Page 69 of Unmanageable

I throw my weight into the wheel, my reflexes kicking in before my brain can even process what’s happening. I fight the pull, wrestling the steering column back toward the center of the lane while my right foot hits the clutch, letting the rear-mounted engine’s speed drop so we don’t spin out on the wet surface.

The back end of the van fishtails once, twice, the heavy crate of my gear in the back shifting with a massive, terrifying crash against the metal walls.

We skid along the shoulder, gravel spraying against the undercarriage, before the van shudders to a halt against the grass embankment.

Silence hits the cab, save for the heavy, frantic sound of our own breathing and the relentless thud-thud-thud of the rain against the roof.

I look over at Scottie. Her knuckles are white where she’s gripping the dashboard, her red hair fallen forward over her face, her eyes wide.

“You okay?”

“Did we… did the engine explode or something?”

“No,” I say, looking at the right side mirror. “That was a blowout. We have a flat tire.”

Scottie lets out a long, whistling breath through her teeth and falls back against her seat. “Excellent. Perfect. The trip that keeps on giving.”

“Hey, could be worse,” I say, trying to find the humor before the reality of changing a tire in a downpour sinks in. “We could still be in the basement with Grant.”

“I think I prefer the rubber chicken to this, Cash.”

I turn off the ignition, and the engine gives one final, wet sigh before going cold. I reach down, pull the internal handle to pop the front compartment latch, and pull the emergency brake until it clicks into place.

“Alright, Scottie-girl,” I say, unbuckling my seatbelt. “Stay inside. It’s coming down out there. I’ll check the damage and see if the spare has any air in it.”

“I’m coming with you,” she says, already reaching for her door handle.

“Scottie, no. You’re wearing those sneakers, and they’re going to be ruined in the mud. Stay in the dry box.”

“I am your agent, O’Connell. You literally cannot tell me what to do.” She gives me a sharp, stubborn look that tells me there is absolutely no point in arguing. “Besides, you don’t even know where the jack is.”

“It’s under the passenger seat,” I say, feeling defensive.

“It’s stored in the back compartment, Cash. I read the manual while you were sleeping. Move out.”

I open the driver’s side door, and the storm instantly hits me like a bucket of ice water. The wind is blowing sideways, the rain stinging my face as I step down onto the gravel shoulder. The gravel is loose, turning into a muddy soup under my sneakers as I walk around to the front compartment.

It’s a disaster.

The passenger door clicks open, and Scottie steps out, holding her briefcase over her head like a tiny roof. Within three seconds, her red hair is plastered to her skull, her blue hoodie darkening as it absorbs the downpour.

She looks down at the tire, her mouth dropping open.

“Oh,” she says. “That’s… very flat.”

“Told you,” I shout back, my hood blowing off my head as a gust of wind hits us. I grab the edge and pull it back over my wet hair. “Go back inside, Scottie! There’s nothing you can do out here but get pneumonia!”

“I’m helping!” she yells, her voice high and competitive. She turns around, grabs the handle of the side sliding door and yanks it open. “Get the jack from the back! I’ll find the wrench!”

She dives into the back of the van, her legs sticking out into the rain as she rummages through the chaos of my hockey gear.

I shake my head, a grin breaking through the water streaming down my face.

She is the most stubborn, ridiculous, beautiful thing I’ve ever seen in my life.

I walk to the back, slide the door shut behind me, and dig behind my spare set of goalie pads until my fingers hit the cold, greasy steel of the scissor jack. It’s rusted, the crank handle slightly bent, but it’s heavy enough to do the job. I grab the spare tire—thankfully, it still has some bounce when I press my thumb into the rubber—and drag it around to the front.

When I get back to the right wheel, Scottie is already there, kneeling in the mud on a piece of cardboard she’s found. She’s holding the iron lug wrench like a club, her face covered in a streak of black grease where she must have wiped her hair out of her eyes.