“Me either.” Anna’s calm demeanor cracks. “Oh my gosh, what does ‘shortly’ mean to him?”
I’m exuding some anger toward the pilot as well. While the storm isn’t his fault, we need an accurate timeline of events. This flight feels like it’s drifting away from “some turbulence” toward “inevitable and sudden death,” and it’s terrifying.
Overhearing our conversation, the flight attendant strapped in at the back calls out, “About five more minutes, Ms. Sterling, but we should be past the clouds any moment.”
“Thank you, Grace,” Anna responds over the rattling pieces of the plane.
This aircraft isn’t as big as a commercial jet and only fits about ten guests and the crew. The creaks coming from the metal put me on edge—can it really withstand a thundersnow?
Thankfully, shortly after Grace’s reassurance, the plane stops vibrating, and my aching fingers can finally release the armrests. I open and close my hands, urging blood flow to return.
“We haven’t had turbulence that bad in a while,” Anna says, relief lining her features.
“If ever,” I murmur, massaging my hands. The feeling of prickles returning to my skin is oddly comforting.
“Well, thankfully, we won’t have LA traffic, so we should be able to make the game in plenty of time.”
“Oh, definitely.”
“I’m still so glad they agreed to move the shooting up by a couple of weeks so we’ll be done by September.” The happiest of smiles spreads across Anna’s face. “A September wedding is going to be perfect. Don’t you think?”
“First of all, of course, they moved it up. You’re an Academy Award winner, Annalise Sterling. They’d be stupid to lose you. And yes… September is going to be gorgeous. Especially in the apple orchard.”
“Right? I always assumed I’d have this big, lavish Hollywood wedding. But the small one we have planned in the orchard—where we spent our first date—I can’t think of anything better.”
“With only people you love there,” I add.
“Exactly. That in itself is priceless. My face is sore from all the fake smiles I dished out while we were in Cali. While the weatherisn’t always the best here, it’s nice to spend our days around truly great people. Isn’t it?”
“It really is.”
“Okay.” Anna nods, holding my stare in hers. “You’re happy here, right? Like really happy and not just pretending to be for my benefit?”
“I really am happy.”
“Okay, and you’re good living with Miles? That’s going well?”
“It is. We have so much fun together.”
“I just worry. I don’t want you to feel lonely.”
I reach forward and squeeze Anna’s hand. “I don’t. I promise. And you don’t have to worry about me. I’m a grown woman who is very capable of taking care of herself.”
“Oh, I know that’s true. But it won’t stop me from worrying about you.”
The plane lands, and Anna and I don’t waste any time exiting. Even the snow whipping my face as I hurry down the steps can’t dull my excitement to be on solid ground—alive.
We hurry across the tarmac to where the black SUV waits. The driver greets us with a smile and opens the door. Hastily, we climb in.
The door closes behind us, and the driver slides into the front. “I picked up your bag. It’s ready for you in the back seat, Ms. Sterling,” he says.
“Thank you. We’ll head straight to the arena, please,” she tells him.
“You got it,” he replies, before closing the black partition that separates the front of the vehicle from the back.
Reaching behind us, Anna retrieves the bag. She unzips it and hands my outfit to me—jeans, a navy-blue sweater, and a number sixteen Cranes jersey—before she grabs hers, including her fiancé’s number two jersey. Number sixteen just happens to be Miles’s number. When Anna and I attended our first Cranesgame, I picked it because it was one of the few jerseys left in the team store, and I felt bad that it wasn’t getting more love. Turns out, as a new player, he hadn’t amassed as many fans then. That, of course, has changed now that the Cranes fans have seen Miles in action all season. He’s incredible.
Anna and I weren’t ice hockey people before, but we're definitely ice hockey people now. There’s something so fun about the games. They’re addicting.
