CHAPTER SEVEN
J ason
THE MARBLE ELEVATOR zooms down, and the mirrored walls display six versions of my panicked face.
I’m going to Fiji now.
Fucking fantastic.
Where is Fiji? It’s somewhere tropical, I know that. Is it in the Caribbean? Probably. Or maybe it’s somewhere off the coast of Africa?
It was fucking nice to see Cal’s eyes widen, and it was even fucking better to see him scurry too late to the elevator.
Still, this is amazing.
Fiji is where I want to be.
Somewhere with no snow, any postcard-worthiness long since mangled from car exhaust and footprints. Somewhere with no ice, where I won’t be reminded that I’m not skating on it. Somewhere with no reporters lurking in hallways, and no empty hallways with memories of reporters lurking.
Not, obviously, that I would be thinking about reporters in hallways or anything. Just, if I did, I wouldn’t have to worry about that in Fiji. A pang aches against my ribs again, and I inhale, as if that can dislodge the pain.
This is all good, I remind myself.
Maybe Dad is right. Maybe they’ll hate me more if I go on vacation in Fiji, but at least they’ll be jealous. Maybe that will make them think again about stopping me from playing.
I’ll lead my best life. A warm life. With palm trees, not naked trees crammed with icicles that look ready to impale anyone who passes under. A life with pools and hot women in bikinis. And hookups with those hot women in bikinis.
That’s what I want. I just need to sink into some women and remind myself I’m straight.
I totally have a plan, and it’s awesome.
I wonder whether I should go back to the apartment and pack, but it’s not like I’m impoverished or anything. I bet they sell tropical clothes in Fiji.
So, after a few taps on my phone, I wait for my ride. My passport is still in my gym bag from when we went to Canada.
I’m doing a few more taps to look for hotels, when my body stiffens.
And even though I don’t turn around, I know it’s him. Even though Boston is filled with people, because that’s the whole definition of a city, I’m certain it’s him. My follicles move, as if they want to be closer to him.
I shake my head. No, that’s not what they want. Absolutely not. They’re just alerting me he’s there, like they would alert me if he were a saber-tooth tiger or something. No biggie.
“Go away, Cal,” I say.
“How did you know it was me?”
Something tenses in my stomach. “You doused yourself in cologne.”
I swing around, and he’s blinking too rapidly. I hate the hurt on his face, and I hate the sudden urge to pull him closer to me and wrap my arms around him. That’s not what I’m supposed to be doing. No way.
The ride-share car pulls in front of the curb, and I hop in.
“Airport?” the driver asks.
“Yeah.”
“Which airline?”
Shit.
“Bring me to the international terminal.”
The door opposite opens, then Cal plops into the seat beside me.
I stare, wide-eyed. “What are you doing?”
“I’m going to the airport too.”
“What?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Do you know each other?” the driver asks.
“It’s fine,” I blurt.
I fling my head against the headrest and close my eyes. I was lying when I told Cal I could smell his cologne outside.
But I’m distinctly aware I can smell him now. His scent wafts around me, and I angle my body away from him. He fills my mind, so I open my eyes and stare at Boston as the Uber passes through it. The sky is overcast, gray clouds once again heavy with snow.
Fiji. I’ll go to Fiji.
And I won’t think about Cal Prescott at all. He won’t even occur to me.
I brace myself for Cal to start asking me questions so he can insert quotes from me in whatever article he’s writing. Instead, he’s silent, and I’m suddenly thankful for ride-share cars and their complete and utter lack of privacy.
Finally, Boston drifts away, replaced by bright signs directing us to the airport and various parking options.
The car pulls to a stop, and I sprint toward the entrance.
I glance at the flashing billboard for flights, then spot Fiji Airways Perfect. I’m pretty sure they have flights to Fiji.
I head for the counters. This is crazy, but I can do this. I’ll leave Boston. I slap my passport down at the counter.
No way will Cal be able to get to me.
CAL
Frazzled people dart to airport counters, wheeling suitcases beside them, but my gaze is focused on Jason.
He drops his gym bag beside him.
A gym bag.
Why the hell is Jason taking a gym bag to Fiji?
I would think he would travel with a suitcase like an actual twenty-something adult.
But then, I also thought he wouldn’t be known as the most homophobic athlete in the country.
Not the world, certainly. There are probably Russian athletes who outshine him in that respect. And I’m sure there are American athletes even more ill-mannered than him, though they’re smart enough not to announce it to the media.
I watch Jason for a minute, see him talk with the Fiji Airways first-class flight attendant, see him look relieved and hand over his card and passport, see him sweep his gaze around the airport.
Is he looking for me? But then his shoulders fall, and his jaw tightens, and I know that’s not the case. Jason Larvik doesn’t think about me.
I pull out my phone and find Rex’s number. He answers on the first ring.
“Cal?” He sounds surprised.
“I’m at Logan,” I tell him. “Larvik is flying to Fiji.”
“Tell me you’re making that up.”
“I saw him hand over a credit card and his passport to Fiji Airways’ first-class counter. He told me he was going there too.”
Rex chuckles. “Entitled athletes. Talk about having a public tantrum.”
“What would you like me to do?”
For a moment, there’s silence, and I regret asking.
“You need to get on that plane,” Rex says.
“Excuse me?”
“Keep your receipts. And don’t lose him.”
The call ends before I can process what happened. I stand frozen for a moment. My laptop is in my bag. That’s good. I need my passport. Why the hell did I not take my passport to work?
I call my roommate. Jeremy is a freelance reporter and blogger.
Please, please, please.
He picks up. “How’s my favorite roommate?”
I give an awkward laugh. “Is there any chance you could bring my passport to the airport?”
“What?”
“Sorry. I’m on a story.” This sounds absurd, and I half expect a camera to zoom in on my face, movie style.
But maybe this is what it’s like to be in the big leagues, to be working at actual Sports Sphere and not Sports Sphere’s cramped Southeast office.
“Rex wants me to leave the country to cover it.”
“In that case, I better get your passport. He’s crazy intimidating.”
“You think he’s intimidating because you have a crush on him.”
“Don’t tell him that!”
I chuckle. “I won’t.”
“Besides, I have eyes. Dude is seriously hot.”
“He’s almost fifty. And straight.”
“Dude’s divorced and covering the Blizzards. I bet he’s thought about it.”
I snort. “Want me to tell him you don’t have eyes?”
“Don’t you dare. You can tell him I brought you your things though.”
“I’ll tell him you were a hero.”
“In that case, I’m standing in your room.”
“It’s in my suitcase.”
“You know, normally people bring suitcases when they travel.”
“Throw some clothes in there.”
“Where are you going?”
“Fiji.”
“Fuck. Lucky bastard.”
I give an awkward laugh. “I can’t believe it either.”
“Okay, I’m packing summer clothes for you.”
“Hurry. The plane leaves soon.”
“Got it. I’m zipping up your suitcase.”
“Thanks, Jeremy, you’re the best.”
I call the Sports Sphere office coordinator who handles travel logistics. Twenty minutes later, I’m booked on the same flight as Jason.
Sixteen-year-old me would have loved to live in the same city as Jason.
Twenty-six-year-old me is about to chase him across the ocean. I’ve gone from professional journalist to international stalker in half an hour.
He’s going to absolutely hate it when he finds out.