Chapter 10 #2
A hard laugh belts out of her body, and when our eyes meet, I catch a glimpse of joy behind her irises. I forgot how easy it was to laugh with her. Usually, it was the two of us trading barbs, shit-talking over who had a better game. It was always her.
“Here you go,” the bartender says, sliding two icy-cold mugs with perfect foam tops onto the bar top.
“Here,” Colby says, handing over her credit card before I have a chance to pay.
“Colb, you don’t have to—”
She waves a hand and nods to the bartender to run it on her card.
“This is off the books, and on me. Nobody needs to question you drinking in an airport.” She keeps her eyes on the bartender, quickly signing the receipt and tossing a five on top for a tip before tucking her card back into her wallet.
“You think people question that stuff? About me, I mean,” I say in a hushed tone.
I’ve certainly considered how much my brother’s antics have stained my reputation, but I never thought twice about grabbing a beer at a restaurant.
I don’t drink much during the season, and even during the off-season, I’m pretty strait-laced.
Maybe that’s because of my family history.
But I like to do everything I can to ensure my body is in tip-top condition.
I took a lot of shit from the guys for skipping their fishing trip at the start of the season, but I knew it would be more about drinking than fish.
“Nobody thinks that stuff about you. Not that I’ve heard. I’m just sensitive because . . .” Our gazes linger for a few quiet seconds. No need for words. Because she was there. It was her mom that my dad killed. We have history.
Colby finally picks up her beer and takes a long sip, the foam leaving a mustache above her upper lip that she wipes away with the side of her palm. It’s cute, and I wish we were the kind of friends who could kiss away beer mustaches. More than the kind of friends.
“What are you smirking at?” she asks when I’m caught staring.
I let my soft grin remain, taking my own sip of beer before answering her.
“You.”
There’s an instant rush of warmth as her eyes widen ever so slightly at my admission. She pulls her hoodie off a moment later, and I know it’s not because this airport is hot. In fact, it’s freezing from the air conditioning where we’re seated. I made her feel that heat. With a look and a word.
Of course, Colby holds most of the power here, and the longer she keeps her eyes on me, taking slow sips before almost speaking, the more I want to scream for mercy . . . or simply pull her into my lap and kiss her.
“Who’d you end up going to prom with?” she finally asks.
I cough mid-gulp of beer, then set my half-full mug down as I continue to clear my throat and will away the burning sensation in my chest. Prom. After our kiss. After the explicit instructions from her father to leave his daughter alone.
“I’m . . . not sure.” That’s a fucking lie, and Colby laughs hard the moment it leaves my lips.
“Bullshit, you went with Kara Stolz.” She purses her lips and lifts a brow before taking a victory sip of beer.
“Wow, uh . . . yeah. You’re right. I did. I don’t know why I didn’t just say that.” I shake my head and look to my lap, wishing I could stave off the burning sensation creeping up my cheeks and around my neck.
“You went with Rafa, if I remember right?” Rafa was our class president. He was smart. He’s still smart. Last I heard, he left Stanford early to start his own tech company. It’s going public.
“I did. I mean, he was the only one who asked me, so . . .” She rolls her eyes a bit, then finishes her beer, sliding the mug back on the counter with a little flair before crossing her arms over her chest and spinning her stool so her body is facing me.
“Good on Rafa,” I say under the heat of her glare. She’s still smirking, though there’s a hint of spite in her expression—at least, how I’m reading it.
“It’s not like you wanted 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 and shrug, 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.