, I have to try to fix this before Darcy flies back here and strangles me for ruining her whole career. "She's not going to do anything. Derek doesn't have anything to do with sports. "

"But I do!" He runs his hands through his hair and takes several steps away from me, like I might damage his career by simple proximity. "Are you her spy?"

"No!"

"Of course you'll deny it. Am I going to see something about Bean in today's news?"

"No," I say again, though I'm wilting. He's so mad. "I—"

"It's bad enough that you show up here with your little good girl act and distract the guys with your flirting. Now you're going to pretend you're more than just a pawn in your sister's game?"

His words feel like a slap to the face, knocking me back a step. Darcy may be better than me in pretty much every way, but she wouldn't use me like that. "I didn't flirt with the guys," I whisper, knowing he won't believe me. No one ever does.

Tears sprout in my eyes again, partly because I really don't like it when people are mad at me but mostly because this is probably the end of my time with the Thunder. Look at me go! I lasted one whole day before I messed everything up. Cole is going to warn his teammates, who will refuse to interact with me, so I'll be useless to Mel and lose my job and have to go back to Philly with my tail between my legs because what else can I do? Clearly I'm not cut out for…anything.

And after the guys welcomed me so warmly after practice yesterday, I was actually excited about working with them. I even stayed up late to learn a few things on the training side so I could do more than massage a hamstring and demonstrate some stretches. What if they thought I was flirting, just like Cole?

Why do men always take my friendliness for more? Why does it always get me into trouble?

"Are you just going to stand there and pout?" Cole asks sharply. "That might work on some guys, but I'm not—"

"You've made your point," I snap, but the tears are coming whether I want them to or not. I wrap my arms around myself, desperately wishing for someone familiar to tell me everything will be okay.

"Are you…?" Cole groans, running a hand through his hair again as his expression shifts from anger to something softer. "You're crying."

I sniffle. "I'm aware of that, thanks."

"Carissa…" He growls something under his breath, and just as he opens his mouth to say something else, a car pulls up beside us.

"Evanson?" It's Moxie, and he leans across the passenger seat to look at us. "Carissa, what's going on?"

I grab the passenger door handle and climb inside before either man can stop me. "Can I get a ride to the stadium?"

Moxie stares at me for a second before looking at Cole again, a clear question in his eyes.

Instead of offering an explanation or apology, Cole simply adjusts his bag and starts walking.

"Are…" Moxie clears his throat. "Are you okay?"

"Not really, but I'll be fine."

"What did he say to you?"

"Nothing."

"Look, I know he can be rough around the edges, but he's a good guy. If he said—"

"He didn't say anything." I sink into my seat, knowing Moxie won't believe me. Though I don't like the way he judged me, Cole has every reason to distrust me. I can't stop him from telling everyone else about Darcy, but I also can't tell Moxie why Cole definitely hates me now. I'm sure breaking my NDA more than once would make things worse, and that's the last thing I need.

There's nothing I can do now except wait.

One of these days, I could really use a win in life.