Chapter 14
THEO
I can’t respond to Becca’s claim that our mothers are setting us up because the airplane’s engine roars to life, and suddenly we’re racing down the tarmac. Becca reaches over and grips my forearm, dropping her head back as she closes her eyes.
I lean a little closer so she can hear me over the noise. “Are you okay?”
She nods. “I’ll be fine. It’s just the takeoff that makes me nervous.”
I wrap my hand over the top of hers. “Just keep breathing,” I say, and she takes an intentional deep inhale.
Finally, the noise settles, and Becca opens her eyes. “You’re probably used to this,” she says.
“What? Flying?”
“Yeah. With all your travel. Your away games.”
“I guess so. But those are chartered flights. They feel a little different than this.”
“What? Your fancy charter plane feels different than a very tiny economy seat?”
“I love this tiny economy seat,” I say, holding her gaze with mine, suddenly deciding I’ve been biding my time long enough.
By the end of this week, I’m going to make sure she knows how I feel.
“Feeling better?” We’re probably close to cruising altitude by now, nothing but clouds visible through the window.
She nods. “Yeah. I think so.”
I reluctantly let go of her hand. “You don’t fly a lot with your travel nursing?”
“Not really,” she says. “We mostly drive, which is easy when we’re staying in California. Or … Southern California, I guess. The few times when we went farther north, we did fly. Which, I can. I manage. I just don’t like it.”
“I get that. My teammate, Holly, hates flying.”
“He’s the goalie?”
“Yeah,” I say, appreciating that she knows. Only people who follow the team tend to know Beckett Hollifield’s nickname.
She licks her lips. “Logically, I know I shouldn’t fear it. It’s safer than driving. Safer than bike riding. I’ve read all the statistics. And yet … I don’t know. It feels like surrendering a lot of control.”
The captain’s voice comes over the speaker one more time, warning us we’re headed for some bumpy air, so there will be a slight delay in our beverage service.
“Oh great,” Becca says, letting out a little chuckle. “Fantastic.”
“What do you need?” I say. “Water? Drugs? Alcohol?”
She lifts an eyebrow. “You have access to all three?”
“I have access to … one of the three? But I think the first-class flight attendant likes me, so I bet I could get you some of the other two if I tried hard enough.”
Becca lets out an exasperated laugh, but she’s smiling, so I’m calling it a win. “This is actually helping,” she says. “Just keep talking to me. Distract me. And keep your hand available in case I need it again.”
I’m about to circle back to our clearly conniving mothers and what we’re actually doing on this flight when Becca’s gaze drops to my hand.
“How’s your recovery going?”
I flex my fingers a few times. “It’s good, mostly,” I lie, but then, something about Becca’s vulnerability, the way she’s being so honest about her fear of flying, makes the truth just …
fall out of me. “Actually, it’s not good,” I correct.
“I’m still dealing with a lot of nerve pain.
And when I’m on the ice, it’s worse. The doctors say it’s the cold combined with the pressure of gripping a hockey stick.
It triggers pain that shoots up my arm and makes my muscles seize.
Then I drop my stick, and I need about ten minutes of massage before my hand feels normal again. So that’s been fun.”
She holds my gaze for a long moment. “That really sucks,” she says. “I’m sorry.”
I shrug. “My doctors are confident I’ll get there. I guess nerve damage takes a long time to heal, but with training camp starting in a few weeks … I don’t know. Time is the one thing I don’t have.”
She reaches for my hand, flipping it palm up. She gently runs her fingers over the length of my scar to where it curves around my wrist. “They did good work,” she says, her voice low. “When this fades, you’ll hardly be able to tell it’s there.”
“So they tell me,” I say.
Her fingers slide up my wrist to the small tattoo on the inside of my forearm, two hockey sticks lying side by side, one for each of the teams I’ve played for in my professional career. “When did you get this?” she asks.
I point to the first stick. “I got this first one in North Carolina when I was playing for the Appies. To cover up a different tattoo, actually.”
“Is there a story there?”
“Let’s call it … a drunken mistake?” I say, and Becca grins.
“I need more details.”
I sigh. “I’ll tell you but you can’t laugh.”
“I make no such promises,” she says, but I tell her anyway. I’d tell her anything.
“I was playing for the Appies, and I wanted something related to the team, but I guess my handwriting wasn’t great, so I wound up with the word apples instead.”
