As I finish packing my bag for our away game, my phone rings on the bedside table. I check to see who’s calling and when I see my dad’s name pop up, I hit the ‘ignore’ button.
Dealing with my father is the last thing I need right now.
I need to stay focused. This upcoming game will be a big one, and my team already has a tendency to play worse when we aren’t competing at home. I want to stay in the right headspace, and hearing my father’s voice will only serve to rattle me.
I tuck my phone into my pocket and walk out the door, suitcase in hand.
At the airport, I meet up with the rest of my team as we go through security. Margo, Ted, and the assistant coach, Bradley Price, are with the group as well. But Margo has her headphones on when I approach, so she doesn’t even seem to notice me.
A few people nearby are whispering, trying to figure out if we are in fact the Denver Aces. Without our uniforms on, wearing just everyday clothes, it can be hard for people to recognize us right away. Typically, if they can get a good look at me head-on, they know who I am, but only the super fans recognize me from just my profile.
It’s early, and I still haven’t had my coffee, so I’m not in the mood to have more airport interactions than are necessary. I smile at everyone I catch looking at me, but generally keep my head down and am grateful when I’m able to go through security and board the plane without anyone asking me to leave a message on their dad’s answering machine.
As we file onto the charter plane, getting settled in our seats, I take a moment to scan the aisle until I see Margo three rows down, struggling to get her suitcase into the overhead bin. Unbuckling my seatbelt, I hurry over to help her.
“Thanks,” she murmurs as I lift and position her bag with one hand.
“Don’t mention it, Sunflower.”
“Why do you keep calling me that?” she asks.
I grin. “Because you light up my life, just like sunflowers light up the world.”
A laugh bursts out of her, but her cheeks turn a little pink with the gorgeous blush I’m starting to love putting on her face. “That’s the cheesiest thing I’ve ever heard.”
“Come sit in my row with me,” I suggest. “We can spend the whole flight getting to know each other even better. That way you can come up with your own cheesy nickname for me.”
“Oh, believe me, I’ve already got a name I call you in my head,” she says dryly, and I chuckle.
“Can’t say it out loud?” I tease. “Is it too dirty?”
She presses her lips together like she’s trying to hide a smile. “You’re incorrigible, aren’t you?”
“Better than being corrigible, I always say.”
Her smile breaks free a little more, and damn, it just makes me want to see the real thing—a full smile, open and completely unrestrained. But then seems to remember that, per her own rules, she’s not supposed to be flirting with me. She puts on a more serious expression as she settles into the open seat underneath the bin where I placed her bag.
“I’m good here,” she says, digging a magazine out of her purse. “Enjoy the flight.”
“You too.” I brace my hands on the overhead bins as I add, “And if you get bored reading about which home decorating trends are going to be all the rage this fall, you know where to find me.”
She snorts under her breath but doesn’t reply, so I turn and head back to my assigned seat, a feeling of victory swelling in my chest. As far as I’m concerned, every smile I get out of Margo is a win, and there’s nothing quite as satisfying as startling a laugh out of her. The way her eyes widen, the gorgeous gray-blue of her irises lighting up with amusement… fuck, it’s addictive as hell.
I’m not discouraged at all by her turning down my offer to come sit with me. She’s trying damn hard to act disinterested, but I’m almost certain I could feel her watching me as I walked away.
Soon after I take my seat and get buckled in, the pilot’s voice comes out of the intercom. He tells the flight attendants to close the doors and prepare for takeoff, and thoughts of Margo briefly slip out of my mind as I start my pre-flight rituals. There are things I have to do before the plane leaves the ground. Little exercises and tricks that make me feel less anxious as I go up into the sky in a forty thousand pound death trap.
First, I read through the entire safety manual, front to back, even though I already have it memorized. Then I look out the window and remind myself of all the safety precautions modern planes have in place. I wait until the jet starts moving, and once it does, I close the window shade because I don’t like to see the moment we actually lift off.
