"Finn?" I asked into my cell. "I need a favor."
"Shoot, whatcha got?" Finn asked without seeing what the favor might be.
"I need you to give Sloan a jar of pepper tonight." I started up the stairs to the plane, though it wouldn't be leaving until it was time. I still took them quickly. "After the game."
"Pepper?" he asked, surprised.
"Sloan will know what it means, and it's important. Can you do it for me?"
Finn hesitated, and a low-grade panic crept up on me. I needed to hear his yes, not hesitation.
"Please. It's how he'll know it's important that I'm there," I said.
"You're coming to see the game?" Finn asked, perking up.
Gah. "No, I'll be cutting it short and getting there right after."
"Bummer," Finn said. "Would love to see you on the Jumbotron sometime."
I shivered in agreement.
"Me, too," I echoed.
"And this pepper thing is a kinky bit you two have going on?" Finn asked, like he was being nonchalant but nosey. "Like he sprinkles you, or you sprinkle him?"
Finn's questions weren't helping my pre-flight, pre-important-talk stress levels.
"You're not helping this situation," I said, taking a seat in the middle of the plane and buckling up.
"There's a situation? All I know is I answered my phone."
"Finn." I didn't mean to be short, but I was. "Please. I need your help."
"Then consider it done. Jar of pepper after the game. Can I tell him it's from you?" he asked.
"Yes. Please." Nobody else should be giving him seasoning in the locker room, but might as well make it clear where it came from.
"Does it have to be full? Or can I just bring the one from home?" Finn asked, and it sounded like he was rummaging through a cupboard.
"It doesn't have to be full," I assured as the plane taxied for takeoff.
The flight was uneventful, though I spent most of it staring out the window, thinking about what came next.
We landed, and I stepped off the private jet, the brisk Colorado air welcoming me home. Hans was right, though—I had little time.
I hurried to the waiting black van that would take me to Stallion Stadium.
While I didn't make it for the game, they won, and Sloan didn't take any particularly hard hits today. I got ushered through a maze of hallways until we reached a small locker room office. It's the only place I could meet Sloan on such short notice and on such a tight timeline. Small with dim lighting, the air in here was thick with the smell of sweat and leather.
That's where I waited, staring into space and hoping my husband was on his way as the clock ticked on the wall.
"Maya?" Sloan said my name as he approached the door to his coach's office, a mix of surprise and worry mingling in his expression. "You're here."
"I'm here." I took him in, checking him from top to bottom. I was worried about his injury from the last game. He looked good, though—healthy, even, and fresh from a post-game shower.
But I didn't rush to him, like usual. When we touched each other, our bodies took over, and for this kind of conversation, we needed clear heads.
"You, uh, left me a message?" He held up a half-empty jar of pepper.
