His gaze lingered a second longer, then he gave a short nod and turned back to the screen. There was something in that moment. He hadn’t shut me out, but left the door open; I was still invited in.
That conversation hummed in the back of my mind as we started our descent the following day. The wheels screeched against the tarmac, followed by that familiar lurch forward. Seatbelts unfastened, and phones came out. Flutters stirred in my chest, not from the landing, but from the ticking clock inside me.
I kept thinking of how my parents would react to my new job. They’d touch down in Sacramento in two hours and take a taxi to the house, something they insisted on. They declined asking neighbors for a ride. Folsom, California, was the old chapter, and Florida was the new, with book clubs, beach walks, and never missing a sunrise. I hated not being there to meet them.
But this was my life now. Flights and DevPads, walk-throughs and stat reports. I hadn’t mastered the routine yet, but I was starting to catch the beat. And today, that beat dropped me right back into a playoff push in Denver.
Players filed off the plane row by row. Coach Murphy stopped beside my seat, and I realized he was waiting for me to move first. I stood and reached for my carry-on, but his hand was already there, lifting it down easily.
“Thanks,” I said.
“Sure.”
He smiled, and his eyes held mine for a beat before he followed me off the plane. I adjusted my grip on my carry-on and tried not to overanalyze the fact that Coach Murphy was at my heels, and I could sense the weight of his stare. If I said his eyes on me didn’t send a little warmth blooming behind my ribs in tiny, very inappropriate burns, I’d be lying.
Chapter seven
Sean
The shuttle rolled into Tahoe West quarters at 3:04 a.m., headlights cutting through the dark, trying to rouse the sleeping night. The guys barely moved, backpacks slung on shoulders, earbuds in. Most of us had that flat, glazed look. The one that came after a game-day flight back and a playoff loss.
Game 6 was ours to win, but Colorado didn’t agree. We were back home, tied 3–3 in the series. One game away from elimination, one game from moving on. I didn’t want to think about the odds; but my brain insisted, freaking playoff math multiplying at three in the morning.
Short round trips were the worst. Fly out around noon, skate like hell, drag our bruised pride back onto the charter. Everything hurts: knees, back, brain… I wasn’t twenty-five anymore. Hell, not even thirty-five.
I stepped off the shuttle, ready to grab my car and vanish—until I saw Mel by the curb, carry-on at her side, the night glaring at her and winning.
“Need a ride?” I asked.
“Thanks, but no. I’d rather not walk to the garage alone” she said, then hesitated. “I parked in the employee lot. Would you mind walking with me?”
“Not at all. At this hour, two is safer than one.” Also, I probably shouldn’t be left alone with my thoughts right now.
We walked in silence.
“Thanks,” she said when we reached her car, and threw her baggage in the back seat.
She slid behind the wheel and waved.
Pop. Pop-pop-pop.The sound arose as she backed up.
I winced.
She killed the engine, got out, and crouched to check the rear passenger tire. “Seriously?”
“That’s a blowout,” I said, joining her. “All it takes is a nail.”
She exhaled, long and tired. “I have a spare. I just…I just don’t want to deal with it at three in the morning.”
Fair.
I held up my keys. “Let’s get you home. You can deal with it later.”
She leaned against the car, one hand on her hip, the other on the roof, resigned. “Thanks.”
She yanked her carry-on from the backseat with a grunt. The latch gave way, and it popped open. She gasped.
I blinked as a makeup pouch, a busted travel shampoo, and a few colorful undies spilled out onto the pavement. My brainstalled somewhere betweenDo I help? Or do I pretend I didn’t see the hot-pink thong doing cartwheels?
