“It’s not likeyouwanted to go with me. Right?” she questions, and I meet her glare for a blip, letting a short laugh slip out.
“You laugh.” She states the obvious, and her tone is definitely less amused.
I shake my head again, and this time when I muster the courage to meet her gaze, I’m careful not to let my nerves show up as bravado.
“Not because it’s funny.” I hold her gaze long enough for the weight to settle in my stomach, anchoring me to this burgundy leather-topped stool.
Now boarding flight four-seventy-one to Oklahoma City.
I break our stare, slipping from my seat and snagging both of our carry-on bags from the floor.
“That’s us,” I say, welcoming the escape from Colby’s scrutiny.
Of all the days for us to have a real heart-to-heart. The culmination of so many feelings and regrets. The reality of where we are now. Her position. My spot on the team. Her dad’s still very much broken heart.
I carry Colby’s bag to the gate, handing it to her when her boarding group is called. I’m lucky to be on this plane. My last-minute decision means a middle seat. It’s a short flight. And in a way, I’m really looking forward to not talking anymore tonight.
I’m literally the last person to board, and I trek toward the back of the plane, pausing to meet Colby’s tired gaze with my own about halfway down the aisle. I nod toward the back andshrug, and just as quickly, she taps her seatmate’s arm and pleads for them to trade seats with me.
“I’m afraid of flying, and he’s my friend. Please?” she asks the stranger. He’s an older man, seemingly flying alone, and he tips his glasses down to eye me above the golden rims.
“Sure,” he says with a tight smile, closing his trade paperback of the latest Brandon Sanderson novel and slipping by Colby’s outturned legs.
“Thank you,” she says, and I echo with my own thanks, though I’m not sure I mean it. I want to be near her, but it hurts. Her words are hard to take. Her questions impossible to answer without throwing blame at her father, and I won’t do that. He was right. And she’s right that we should pay attention to the optics. This job is important to her. My goals are important to me. Our focus needs to be on the game, the team, the work.
“Do you want the aisle?” she says, gazing up at me through stray strands of hair.
“Uh,” I stammer, glancing toward the back of the gentleman who gave his seat up for me, then to the front of the plane, heavy with our last conversation.
Not because it’s funny.
“No, it’s okay. I’ll just . . .” I nod toward the empty seat, and she twists her body a little more to make room for me to pass.
I step into the tight space, my stomach facing her, and she rests a flat palm between my ribs as I slide across her space. My breath stops, and my abs flex as if I’ve leapt into a cold plunge, so I swallow hard and look up at the heads in rows of seats behind us until I’m fully in my seat and can flip around to buckle up.
“You didn’t have to lie. You aren’t afraid,” I say, pushing my bag under the seat in front of me with my foot. My pulse is racing, which it usually does during this part of a flight, though this time, I don’t think it’s the worry of being airborne to blame.
“I’m a little afraid,” she says, her mouth tugging up on one side when I glance at her.
I chuckle and grip the shared armrest as I situate my giant frame in the tight seat.
“No, you’re not. And that’s a good thing. Being afraid is, well, it’s limiting.” I think we both know I’m talking about more than this plane.
She nods, then settles into her seat and shuts her eyes, but not before resting her hand over mine as it grips the armrest. Her fingers fit between mine, and I roll my head to the side to make sure she’s aware of what she’s doing, that this isn’t some accident. Her lips form a soft smile, and her eyes remain closed, so I let myself get a good look at our hands, together, before closing my own.
By the time we’re in the air, I barely remember takeoff. I’ve been too busy relishing in one tiny moment. And for one hour and twenty-five minutes at thirty-five thousand feet, I am fearless.
ELEVEN
COLBY
I thought I was arriving early, but the entire coaching staff is already sitting around the conference table in the debrief room as I walk into the clubhouse offices. Their laughter filters down the hallway, as does the strong aroma of burnt coffee and donuts. Coach Shuster spots me through the interior window when the main door slams shut behind me.
“Hi,” I mouth, holding up a palm.
He nods, and Ithinkhe’s smiling. But why are they all here already? We’ve had two Monday meetings so far this season, and nobody cracked that door open earlier than eight-fifteen. I know, because I was the first here both times. I arrived before eight. Just like I did today.
“Good morning, Colby,” Coach Shuster says as I enter the room.
