Page 114 of Penalty Shots

"This is a mistake," I whisper to Wednesday in the passenger seat as I roll the window down to type in the code Keelan sent me.

The little black poodle mix stays snoring, curled up in a ball and ignoring me, just like she has the majority of this cross-country trek.

It's been two full days of driving with an overnight rest stop in a questionable town on the border of Texas and New Mexico.

I could've taken Keelan up on his offer to fly first class and have my things picked up. But my brother has helped me enough. And I am a grown-ass woman, dammit. I can figure things out on my own, thank you very much.

Well, everything except my current living situation, apparently.

Great. Now this stupid keypad isn't working.

"You'd think this uppity HOA would at least come with a working keypad."

Just as I'm trying for the third time, a sleek, orange space-shuttle-of-a-vehicle swerves off the main road and stops abruptly behind me. I can feel the idling engine deep in my chest.

The driver must have the patience of an ant because he almost instantly revs the engine when he sees I'm not going anywhere. It sends adrenaline coursing through my veins in a near panic.

"Hold your horses," I yell back and whisper under my breath, "Jackass."

I try the code again with no luck.

The driver behind me grows more impatient and blasts his horn.

I shove my head out the window to get a good look at him. It's a man, of course.

His face is covered by aviators too big for his face, and he's drumming his fingers against the steering wheel in front of him as if I'm wasting his precious time. The indie rock blasting from his speakers sounds just as obnoxious as he looks.

I sign for him to wait and dial Keelan.

"You here?" he asks.

"Yeah, but the stupid code isn't working."

Baby Driver behind me blasts his horn again.

Good lord. Could this guy be any more of a dick?

"Freakin' Houstonites," I mutter. Wednesday finally grows restless and joins me in staring down the guy from her spot on the center console.

"We're called Houstonians," Keelan corrects me.

Is he serious right now?

“Just get me through, Kee."

He laughs through the phone, "Hold on, I'll get someone to help."

"Can't you just buzz me i—" He doesn't let me finish my sentence before hanging up.

I look at my phone, wondering how the hell I'm going to make it through the next few weeks living with my older brother and his rowdy teammates when I can't even get through the front gate of his neighborhood.

I peer at Mr. Douchebag through the rearview mirror.

By the looks of him, his daddy must be some old money oil tycoon, and he's never known a day of hard work in his life.

He rolls his head and revs his engine again.

This causes Wednesday to unleash her "I don't like you"stance, fur standing at it's ends, and she lets out a growl in his direction.