Chapter 42
Chapter Forty-Two
WYATT
The entire time I pack my bag, call an Uber, and walk to my gate, I’m completely lost in thoughts of Nash.
Never in my life have I felt pride like I did tonight watching her and her team reach the highest level of success as a professional sports team.
I saw my best friend achieve greatness, and I’m absolutely buzzing from watching her shake that champagne bottle, soaking her blonde braid and the front of her Moons jersey.
I’m losing the internal battle between my need to return to Wisconsin and my love for Nash. The love that’s always been there has been set on fire and is blazing at one-thousand degrees. Like a moth to the flame, I’m ready to be incinerated.
I stow my backpack in the overhead bin above my first-class seat and settle in.
Since the draft a few weeks ago, there’s been no news about Jared Clark’s status as a Butcher.
He claims he doesn’t do social media, and yet in the locker room he always knew what every outlet was saying about him.
I’m sure he’s knee deep in everyone’s take on the Jason Amara selection.
He’s probably trying to decide if he’s going to let his inner drama queen take over, or if he’s going to try and play nice. Thank God he’s not my problem anymore.
A young flight attendant with bright red hair approaches me. “What can I get you to drink?”
“A Diet Coke, no ice, please.” She moves back to the kitchen area to grab it, and I scroll through my phone while I wait.
When she brings it back, I thank her and take a hefty sip.
I nearly choke on my beverage when she steps past me to help the next passenger.
Nash is bent over so she doesn’t hit her head on the ceiling of the plane.
Her sweats are baggy and casual, but do nothing to quell the wave of need that rushes through me.
“Nash.” Her name is out of my mouth before I can blink.
She looks at me, her mouth open in surprise. “Oh my God. What are the chances?”
I raise a brow at her. “That we’d all be on the only return flight to Houston this late tonight?”
She laughs as she waits for the gentleman to stand so she can slide into the row. She keeps talking to me from the other side of the aisle as she shoves her backpack under the seat back in front of her. “No, that we’d be right next to each other!”
With my first NFL paycheck, I pledged to myself that I would never squeeze my frame into an economy seat again. It’s been a joy and a privilege to fulfill that promise to myself. Hopefully now Nash has the success she needs to do the same.
I clock the slightly annoyed look on the gentleman in the aisle seat across from me right before he says, “Do you want to switch seats?”
I look quickly at Nash, who has a big smile on her face. “I’d love to.”
The gentleman and I do the awkward sidestep around each other, and I plop down into my new seat next to Nash just as the plane pushes back from the gate. The rest of the Moons are filling in the seats around us.
“That was nice of him,” she whispers to me, leaning in so close I can feel the warmth of her against my shoulder.
“He was probably worried about spending the next two hours as the monkey in the middle of us.”
She shrugs. “Works for us.”
The overhead speaker comes on for an announcement. “Crosscheck complete. Flight attendants, please take your seats.” Wow, somehow we missed the entire safety demonstration and we’re already waiting to take off.
It’s damn near midnight now, so when we get in the air, the cabin lights are turned off. I lean my head back thinking the exhaustion will overtake me since this was a bit more than a twenty-four-hour trip, but I’m wide awake.
“I don’t think I can sleep,” Nash says.
I can’t blame her after winning a championship. “I don’t expect you to. What do you want to do, instead?”
There’s something different about her. This Nash with her hair spilling around her shoulders looks like she’s ready to take what she wants. It’s making me feel too hot. I reach up and adjust my little air conditioner, pointing it straight toward my face.
I startle when Nash’s phone lands with a loud clunk on the ground.
When her hand lands firmly on my thigh as she leans over me to reach for it, I go completely still.
I don’t know what to do with her hand there, and I desperately do not want her to move it.
It lasts about five agonizing seconds before she sits up straight and the loss of her hand feels like the loss to San Francisco in the playoffs earlier this year.
Like I can feel everything slipping through my fingers.
“Got it,” she says with a little laugh, and it’s all I can do to smile back while I try to calm my racing heart. The glimmer in her eye makes me think she knows exactly what she’s doing right now.
“Ow. Fuck.” I grab my leg where the metal refreshments cart hit my shin, tucking my leg back inside the space of my seat and out of the danger zone.
The flight attendant—clueless to my pain—is downright chirpy. “Do you need a refill?” She points to the empty cup in my left hand.
“Yes, please.”
As she refills, she looks to Nash. “Something for you, honey?”
“Sprite, if you’ve got it, please.”
I take my drink back from the flight attendant whose nametag says Beth. Then I lean back in my seat when Nash reaches for her Sprite. Somehow their hands don’t make solid connections, and the Sprite is quickly falling…right into my lap.
“Oh my God. I’m so sorry.” Nash is taking the measly napkin still left in her hand and attempting to pat my lap dry with it. Her hand is so, so close to where I’ve always wanted it to be. My hips fly up off the seat at her touch. When she looks at me confused, I mutter, “It’s cold.”
Beth comes to my rescue with a handful of paper towels, and I proceed to dry myself off. Could have been worse. Could have been hot coffee.
Until I realize my cock is pressing against the zipper of my jeans. That’s definitely worse.
How long is this fucking flight again?