I grip the sides of the arm rests as the plane begins to pick up speed. Closing my eyes, I count backward from one hundred. It typically takes about thirty seconds to get off the ground, and then another few minutes to reach the right cruising altitude. Once we’re up high enough, my nerves usually start to take a back seat, and I can somewhat relax. The counting helps me keep my mind focused on something other than the fact that we’re climbing hundreds of feet in the air with each moment, and once I’m done with the first round of one hundred, I start over.
This particular take off, I get about halfway through my second countdown before the pilot announces that we’ve reached our cruising altitude and that the flight attendants will soon be coming through with drinks and snacks. I control my breathing to the best of my ability and keep my eyes closed in the hope that I’ll be able to take a nap. It’s a bit of a long shot, considering that the few times I have been able to sleep on planes was when I was on international flights and totally jet-lagged.
Today, on the other hand, I have more energy than usual, so I find myself fidgeting as my anxiety spirals instead of drifting off into a peaceful slumber. Opening my eyes and blowing out a measured breath, I decide it’s probably better to try to distract myself. I reach into my pocket to fish out my phone, but as I do, I notice Margo rising from her seat out of the corner of my eye.
She gathers a pen and pad of paper from her purse, then tugs at the soft looking sweater she’s wearing and shifts her blonde hair over her shoulder before turning in my direction. I quickly look forward and pretend I wasn’t watching her, and a few seconds later, she appears in the aisle right next to my row. The seat closest to the aisle is empty, since I always sit in the window seat.
“May I?” she asks.
I grin, almost forgetting for a second that we’re defying all the laws of nature by hurtling through the air at top speed. “Please do.”
“Before you get any ideas,” she warns me, settling into the seat, “I didn’t come over here because you asked me to. I came over because I’m hoping to sit down with each of the players and ask a few questions. I figured since you’re all trapped here with me for the next few hours, it’ll be a good time to get some of the tedious social media marketing stuff out of the way.”
“But you decided to start with me,” I point out, unable to resist. “That’s gotta mean something, doesn’t it?” I lower my voice a little, leaning closer so that my breath stirs the hair tucked behind her ear as I murmur, “Does it mean you’ve been thinking about me?”
She purses her lips, pretending to think about it. “Maybe. Or maybe I decided to start with you because your name is at the top of the roster. Another perk of being team captain, I suppose.” She uncaps her pen and balances the pad of paper on her knees. “So, shall we get this over with?”
“You’re the boss,” I say with an easy smile, leaning back in my seat.
She lets out a huff of air that could almost be a snort of laughter, and that sense of accomplishment rises in me again.
“Alright.” she says, her tone turning more serious and businesslike. “Question number one: how did you first get interested in hockey?”
I scrub a hand over my clean-shaven jaw, fixing her with a flirtatious look. “That’s it? I have to say, I’m a little disappointed that’s your first question for me. Out of all the things you could ask, all the things you might want to know about me, you go with, ‘how did you first get interested in hockey?’”
“This isn’t about what I want to know,” she corrects me. “This is for the new team bios that I’m writing. Okay? So please, just answer the question.”
“Okay.” I nod, since I can tell this is actually important to her. “I can do that. Let’s see… I first started playing hockey when I was in middle school. My parents wanted me to start racking up the extracurriculars, because that sort of thing looks good on a college application, so they got me to try out for a few different sports teams. I was the best at hockey, and I actually really enjoyed it, so that’s what stuck.”
“Wow.” She writes down a couple of notes, then frowns as if something just occurred to her. “Wait, middle school? Isn’t that a little early to start worrying about college applications?”
I shake my head wryly. “Not if you’re trying to get into an Ivy.”
She makes a little noise in her throat, but I can’t tell when it means. “I see. So, you started playing in middle school, found out you actually loved the game, and ended up pursuing it all the way to the big leagues. Is that right?”
“Pretty much.”
“Your parents must be patting themselves on the back then,” she says, looking over at me with a smile. “They’re the ones who made you try out for hockey in the first place, and now look at you. I can’t even imagine how proud they are.”
