The Game by Vi Keeland by Vi Keeland

I took the glass from her hand and set it down on the coffee table before cupping her cheek. “I’m glad you feel that way. Because I’m fucking crazy about you, Bella.”

Her eyes filled with tears, but they were happy ones. “I don’t want to look back anymore. I want to go forward and appreciate what I have.”

I stroked her cheek with my thumb. “That sounds like a good plan.”

And it was, a damn great one. Too bad I didn’t follow the no-looking-back rule the next weekend…





CHAPTER 23




* * *



CHRISTIAN



I felt like I was doing something wrong.

The following Saturday after practice, I took Coach to the storage building as planned. I’d debated all week whether I should cancel, mind my own business, and leave things be since Bella seemed determined to move forward and not look back anymore. Yet here I was, watching the garage door inch its way up. Aside from the feeling that I was sticking my nose in a place it didn’t belong, I also had no idea what the hell I was looking for—other than the blue 1954 Ford Thunderbird that sparkled from the far side of the room the minute the door finished opening.

Coach shook his head. “Damn, I forgot how these old things bring back memories.” He pointed to a white Chevelle at the front. “Got my first hickey from Nancy Woodrow in the back of one of these.”

I wheeled him over and opened the driver’s side door so he could see inside. He leaned in and inhaled deeply. “She even smells the same.”

“Nancy smelled like leather? I like my women to have a more feminine smell, maybe floral or something.”

Coach chuckled. “Knucklehead.”

I took a lap around the Chevelle, checking it out, but couldn’t stop myself from glancing over at the Ford a few times. At least I’d managed to not make a beeline for it the minute we’d walked in.

The next car we stopped at was an old Jaguar.

“This is a nineteen fifty-five D-type,” Coach said. “One of these sold at auction for more than twenty million a few years back.”

My brows shot up. “Twenty million? Are you shitting me?”

“That one won the Le Mans and had all her original parts. This one wouldn’t fetch a fraction of that. It has high mileage, an aftermarket paint job, and the underbelly is full of rust. John bought it a few months before his diagnosis. He’d planned to restore it and try to find as many original parts as possible. But that never happened.”

“Is that what makes old cars valuable? Having all the original parts?”

Coach nodded. “Partly.” He pointed to a red Corvette. “That ’Vette is all original, and so is the Ford Thunderbird in the back. John was offered a pretty penny at car swaps for both of those, but unlike new cars that lose ten grand in value the minute you drive them off the lot, these appreciate. They’re a good investment. Plus, he loved to drive them.”

I noticed the Chevelle didn’t have any plates on it, so I looked around at the others. I couldn’t see all the fronts and backs, but none of what I could see had them either. “Do you not need license plates to drive antique cars?”

Coach smiled. “You do. Though John just used one set of dealer plates for them all. All the cars are owned by a corporation that he had registered as a dealer, since he bought and sold often. It’s probably not exactly legal, but he didn’t go too far when he drove them.”

I grew more and more anxious as we went around from car to car. When we finally got to the Ford, I still had absolutely no idea what the hell I was looking for.

“This one was John’s favorite,” Coach said.

“Oh yeah?”

“Bought it when he signed his first contract as a player.”

“So he’d had it a long time then?”

He nodded. “Every few years, he got them appraised by an auction house for insurance purposes. They told him to drive this one less to keep the mileage down. But that never stopped him.”

“Did he…ever take this one to the stadium?”

“I’m not sure. He was always there before me and stayed long after I left.”

I walked around the back and took my time perusing the sides. When I got to the front, I noticed there was a slightly bigger gap on the left side of the hood than the right. It was barely noticeable, but it was there, and I knew that was a telltale sign a car had been in an accident.

“Do they sell for less when they’ve been in an accident?” I asked.

“Sure. Usually that’s because they have to get bodywork done. But this one is cherry. All original, no accidents, no bodywork.”

I bent down in front of the car, looking closely at the headlights. On the left, I noticed two tiny bubbles under the paint, yet on the right, the paintjob was totally smooth. I was far from an expert on cars, but it made me think the paint might’ve been touched up. Not wanting to raise suspicion, I moved on to check out the inside. Nothing jumped out at me as peculiar there. And honestly, I wasn’t even sure the small things I’d found were peculiar. The car was seventy years old, for Pete’s sake. Maybe it was normal for the hood to shift a little and the paint to have a few miniscule bubbles from natural weathering. What the hell did I know?

I stood and looked around. “You still thinking about donating the collection to charity?”