Over the last few weeks we’ve actually texted a few times, logistical stuff about the title fight since she’s covering it forThe Sporting Standard, but we’ve carefully avoided anything serious. Anything that might acknowledge what happened in New York City. And now, with what I learned at the Halloween party about how our feud really started all those years ago, I wouldn’t even know where to begin.
The plane jolts hard, and the woman across the aisle tightens her death grip on the armrest. My seatmate is somehow still asleep, thanks to the three whiskeys he knocked back before we even took off, his head lolling against the window. I glance past him at the lightning illuminating nearly black clouds, and I wonder if Brooke is doing the same math I am: Roman’s title shot is the day after tomorrow, we both need to be there, and neither of us can do a damn thing about it from thirty thousand feet.
The plane drops.
My stomach lurches and I grab the armrest hard. Someone behind me gasps, and my seatmate snorts awake, blinking and looking around like he’s trying to figure out where the hell he is. The plane steadies, levels out, and for a few seconds everything seems fine.
Then the captain’s voice comes over the speakers in Spanish.Desviar. Chihuahua.My stomach tightens.
“Ladies and gentlemen, we’re experiencing some unexpected weather conditions ahead. Air traffic control has advised us to divert to Chihuahua until the storm system passes. We apologize for the inconvenience and will provide updates as they become available. Flight attendants, please prepare the cabin for landing.”
Brooke turns around in her seat, and our eyes meet across the rows between us. Her expression says exactly what I’m thinking.
You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.
The terminal is small enough that I can see both ends of it from where I’m standing, which is not exactly reassuring given the situation. A TV mounted on the wall is playing news footage of the storm we just flew through. The graphics show a massive red blob sitting right over the mountains between here and Mexico City, pulsing like something alive and angry.
Every single passenger from our flight seems to be crammed into the space between the doors and the lone airline counter, where two employees are handling the crowd with the weary patience of people who’ve done this before and know it’s going to get worse before it gets better. I scan the chaos and spot Brooke at the front of the line, chatting with the employee on the left.
The employee laughs at something Brooke says, and even from here I can see Brooke turning on the charm, leaning in with that confidence she has when she’s working someone for information. Journalist mode, and she’s damn good at it.
She thanks the employee and turns, scanning the crowd until her eyes find mine. Her expression is a mixture of frustration and anxiety, one that probably mirrors my own.
She tilts her head toward the windows, away from the crush of people still arguing at the counter about rebooking and refunds and things that are completely outside anyone’s control, and starts weaving through the mass of frustrated travelers. I push off the pillar I’ve been leaning against and meet her halfway.
“Any luck over there?” I ask when we reach each other.
“Define luck.” She pushes a strand of hair out of her face. “The storm is massive. She said it’s stalled right over the mountains, and they have no idea when it’s going to move. Everything’s grounded until tomorrow morning at the earliest, and even that’s not guaranteed.”
I rub my hand over my face. Roman flew out three days ago, thank God, so at least he’s already in Mexico City settling into the hotel and staying off his feet. But the weigh-in is tomorrow afternoon. The press obligations start in the morning. If I’m not there, Roman walks into the biggest moment of his career without his coach in his corner, and that’s not fucking happening.
“Great,” I mutter. “That’s just great.”
“Tell me about it.” Brooke crosses her arms. “I have an interview scheduled for tomorrow morning, so that’s already shot. There’s a hotel across the road from here, though. The woman at the counter said rooms are filling up fast with all the grounded flights, but it’s worth a try.”
I sigh. “Did she say where exactly we are?”
“Valle Quieto.” Brooke pulls up something on her phone, squinting at a map. “It’s in Chihuahua state, in the middle of the Sierra Madre Occidental. About five hours from Mexico City by car, if we could drive, which we apparently cannot unless we want to die in a flash flood.”
“Population?” I ask, as if that information might somehow be useful.
“Around fifteen thousand, according to this.” She squints at her phone. “Apparently it’s known for some hot springs nearby. That’s the main tourist attraction.”
“Great. Hot springs and a grounded flight. My two favorite things.”
“Could be worse.” She pockets her phone. “I could be stuck here with someone I actually like. Then I’d feel obligated to be pleasant.”
“The silver lining of mutual antagonism.”
“Exactly.”
I look around the terminal at the other stranded passengers. Some of them are already settling into chairs like they’re prepared to sleep here, jackets balled up as pillows, resigned expressions on their faces. Others are still crowding the counter, demanding answers that don’t exist. Through the windows I can see the rain coming down in sheets, the sky so dark it looks like midnight even though it’s barely seven.
“Well, a hotel sounds better than this,” I say. “Shall we?”
She nods toward the exit. “Yeah, though we’ll need to make a run for it. She said take a left and the sign’s impossible to miss. Hotel Paloma, it’s called.” She looks out at the rain and grimaces. “Ready?”
I nod, and we head for the doors.