I laugh, and the sound is a little louder and harsher than I mean for it to be. It comes out more like a snort than a chuckle, and Margo looks at me with a curious expression.
“Uh—no comment,” I say quickly.
“No comment?” She frowns. “What do you mean, no comment? I didn’t even ask a question. But now I’m asking one. Do you not think your parents are proud of you?”
“It’s… complicated.” I fiddle with the button that reclines the chair, just to give my hand something to do. “And it’s definitely not something fans want to read about in my player bio, so I think we should just move onto the next question.”
Margo looks down at her pad of paper, her brows still drawn together over her heart-shaped face. I can tell she wants to know more about my parents, but I’m really not interested in getting into that whole mess. So I don’t offer up anything else, waiting patiently for her to move on to question number two instead.
“Alright then,” she finally says, sighing softly. “The next question is about being team captain. Were you surprised when the management and coaching staff chose you to be captain of the Aces back in—”
She breaks off with a yelp as we hit a sudden patch of turbulence.
The plane jerks, dropping down in the air a little and sending my stomach rushing up into my throat. I grip the armrests like I’m trying to snap them in half as the seat belt light blinks back on. The pilot’s voice comes back over the intercom.
“My apologies. We’ve hit a bit of a rough patch. I’ve turned on the seat belt sign, so please remain in your seats with your seat belts securely fastened.”
Fucking hell, how can he sound so damn calm when we’re all about to die?
The plane continues to jerk up and down and side to side for a few agonizing seconds, and I squeeze my eyes shut, focusing on drawing air into my tightened chest. I’m hyper-aware of the fact that Margo is staring at me. I can practically feel her gaze burning a hole in the side of my face, but I can’t bring myself to look back just yet. Only once the plane begins to right itself do I dare open my eyes.
I sneak a peek in her direction. She has an expectant look on her face, her eyebrows rising slightly in a silent question.
“I’m afraid of flying,” I admit, my voice a little rough. “I think I told you that when we were stuck in the elevator together.”
She nods, sympathy crossing her delicate features.
“Right. I remember now.” Then she laughs softly, biting her lip. “I guess I sort of thought you were just saying that to make me feel better. I didn’t believe you were actually afraid of flying.”
“God, I don’t understand how some people aren’t afraid of flying,” I mutter. “It’s insane. The fact that we go up this high, in something this heavy, really doesn’t make any sense at all. This is way more dangerous than getting stuck in an elevator, I’ll tell you that much.”
The right side of her mouth tips up in a grin. “You do realize that the likelihood of dying in a car accident is significantly higher than the likelihood of dying in a plane crash, right? Are you afraid of getting behind the wheel?”
I give her a narrow-eyed look. “Do you realize that roughly twelve thousand people die per year by falling down a flight of stairs when only thirty people die in elevators?”
She seems taken aback by this piece of information, and her frown makes me laugh.
“Are you afraid of walking down stairs?” I add, mirroring the way she just asked me about being afraid to drive.
“Alright, fair enough. Stairs and driving are more dangerous than elevators and planes.”
She rests her arm on the armrest between us, and it brushes softly against mine. I can feel the warmth of her skin through our clothes, and I stay right where I am, unwilling to give up even this small, accidental contact.
“I think it’s the tight space thing for me,” she adds after a moment’s thought. “I don’t normally consider myself to be claustrophobic or incredibly afraid of heights, but when the elevator stopped, I really did think that we were going to run out of air, or plummet to our deaths—or both. There just didn’t seem to be enough oxygen to go around in such a small, enclosed area.”
“And what do you call a plane if not a small, enclosed area?” I argue. “A small, enclosed area that’s thousands of feet up in the air, I might add.”
She shrugs, her arm shifting against mine. “I suppose most phobias don’t make a lot of sense logically. But I understand how planes work, so being in one doesn’t make me that nervous. Elevators, on the other hand? I don’t know. They just mystify me. The way those thick doors close, and the sounds they make as they pull you up? It all feels very… precarious.”