Her eyes widen, and I can tell she’s fighting a laugh. “Just the word apples?”
“You can still see traces of it if you look close. Behind the lines on the hockey stick.”
She takes my arm in both hands and peers down at my tattoo. “I love this story so much,” she says. “But also, the cover up is really good. I never would have guessed if you hadn’t told me.”
“Yeah, they guy did great. And then I got this second hockey stick when I moved to Georgia to play for the Jaguars.”
“That’s clever,” she says, hands still resting on my arm. “I like it.”
The plane finally hits a spot of the rough air the captain warned us about, and it dips a little, making my stomach swoop as Becca grips my arm, one hand directly on top of my wrist and the tail end of my scar.
“I’m sorry!” she quickly says, tugging her hands away. “Did I hurt you?”
The plane jostles again, and she sucks in a breath.
I felt a tiny twinge of pain when she squeezed my arm, but it was barely significant. I’d live through it a thousand more times if it meant making her feel better. “I’m fine,” I say. “You didn’t hurt me.”
“I know I’m overreacting.” She holds up her hands, watching them tremble. “It’s so stupid. I know I’m fine. Why can’t my body seem to figure it out?”
I reach forward, sandwiching her trembling hands between mine. “Sometimes bodies are weird. But you’re okay. It’s just a moment. It’ll pass.”
She nods and takes several breaths in and out while the plane continues to wobble and dip. After a jolt just big enough to make several passengers let out a gasp, Becca closes her eyes. “This is bad, right? Worse than usual?”
“As far as turbulence goes, it’s a little worse than usual,” I say. “But there’s still nothing to worry about.”
She nods. “Okay. I believe you. But don’t let go of my hands until it’s over.”
I don’t know if she’s talking about the turbulence or the entire flight. Either way, I’m here for it.
“I’ve got you,” I say. “I’m not going anywhere.”
Becca’s eyes pop open, and suddenly we’re sixteen again, and I’m saying those same words to her right after her mom was diagnosed with MS.
“It doesn’t feel fair,” Becca said back then.
We were sitting in the bed of my truck, parked in the empty high school parking lot right next to the stadium.
I was leaving the next morning for a hockey tournament in New York, so I’d driven over to see her to say goodbye.
She’d barreled into the driveway and climbed into the truck, asking me to just take her somewhere. Anywhere.
So we got milkshakes and drove to the school, where I knew we’d have a good view of the stars as soon as they came out.
“It isn’t fair,” I said, arm folded under my head. “Stuff like this never is.”
She rolled toward me, tucking herself into my side and resting her head on my chest. I wrapped my free arm around her. “I just can’t lose them both. What if I lose my mom and my grandma? I mean, I know I will eventually, but I’m not ready for that. I’m not even ready to think about it.”
“Your mom is going to be fine,” I said. “She’s tough. Her life might not be the same, but she’ll figure out a new normal.”
“Yeah, maybe. But … I don’t know. It just feels like it’s making me grow up faster than I want. Faster than I know how. I don’t want anything to change.”
I lean down and kiss her forehead. “Some things won’t ever change.”
She lifts her head and props her chin on my chest. “Are you sure?”
And that’s when I said those words. “I’ve got you. I’m not going anywhere.” It was only a year later that I broke that promise in the worst possible way.
I have to wonder if those words just triggered the same memory for her that they did for me.
The captain’s voice sounds over the intercom, apologizing for the turbulence and announcing we’ve found smoother air, so the rest of the flight should be just fine.
Becca’s shoulders drop, then she tugs her hands out of mine. “Thanks,” she says softly.
“No problem.”
She’s quiet for a beat before she asks, “Should we discuss how conniving our mothers are?”
I run a hand over the stubble I didn’t shave this morning before leaving for the airport.
“Do they even know we’ve been back in touch?” she asks. “Have you said anything to your mom?”
“After the MS Walk,” I say. “She saw pictures online. There’s one of the two of us during the water hose thing, so she had some questions.”
A blush climbs up Becca’s cheeks, which makes me think she knows exactly what picture I’m talking about.
My arms are around her in the photo, and I’ve picked her up from behind as I spin us into the spray of water.
She’s laughing, hands gripping my forearms, and I’ve got an enormous smile on my face.
To anyone on the outside, we definitely look like a couple.
“Right,” Becca says. “That was probably all the motivation they needed to start meddling.”
“Have you talked to your mom about … us? Or … me, I guess.”
