Taming the Varsity Player

CHAPTER 11: THE PASSENGER TARIFF

​The rhythmic, low thrum of Ethan Grey’s motorcycle engine died down as he idled smoothly right outside the towering, black iron gates of the Weller estate.

​"Here we are," Ethan said, his voice a comforting, warm resonance through the cool night air. He kicked the stand down and turned around, his soft, tousled dark curls catching the silver glow of the moon. His hazel-brown eyes looked incredibly gentle, his signature faint dimple flashing as he reached out to help me unbuckle my heavy black helmet. "You sure you don't want me to drive you all the way up to the front porch? It's a pretty dark walk."

​"No, it's fine, really," I murmured, managing a soft, genuine smile that felt completely foreign on my face after the brutal day I’d had. I slid off the back of the bike, my 5'9" frame stretching out in my oversized charcoal-grey crewneck and leggings. My ginger hair was a bit messy from the ride, wild copper strands escaping my claw clip. "The walk helps me clear my head. Thank you for tonight, Ethan. Seriously. The music store is... it's everything."

​"You earned it, Gilbert," Ethan smiled warmly, his silver rings glinting as he took the helmet back. "I'll see you at the shop tomorrow after the final bell. Get some rest."

​With a final, lingering wave, Ethan revved his engine, spun the motorcycle around, and vanished down the dark, winding Oakridge road. I watched his taillights fade, a flutter of genuine excitement dancing in my chest. I finally had a sanctuary. I was done with the stables.

​But the moment I turned around to push open the pedestrian side-gate, my heart violently leaped into my throat.

​Parked just inside the dark driveway, completely hidden beneath the sweeping shadows of a massive weeping willow tree, was Mike Weller’s sleek sports car. The engine was completely cut, but the second I stepped onto the gravel, the high-beams violently flashed on, blinding me in a harsh, aggressive white glare.

​I shielded my hazel green eyes with my hand, my stomach dropping into a familiar knot of pure irritation.

​The driver's side door swung open. Mike Weller stepped out into the cool night air, looking impossibly massive and imposing against the backdrop of the dark estate. He had changed out of his varsity jacket into a heavy, black designer streetwear hoodie that made his broad shoulders look even wider, paired with dark cargo pants and pristine sneakers. His golden blonde hair was slightly messy now, and his piercing blue eyes were completely cold, locked onto me like a predator tracking prey. The purple bruise on his sharp jawline caught the moonlight, adding to his dangerous, untouchable aura.

​He didn't mention Ethan. He didn't mention the motorcycle. But the absolute randomness of his presence out here at past nine o'clock at night spoke volumes.

​"Get in the car," Mike said flatly, his gravelly voice cutting through the cricket-filled silence of the yard.

​I didn't move. I dropped my arms, my jaw hardening as I stared him down from across the gravel. "Excuse me? It's the middle of the night, Weller. I'm going to the cottage."

​"I didn't ask what your plans were, Ginger," Mike muttered, walking around to the passenger side and leaning his massive frame casually against the roof of the car, his arms crossing over his chest. His expression was an unreadable wall of arrogant indifference. "You still owe me three weeks of labor for the dent you put in my rear bumper during the break. Stables are off-limits for the next few hours. I have a task for you, and it starts right now."

​I let out a sharp, cynical laugh, my temper flaring. The public humiliation from the cafeteria was still burning fresh in my mind. "Are you insane? You publicly execute me in front of the entire school, tell me I'm not allowed to even cook in your presence because I'm just the 'guest hand,' and now you want me to do random chores for you in the middle of the night? Find another maid, Mike. I'm done."

​I turned on my heel to walk past him toward the cottage, but Mike moved with terrifying, athletic speed.

​In two long strides, he cut off my path, his broad chest forming an immovable brick wall right in front of me. The heavy, masculine scent of his expensive woodsy cologne completely enveloped me, making my breath hitch. He didn't touch me—he knew better—but he leaned down slightly, his piercing blue eyes drilling into mine with a dangerous, amused glint that made my pulse race against my ribs.

​"You don't have an option, Gilbert," Mike whispered, his voice dangerously low, his lips twisting into that infuriating, untouchable smirk. "The summer contract your mother signed explicitly states you fulfill your property damage debt under my discretion. You want me to call my dad and tell him you're refusing to pay off the dent? Because I'm sure he'd love an excuse to look over that guest house arrangement again."

​I stared at him, my hands clenching into tight fists at my sides. I felt completely helpless, trapped under the suffocating weight of his old-money leverage. He knew exactly which strings to pull to keep me quiet. He was a jerk, a hypocrite, and an absolute villain, but I couldn't risk my mother's job or our housing.

​"I hate you," I hissed out, my voice trembling with pure, concentrated venom.

​Mike’s smirk only widened, his eyes darkening with a sudden, intense thrill at my defiance. "Good. Use that energy. Get in."

