He let out a deep breath. “Anyway, on the last day, the real tryout day, I went into the locker room to change. While I was in there, in my freaking underwear, Cameron and two of his buddies grabbed me. They taped my mouth shut and tied my hands behind my back. Then, before locking me in the broom closet, one pinned me against the wall while Cameron wrote ‘loser’ on my forehead with Sharpie.” He shook his head, cheeks red. “Not the way I wanted to find out that Sharpie comes off skin with rubbing alcohol. Anyway, they’d waited late enough that all the coaches were already outside. No one heard me kicking the door. One of Cameron’s friends came back to let me out after tryouts were over and almost everyone had gone.”
Kyle’s fist clenched around Faith’s hand, but she didn’t let go. She leaned against him. “What happened then?”
“They’d told the coach I changed my mind, saying that I’d said ‘this public school ball was for pansies’ and that I’d gone back to my select team.” He turned to look at her, and the hurt in his eyes made tears well up in hers. “They’d also taken all my clothes. All of them. There I was, crying like an ass, Sharpie on my forehead, and I had nothing to wear. I had to hide from the coaches and call my grandpa to come get me. He wanted to tell the coaches what happened, but I just…couldn’t. I was too embarrassed. How would the coaches like having a punching bag on the team, no matter how well he caught?”
“That is the meanest thing I’ve ever heard,” Faith said, anger lighting a fire in her skin. God, Cameron was such a malicious little prick. Was she really that blind not to see it? She’d been with him for six months. He must’ve been careful not to show that part of himself. If she’d known, she would’ve left him much sooner. “I have half a mind to kick Cameron in the balls the next time I see him.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Kyle said, heat coloring his tone. His face was frozen in a frown, and he kept bouncing his leg in a nervous tic. “Don’t you get it? I let him win. I was too weak to stand up for what I wanted. If any of this happened to me now, I would’ve gone out to the field naked, not giving one shit. But he tormented me over and over. So when we got home that night, Grandpa and I talked about how to change things, and that’s how Kyle Sawyer, delinquent badass, was born. Lucky for me, I grew five inches the summer between eighth and ninth grade. From there, it was easy. I started dressing in black tees and hoodies. Didn’t give anyone the time of day. Picked up a skateboard, though that’s pretty much for show, because Coach would kill me if I got hurt. And I made damn sure to kick a sophomore bully’s ass the very first week of high school—broke his nose and got in-school suspension. The fact that he started it was the only reason I wasn’t expelled. Grandpa was proud as hell, but I didn’t enjoy it. That guy’s not me—it’s a persona. So when I say I’m not who you think I am, I really mean it.”
I knew it. I knew it. She bit back a smile. “Wait, are you saying you aren’t a delinquent?”
“No.” He slipped his hand out of hers. “I’m not anything you think I am. Except a liar. That, I excel at.”
“So,” she said, giving him a shrewd look. “You don’t like working on lawns?”
“No, I like that. I love it, actually. Which no one would ever believe.”
“And you don’t love baseball?” she asked.
“No, I do, it’s just—”
“And you don’t love your truck more than your badass Charger?”
“Well, I love them both, but for different reasons…what are you doing?”
Faith gave his arm a bracing pat. “Wondering why you think I don’t know you. The real you.”
“But…” Now he was frowning.
“No buts. I know you.”
“You’re too smart for your own good, Faith,” he grumbled.
She noticed how his knee had stopped bouncing. Confession really was good for the soul. “Well, I know the Charger’s yours, so the badass car isn’t a lie.” She cocked her head. “Do you drag race?”
The corners of his mouth lifted. “Only when douches in tricked-out Hondas gun their engines.”
“Well, who doesn’t?” she said, and he laughed. “And given the huge house, I don’t think you shoplift, either.”
“Definitely not. Well, except for a candy bar in sixth grade. I ate it on the way to the register, and a friend dared me to walk out. I did.” He turned to her and the smile grew. “I felt so guilty that I left a dollar next to the register the next day.”
And there he was—the real Kyle. The guy who loved plants as much as people, who paid attention when she talked, who danced with her when her own partner wouldn’t. The same boy who called her dad “sir” and made her mom laugh. The solid, quiet, sweet, hardworking boy no one really knew.
Except her.
“You’re a big softy.” Relieved to see him smile, she reached out and ran her fingers along his shoulder. “And the tattoo?”
His eyes fell half closed. “That’s real.”
“Show me,” she whispered.
Kyle flushed and stared at the floor.
She reached down for the hem of his shirt and gave it a little tug. “Please?”
“You’ve already seen it,” he mumbled.
He sounded so shy, which surprised her after all the shirtless gardening last week. It made her want to see that tattoo even more—to run her fingers along it and feel the muscles beneath. An ache filled her middle. It wasn’t just the tattoo she wanted to see.