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“You ambushed Prescott at practice,” she said as she cut in front of the last car that was closing the distance.

“He was available,” I shrugged.

“No, he was working.”

“So was I.”

“That’s one way to look at it.”

It was childish and self-centered. I knew that. But I didn’t know what else to do. Harris hadn’t given me any usable answers, and Penny was on my ass for a piece on the rookie sensation.

“It was a waste of my time anyway,” I muttered as I drew lazy circles on the empty page.

“You could say that, or you could look at it from a perspective that isn’t yours and say he didn’t want to give you what you were looking for.”

“That’s not really my problem, though. If he wants to be as stubborn as a mule, there isn’t much I can do about it.”

“That’s where you’re wrong because it’s the biggest problem you have. As I said, it’s a whole season, and you need to be more understanding if you ever want him to talk to you again.”

I could feel that all too familiar stubborn streak rise within me. It was something that had protected me most of my life, but it was also something that did a lot of damage.

“I don’t need Trace Prescott.”

“You might soon, and that will always remain a fact whether you like it or not.”

I didn’t answer because I wasn’t so sure she was right. Yes, she would’ve been if I were focused on the things Penny wanted, but for my peace he was nothing more than a number.

The bus slowed ahead of us and signaled that it was going to take the next exit. Tara followed, easing the car into the turn like a seasoned pro.

“You picked a good game to come along for. Curry isn’t easy to beat,” she said as she slowed.

“Fortunately, I’m not here for the game.”

“I know, and you don’t even realize that this is another part of the problem.”

“No,” I said confidently. “That’s the point.”

We pulled up behind the bus and parked a few spaces away from it. I took a deep breath and reminded myself that Tara’s opinion didn’t really matter before stepping out. We both needed some air and a moment to clear our heads. The atmosphere shifted instantly, and I took some time to watch what the guys were up to. They had spilled out of the bus in loose clusters, and their voices carried an easy energy that suggested comfort and routine.

This wasn’t as new an experience for them as it was for me. They were used to it because over the last while it had become normal. It was uncomfortable, but I stepped into it, anyway. Decided to abandon my planned ambush on Tara about whether she was ever forced to clear an unfit player due to external pressure.

“Stay close if you don’t want to get left behind,” she said as she locked the car.

I nodded once as my eyes roamed over the guys who were heading to the convenience store. The small space quickly filled up with players grabbing drinks and snacks while crowding the aisles with loud conversations and easy movements.

I moved carefully through the aisles, slipping between their massive bodies and taking in every detail without drawing too much attention to myself. That was until I reached the last pack of sour Skittles. Only my favorite candy on the planet.

I quickly reached out, but as my fingers wrapped around the bag, so did someone else’s. I froze in place but allowed my eyes to move up so I could find out who the culprit was, and of course it just had to be him. Trace Prescott stood right on the other end of the display with an expression set in recognition and a death grip on the candy.

“Let. It. Go,” he said through gritted teeth.

“I was here first,” I scoffed.

“In your twisted view of reality, maybe.”

I tightened my grip. “You don’t get priority on candy just because you can run fast.”

The comment about his ability immediately set him on a razor’s edge. I saw the switch flick behind his eyes, and if I were that way inclined, it would’ve made me back off. But I wasn’t. I didn’t give a shit about athletes with their heads rammed so far up their own asses that they couldn’t clock what the real world was like.