The plane jerks once more, and I breathe in sharply, but this time I’m not as apprehensive. Something about having Margo here next to me makes me feel just the slightest bit more secure, and I’m able to keep my eyes open.
She looks down at her lap, and I can tell she’s thinking about something. I’m about to ask what’s on her mind when she speaks up first, her voice barely above a whisper.
“You didn’t tell any of the guys on the team about what happened… in the elevator, I mean. Did you?”
Her eyebrows are knitted together with concern, and I can tell she’s truly worried.
“No,” I reassure her, dropping my voice as I shift a little in my seat to face her more fully. “I didn’t. I wouldn’t do that. I told them that we’d met before, and I mentioned we got stuck in an elevator together, but that was it. They don’t suspect anything, either. Theo made a joke about it, and I made sure to shut that shit down.”
She sighs, relief flashing through her gorgeous gray eyes. “Thank god.”
“Did you really think I would tell them what happened?”
“I don’t know.” She chews her lip, studying my face. “I wanted to believe that you wouldn’t, but like I’ve said before, I really don’t know you all that well.”
She trails off, looking across the aisle at the open window on the other side of the plane.
“Margo,” I murmur, wishing I could reach out and take her chin to turn her face back toward me. But I know it would be too much, especially in a plane full of my teammates and other Aces staff. “I respect you too much to run my mouth like that. And also, honestly… I don’t want the guys to know what happened any more than you do. I sort of want to keep the memory of that day just between us.”
I still can’t see her face, but her shoulders relax a bit, the stiffness bleeding out of them. I feel my own shoulders drop, as if I was holding tension in them to match hers.
“And can I tell you something else?” I add. I’m feeling very bold all the sudden, maybe because I’m still not convinced that we’re going to make it to our destination in one piece. I never am when the team flies. “What we did in the elevator… it was honestly one of the hottest things I’ve ever experienced. With anyone. I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it.”
Margo blushes, glancing sidelong at me through her lashes. “No way. I don’t believe you.”
“It’s true,” I insist. “As strange as it may sound, I’ve never done anything like that before. It was sexy and unexpected, and just totally wild. You’re wild, Sunflower, in the best fucking way.”
As if she can’t help herself, she turns her head to meet my gaze. Our eyes lock, and all I can think about is what it would feel like to press my lips against hers. They’re so full and plush, with a perfect little cupid’s bow at the top, and one of my biggest regrets in life is that I know what she sounds like when she comes, but not what it feels like to kiss her.
Her lips part, her tongue darting out to wet them, and she blows out a quiet breath.
“That wasn’t like me at all, you know,” she whispers. “I’m not actually wild. Like, not even a little bit. I’m very practical and responsible, so whatever you’re thinking, you’ve probably got the wrong idea about me.”
“Wrong idea?” I ask, raising a brow. “I don’t have any ideas. I just want to get to know you better—but I have to admit, I like everything I know so far. And for the record, what we did wasn’t in any way wrong. At least, I don’t think it was.” I smile, letting my knuckles brush against hers. “Sure, it was a spur-of-the-moment thing, and maybe we were both acting a little impulsive because we were freaked out, but… I don’t know. It just felt right, and I don’t have any regrets.”
She gives me that little half smile again, and it almost kills me. I’m not sure how much longer I can sit here, our faces mere inches apart, and not kiss her. I want her so fucking badly, and the longer I gaze into her gray-blue eyes, the more I lose my grip on reality and get lost in them.
But before I can do anything stupid, she draws back and clears her throat.
“I should probably continue on with the other interviews,” she says. “Thanks for… taking the time to talk to me.”
She unbuckles herself and gathers her things, then stands up and moves down the aisle row before I even get a chance to say anything. Still, I watch her walk away, feeling more drawn to her than ever.
She seems to think I won’t like the fact that she’s practical and responsible, but she’s dead wrong. I meant it when I said that every new thing I learn about her makes me like her more. I like that she’s an intriguing mix of sweet and sassy, bold and cautious, serious and playful.
And I both love and hate the fact that she seems completely determined to resist my charms.
