It turns out traveling under the radar with Mars Kinnunen is more difficult than it seems. The man is a 6’5” tatted, bearded, Viking. He sticks out in any crowd, regardless of his pro athlete status. As we move through the airport, people don’t have to know he’s one of the NHL’s top goalies for all eyes to turn our way.
And apparently, his idea of a Clark Kent disguise is wearing sunglasses with his hair down. I’ve never seen him wear it down before. It’s thick and textured, a blond lion’s mane hanging just above his shoulders. He finishes the look with a pair of black dress pants cuffed at the ankle and a crisp, grey t-shirt that hugs all his muscles. The man oozes effortless wealth and sophistication.
Meanwhile, I’m all but jogging at his side in my uniform of high-waisted yoga pants, crop top, and black $5 flip-flops. Whatever, it’s the airport. I didn’t know the dress code for the trip was GQ casual. I grip tighter to the strap of my overnight bag. “Do I know why we’re rushing?”
He glances down at me, slowing to a halt. I can’t see his eyes behind his dark Ray-Bans. “What?”
I puff out a breath, flipping the messy tendrils of dark hair off my face. People glide past us at a more casual pace, wheeling bags and chasing kids. “Is there a fire or something I don’t know about? You rushing to the bathroom before you have an accident?”
His blond brows raise behind his sunglass frames. “What?”
“God—slow down, Mars,” I huff, dropping the jokes. “I can’t keep up with you. We look like a miniature pony chasing after a Clydesdale.”
“What?” he says for a third time, his lips pursed in confusion.
I snort a laugh. “Just forget it,” I say, waving him off. “As you were, Kinnunen. We’ve got our own tickets anyway. I’ll just see you at the gate.”
“You want me to walk without you?”
“Well, it’s kind of inevitable if you’re gonna walk so damn fast!”
I can see that it finally clicks. “Oh,” he says. “My apologies.”
Jeezus. We got there in the end, I guess.
“I was just walking,” he adds.
“Yeah, well, keep walking,” I say, gesturing down the terminal. “Don’t worry about me, Mars. You go on, and I’ll catch up.”
“But I want to walk with you.”
He says it so softly, I could also imagine he didn’t say it at all. Before I can reply, a trio of guys press in from behind us, wheeling their bags.
“Shit, fellas, what’d I say?” calls the big guy in front. “It is Mars Kinnunen. Yo, man. You’re amazing!”
Ilmari goes stiff for the briefest of moments before he transforms. It’s like who he just was with me steps inside a closet for a quick change and out comes Mars the NHL Goalie. He puts on a weird, fake smile that doesn’t meet his eyes and thanks the guys, signing something for each of them and letting them take a picture with him.
All the while, he doesn’t let me move from within arms-reach of him. I tried twice, but both times he just stuck his hand out, wrapping it around my upper arm to keep me close. He shoos them politely away and his hold on my arm relaxes.
“That’s why I must walk fast,” he mutters. “They don’t stop me when I walk fast.”
I nod, understanding his dilemma. How many times have I all but run through an airport at my dad’s side, our coats pulled up over our heads to block a paparazzi shot? I snatch up my bag and sling the strap over my shoulder. “Alright then, big guy. Let’s do it.”
We take off, him speed-walking on his giraffe legs, me jogging at his side.
By the time we get to the gate, they’ve already begun boarding. Mars checks his ticket, flipping his sunglasses up on top of his head.
“Now boarding all rows, all passengers, for flight 1647 with service to Cincinnati, leaving out of Gate C5,” comes the gate agent’s alert over the intercom.
“That’s us,” I say, tugging my own ticket out of the front pocket of my bag.
He leads the way over to the counter and we get checked in. It doesn’t escape my attention the way people milling around the gate openly stare. A few people raise up their phones, snapping pictures while his back is turned. I take an instinctual step back, keeping my gaze averted from any camera lenses.
The gate agent takes his ticket, scanning him in. “Thank you, Mr. Kinnunen. You’re in seat 2A.”
He mutters a word of thanks and moves past her towards the jet bridge.
She scans my ticket next. “And Ms. Price, you’re in 17B.”
“Thanks,” I murmur. “All good,” I say at Mars, joining him at the door.
We move down the jet bridge onto the plane. He gets to his row in first class, sliding into the window seat.
“See you when we land,” I say cheerily, already slipping a pod into my left ear.
“Wait—what?” he growls. “Rachel!”
I pause, glancing over my shoulder at him. “Yeah?”
“Where are you going?” He’s looking at me like I’m crazy.
The feeling is mutual as I look right back at him. “To my seat, Mars. It’s kinda the thing on airplanes,” I add. “Come on, you should know that better than anyone.”
He doesn’t return my smile. No, in fact, he looks pissed. His blond brows narrow over his deep blue eyes. “Why aren’t you sitting in first class?”
“Because I bought these tickets at the literal last minute. We’ll touch down in like 90 minutes,” I add with an indifferent shrug. “Hardly time to even get comfortable.”
At his look of supreme annoyance, I can’t help but roll my eyes. He wants me to sit next to him on this flight too. Really? “You can’t pull your goalie card on a commercial flight, Kinnunen. And it’s not a big deal, okay? I’ll see you in a bit.”
People are piling up behind me, so I hurry down the aisle, not giving him a chance to respond as I go find my seat.
