Then after a while, I pull my phone out and unlock it.
Her name’s still there.
No new messages.
I could text her and try to clear things up.
Instead, I lock the screen, set the phone face down on the tray and take another sip.
This is what I wanted.
Right?
Florida hits different.
Even before I step off the plane.
The muggy heat is the kind that sticks to your skin.
By the time I make it through the terminal, there’s a guy waiting with a sign.
LOGAN WADE
“Logan?” he says.
“Yeah.”
He grins, sticking out a hand. “Welcome to Tampa.”
The black SUV is nicer than anything I’ve ever been in. It’s got leather seats with cold air blasting.
“Got you set up at the hotel for now,” he says as we pull out. “Team’ll want you at the stadium tomorrow. Physical, media, the whole deal.”
I nod. “Sounds good.”
Palm trees blur past the window.
Everything looks…bigger.
Cleaner, too. Maybe a little sterile though.
There’s less cornfields, and way more people.
“Hell of a moment you had,” he adds. “That video? Man—that thing’s everywhere.”
I nod again.
“Yeah.”
I won’t say anything else. Because all I can see is her standing in the kitchen, looking at me.
Yeah. Bro. Snap out of it.
My jaw tightens, and I turn back to the window, examining the palm trees.
Florida really is the sunshine state for a reason.
The sky is endless blue, and not a cloud—or a cornfield—in sight.
