She smiles. “Guess that’s contagious on this team.”
Thiago finally walks off, and the plane seems quieter without him. Too quiet. It’s just me and her now, and the silence feels heavier than it should.
After a moment, she shifts again, crossing her legs. “Oh, by the way, I heard back from Liam.”
I turn to her, surprised. “Aye? You reached out?”
She nods, eyes bright. “He was so excited to talk to me, it made me even more excited to help SGA. We’ll have a video call next week to go over some ideas.”
I blink, a little thrown. “You didn’t have to do that, you know.”
“I know.” She shrugs one shoulder. “But I wanted to.”
There’s something in her tone—earnest, soft, and completely disarming.
“Thank you,” I mutter. “Really.”
She meets my eyes, and for a second, neither of us look away.
“You’re welcome,” she murmurs, then turns back to her screen without a clue that she just knocked the air out of me.
I clear my throat, forcing myself to focus. “What plans do you have for this trip?”
“Oh, I’m excited,” she says right away, her whole face lighting up. “I went to NYU, actually. Had my first ever apartment in the city. I miss it sometimes, so I love any excuse to come back.”
“I get it. There’s a kind of ache that comes with missing somewhere that made you who you are.” I lean back, letting the words sink in. “I’ve been to New York a few times, but it’s always been for matches or media. Never had the chance to actually see it meself.”
“You’ve never done the real New York experience?” she asks, mock scandalized.
“Define 'real,’” I say.
“Pizza from a street cart. The chaos of Times Square. Dodging taxis. Getting lost on the subway at least once.”
I chuckle. “Can’t say I’ve done any of that.”
She gasps. “Rogue Gallagher. The man who’s faced penalty shootouts in front of a hundred thousand people but hasn’t survived a New York City crosswalk.”
I shake my head, biting back a grin. “When you put it like that…”
“You’ve got a full day before the game,” she says, “you should do something. Live a little.”
“Haven’t thought that far ahead,” I admit. “Was plannin’ to rest, keep me legs fresh.”
She studies me for a moment. “You could still restaftera hot dog.”
I blink. “A what?”
She grins. “A hot dog. From a street cart. Preferably while you’re walking. That’s the rule.”
I arch a brow. “That’s your big plan for the day? A hot dog?”
“It’s not just a hot dog,” she insists, her eyes lighting up. “It’sthehot dog. It’s nostalgia, it’s chaos, it’s ketchup that stains your shirt no matter how careful you are. It’s New York.”
Her enthusiasm is contagious, so I can’t help but smile. “You make it sound like a religious experience.”
“Maybe it is,” she says with a wink. “You’ll just have to find out.”
I look at her for a long moment, the corners of my mouth lifting. “Maybe I will.”
