Maya: I'll call tmrw
Sloan: 'night
* * *
Sloan: Good flight. Just landed in Miami
Maya: Headed 2 show rt now
Sloan: break a leg
Maya: Play hard. Don't break anything.
And that was the general gist of how it went for us.
But tonight, we'd sorted our schedules and since we were in the same time zone, he would skip the post-game interview and I'd skip dinner.
My phone rang right as I hit the door to my hotel room.
"Sloan," I said his name into the phone as I flipped the latch on the door and leaned against it.
The Dimefront guys all traveled with their families, so they insisted on comfort, and that meant only the best hotels.
"Maya," he said my name like he was lost at sea, and my voice was there to rescue him.
I got that because, damn, was I relieved, too.
I dropped my bag on the chair near the window and flopped onto the mattress. I'd changed out of the rhinestones at the stadium and into sweatpants and a cropped tank top.
"Tell me about everything," he said, his voice low and comforting—and, gah, just listening to him made me want to quit everything, jump on a plane, and then jump on him.
"Every day is different, and every day is the same," I said, turning to my side to prop the phone against my ear. "But tonight's show was so good. The band was on fire, and the audience was just in it."
"Yeah?" he asked, clearly waiting for me to say more.
"You want to video call?" I asked, already pushing the button to turn the audio into a video.
Sloan's face was on the screen, and my heart was finally happy, until the buffering wheel of doom spun and the damn call dropped.
"No, no, no." I started to call him back, but my phone was already ringing.
"Hi," I said. "The call?—"
"Maybe we stick to this right now?" he asked with a chuckle. "I don't want to lose you again tonight."
"How was practice?" I asked, putting the phone on speaker and settling in so I wouldn't touch anything else that might disconnect us.
Sloan told me all about the team, about the hotel where he was staying, and all about how Elliott had gotten him a meeting with the ZipZing people again.
Sloan was, as expected, not so keen on the idea, given the history.
And then there was a rustling of his bedding, the muffled noise of him moving on the mattress.
"Are you in bed?" I asked, already knowing the answer.
"Yeah, you?" he asked.
"I am," I said. "I don't want to get up for a full twenty-four hours. I swear I could just sleep. But then I try to sleep, and I toss and turn."