​Defeated and furious, I marched past him, violently yanking the passenger door open and slamming myself into the leather seat. Mike sauntered back to the driver's side, climbing in with an easy, unbothered grace. He started the engine, the sports car letting out a feral, aggressive roar before he tore out of the estate gates and accelerated into the dark, empty roads of Oakridge.

​"Where are we going?" I demanded, my arms crossed tightly over my chest as the speedometer climbed higher and higher.

​"The old industrial train yard near the state border," Mike replied smoothly, his large hands maneuvering the steering wheel with absolute, effortless control. "Some varsity pricks from our rival school, Westbridge, decided it would be funny to chain-lock our team’s equipment trailer inside one of the abandoned warehouses after our scrimmage last week. They think because Chad is out with a shoulder injury, we won't show up to take it back."

​My hazel eyes widened slightly. "You're going to break into a locked warehouse? In rival territory?"

​"Correction," Mike glanced over at me, his blue eyes flashing with a wild, reckless adrenaline that made my chest tighten. " We are going to break in. I need someone small and fast enough to slip through the ventilation window on the upper deck to unbolt the main loading door from the inside. Jake and Chad are too heavy, and they’d make too much noise. You're perfect for it."

​"Oh, so now my 'invisible ghost' status is a varsity asset?" I mocked, though a sudden, electric spark of thrill was beginning to override my anger. I wasn't a fragile country-club princess like Allie Grace; I grew up wrestling stubborn horses and climbing stable rafters. If Mike Weller wanted to see what I could do, I was going to completely blow his mind.

​Thirty minutes later, the car idled in the pitch-black, foggy shadows of the abandoned train yard. The massive, rusting corrugated-iron warehouse loomed ahead, secured by heavy chains and a glaring 'NO TRESPASSING' sign.

​"Stay low," Mike whispered, his tone suddenly shifting into something sharp and intensely protective as we slipped out of the car.

​We darted through the shadows, arriving at the side wall. High above us, about twelve feet up, was a narrow, broken glass ventilation pane.

​"I can't reach that, even at this height," I whispered, looking up at the steep brick.

​"I've got you," Mike muttered. Without warning, he stepped in close, his large, calloused hands gripping my waist firmly. I gasped softly at the sudden, burning contact, but before I could protest, Mike hoisted me up with absolute, terrifying ease. His varsity-trained muscles flexed beneath his black hoodie, holding me steady against the brick wall like I weighed absolutely nothing.

​"Go, Ginger," he growled low from below.

​I swallowed my racing heartbeat, my physical instincts kicking in. I grabbed the edge of the iron window frame, using my sturdy boots to find leverage against the brick. With a fluid, athletic pull that I had mastered from years of climbing haylofts, I hauled my upper body through the narrow gap, completely ignoring the scrape of the rusty iron against my crewneck. I slipped through the window seamlessly, dropping silently into the pitch-black interior of the warehouse like a phantom.

​Down below, Mike watched me disappear, a look of profound, stunned admiration washing over his face in the dark. I hadn't whimpered, I hadn't complained—I had handled it like an absolute badass.

​Inside, I sprinted down the rusty metal catwalk, my eyes adapting to the dark. I found the massive iron deadbolts securing the loading doors and threw my entire weight into them. With a heavy, echoing CLANG, the locks gave way, and I swung the heavy metal doors open.

​Mike slipped inside instantly, a wild, dangerous grin stretching across his handsome face. "Nice work, Gilbert."

​Within five minutes, Mike had located the varsity equipment trailer, using a heavy crowbar he brought to violently snap the Westbridge chain-lock with one massive, powerful swing. His physical strength was undeniable, and I found myself tracking the sharp movement of his shoulders in total silence, my cynical defenses temporarily melting under the sheer thrill of the heist.

​Suddenly, the loud, piercing wail of a security siren echoed through the warehouse rafters. High-powered floodlights on the exterior wall flared to life, illuminating the yard.

​"s**t! Sensor alarms! Let's go!" Mike yelled, grabbing the heavy equipment bag and sprinting toward the exit.

​We burst out of the loading doors just as a security truck’s headlights appeared at the far end of the train tracks. My adrenaline was pumping at a lethal rate. I ran side-by-side with Mike, my copper hair flying wildly in the wind, a breathless, exhilarated laugh escaping my lips despite the danger.

​We dove into the sports car, Mike slamming the door and gunning the engine before the security truck could even close the distance. The tires screeched violently over the gravel, throwing up a massive cloud of dust as Mike drifted the car onto the main highway, completely escaping into the dark night.

​Inside the cabin, the silence was broken by our heavy, ragged breathing.

​I leaned my head back against the seat, my chest heaving, a massive, uncontained grin on my face. I looked over at Mike, my hazel eyes bright and alive. Mike was gripping the steering wheel, a breathless chuckle escaping his lips as he looked back at me, his blue eyes completely captivated by the wild, vibrant look of the girl sitting next to him.

​For the first time all day, the high school hierarchy didn't exist. Out here in the dark, running from the alarms, we were completely electric.