Henry clears his throat and pulls out his phone. “There’s a train going that way that should be stopping in half an hour.”
“Sorry, guys,” Larry—or whatever his name is—says as we walk out of the rental place.
We both flip him off.
“Not cool, guys. Not cool at all,” not-Larry calls.
We tell Conor and Tweetie the plan, and the four of us walk across the street to the train station. Maybe third time is a charm.
eleven
Tweetie
Rowan’s gothis phone out the minute we get on the train.
“We’re going to take this to New York, then we’re going to the airport. I don’t care what the fucking cost is,” he says.
“You do know it’s Christmastime, right?” Henry asks.
The two of them have been like the parents and Conor and I the kids on this trip, but those are our typical roles in our friendship.
We take our seats and, just like when we’re on the team’s plane, we sit across from one another—Henry and Rowan on one side, Conor and I on the other.
“Do they have a dining cart?” I ask, looking around.
Henry groans.
The sun is peeking over the horizon, but Chicago is an hour behind, so I’m sure Tedi is still asleep. Then again, she could be up with Addison. I want to talk to her, but I’ll wait a little longer just in case.
A little kid across the aisle is staring at all of us. I give him a smile and a nod, but he doesn’t smile back.
What the fuck?
Henry and Rowan come up with plans for what our next move will be. Conor has taken off his sweatshirt and is using it as a pillow, leaning his head against the glass.
The kid leans over and I do the same, thinking maybe he recognizes us and he’s just shy. I want him to know he can talk to me if he wants.
“My dad says you suck,” he whispers.
I look at his dad, who’s staring out the window. “Is that so?”
“Washed up,” he says. This kid can’t be more than ten years old I don’t think.
“Didn’t suck against Boston. Did you catch the game? I scored the winning goal in the third?” I arch an eyebrow.
Why am I talking smack to a ten-year-old?
“I don’t watch the Falcons.” His gaze lands on each of us. “We’re Fury fans.”
I nod. “Hate to break it to you, but they’re not bringing home the Cup this year.”
“You don’t know that. Aiden Drake is the best center in the league.”
“Excuse me?” Rowan tips his head to look at the kid.
“You think I’m washed up… you know Aiden is older than me, right?” I say.
He shrugs. “They’re a better first line.”