“Also after the MS Walk,” she says. “She didn’t mention the photo, but I’m sure your mom shared it with her.”
“Do your parents…?” I start to ask, but then I pause, suddenly nervous to finish my question. I’m not sure I want to know the answer.
“Do my parents what?” she asks.
I clear my throat. “I was just … curious how they feel about me. I imagine after what happened, they aren’t my biggest fans.”
She bites her lip. “I wondered the same thing when we first reconnected. But I don’t think they blame you. Clearly,” she says, motioning to the plane around us. “I doubt we’d be here if they did.”
“So what, do we think they just … lied? To get us on the same trip?”
“Honestly, I should have seen the signs,” Becca says. “My dad is not the kind of guy who just forgets to take off work. He loves planning trips almost as much as he loves spending time with my mom.”
“Does that mean my mom made up a guy? Is she even dating anyone at all?”
“Maybe,” Becca says. “Did she tell you his name?”
I pull up the text thread I have with my mom. “Hector Villanova,” I read, then look back at Becca.
She barks out a laugh. “Shut up.”
“What?”
“Your mom told you she was flying to Florida to meet Hector Villanova in person, and that didn’t raise any red flags for you?”
“Should it have?” I ask.
She presses her lips together like she’s fighting a smile. “Go google him.”
She watches over my shoulder as I connect to the plane’s free wi-fi, then type the name into my browser.
As soon as I hit search, my phone is flooded with images of a very attractive, very famous actor starring in HBO’s latest medical drama.
“Well, at least we know for sure now,” I say. “We are definitely being set up.”
She lets out a disbelieving laugh and lifts her hands to the sides of her head. “I genuinely can’t believe them. They’re so freaking sneaky.”
I close out my phone and drop it onto my lap. They are sneaky, but I can’t feel anything but gratitude. I’ve been hoping for a second chance with Becca, and our mothers just handed me one.
Then again, I only want that second chance if Becca wants the same thing. The fact that we were both manipulated into being here definitely makes it harder to know.
“Look,” I say. “I know this isn’t the week you planned for. If it’s weird for you, I can stay long enough to make sure Hector really is just a figment of my mother’s imagination, then I can fly back to Atlanta. Let you have the vacation you came for.”
“You can’t do that,” she quickly says. “Your mom would be so disappointed.”
“I mean, if this is all a ploy, she has it coming.”
“Except why should my mom get time with me when she’s likely just as much at fault?”
“So we stand them both up?” I tease. “Catch another flight to Miami and go on our own vacation?”
“I think they’d probably still call that a win,” Becca says.
I chuckle. “Yeah, that’s true.”
She leans down and slips her phone into her bag.
“So … do we just go?” she asks.
“It is a week at the beach,” I say. “And we’re both adults. Our mothers can’t make us do anything we don’t want to do.”
“That’s true,” she agrees. “But probably we should still…” Her words trail off, and I get the sense that she’s nervous.
“We should still what?”
“We should be on the same page, right?”
“The same page?”
“I just think, if we look at our lives,” she says, words tumbling out fast. “I just broke up with Rory, what, like, three weeks ago? Plus, your season is about to start, and you’ve got your recovery to focus on.
Then there’s the fact that I’m leaving Atlanta at the beginning of October.
That’s just over a month away. Even if our mothers think this is a good idea, you and me…
” She motions between us. “Something happening between us. I just don’t think it’s very practical. ”
I nod along as she talks, doing my best to keep my face neutral even if I hate what she’s saying. Not that she’s wrong about any of the logistical pieces of our lives. And her recent breakup is worth considering. It’s the reason I haven’t asked her out yet.
But I’m not about to let logistics stand in the way when she’s finally back in my life.
“Right,” I say. “Totally see your point.”
“So you agree with me?” she says, a question clear in her brown eyes.
I ponder my words carefully. I don’t want to lie to her, but I can’t tell her the truth without showing my hand. “I agree those are sound, logical considerations,” I say.
That must be good enough for her, because Becca nods. “Good. Great,” she says. “Then we can just enjoy ourselves and focus on spending a nice week with our moms.”
My eyes move over her face. The faint freckles on the bridge of her nose. Her insanely thick lashes. The curve of her lips. My hand twitches with the impulse to reach up and touch her, but I hold back. “Sounds like a plan,” I say instead.
I just won’t tell her it’s not my only plan.