Chapter 21
Dominic
“Ladies and gentlemen, this is a reminder that the fasten seatbelt sign is still on. Please remain in your seats with your seatbelts securely fastened until the captain turns off the sign.”
The flight attendant’s voice crackles through the speakers, and the Spanish translation follows while the plane shudders hard enough to rattle the overhead bins.
I close my phone and shove it in my pocket.
The wifi’s been useless for the past twenty minutes anyway, cutting in and out too much to load Roman’s training notes, and lightning flickers outside the windows in bright white flashes that make the whole cabin feel like a strobe light.
Six rows ahead, Brooke leans into the aisle, craning her neck to look out the window on the other side of the plane. We’d both been shocked to run into each other at the Houston gate, boarding the same connection to Mexico City.
The small talk while we waited had been awkward at best, neither of us quite sure what to say after everything that happened in New York, and eventually we’d just stopped trying, retreating to our phones like strangers.
Over the last few weeks we’ve actually texted a few times, logistical stuff about the title fight since she’s covering it for The Sporting Standard, but we’ve carefully avoided anything serious.
Anything that might acknowledge what happened in New York City.
And now, with what I learned at the Halloween party about how our feud really started all those years ago, I wouldn’t even know where to begin.
The plane jolts hard, and the woman across the aisle tightens her death grip on the armrest. My seatmate is somehow still asleep, thanks to the three whiskeys he knocked back before we even took off, his head lolling against the window.
I glance past him at the lightning illuminating nearly black clouds, and I wonder if Brooke is doing the same math I am: Roman’s title shot is the day after tomorrow, we both need to be there, and neither of us can do a damn thing about it from thirty thousand feet.
The plane drops.
My stomach lurches and I grab the armrest hard. Someone behind me gasps, and my seatmate snorts awake, blinking and looking around like he’s trying to figure out where the hell he is. The plane steadies, levels out, and for a few seconds everything seems fine.
Then the captain’s voice comes over the speakers in Spanish. Desviar. Chihuahua. My stomach tightens.
“Ladies and gentlemen, we’re experiencing some unexpected weather conditions ahead.
Air traffic control has advised us to divert to Chihuahua until the storm system passes.
We apologize for the inconvenience and will provide updates as they become available.
Flight attendants, please prepare the cabin for landing. ”
Brooke turns around in her seat, and our eyes meet across the rows between us. Her expression says exactly what I’m thinking.
You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.
The terminal is small enough that I can see both ends of it from where I’m standing, which is not exactly reassuring given the situation.
A TV mounted on the wall is playing news footage of the storm we just flew through.
The graphics show a massive red blob sitting right over the mountains between here and Mexico City, pulsing like something alive and angry.
Every single passenger from our flight seems to be crammed into the space between the doors and the lone airline counter, where two employees are handling the crowd with the weary patience of people who’ve done this before and know it’s going to get worse before it gets better.
I scan the chaos and spot Brooke at the front of the line, chatting with the employee on the left.
The employee laughs at something Brooke says, and even from here I can see Brooke turning on the charm, leaning in with that confidence she has when she’s working someone for information. Journalist mode, and she’s damn good at it.
She thanks the employee and turns, scanning the crowd until her eyes find mine. Her expression is a mixture of frustration and anxiety, one that probably mirrors my own.
She tilts her head toward the windows, away from the crush of people still arguing at the counter about rebooking and refunds and things that are completely outside anyone’s control, and starts weaving through the mass of frustrated travelers.
I push off the pillar I’ve been leaning against and meet her halfway.
“Any luck over there?” I ask when we reach each other.
“Define luck.” She pushes a strand of hair out of her face. “The storm is massive. She said it’s stalled right over the mountains, and they have no idea when it’s going to move. Everything’s grounded until tomorrow morning at the earliest, and even that’s not guaranteed.”
I rub my hand over my face. Roman flew out three days ago, thank God, so at least he’s already in Mexico City settling into the hotel and staying off his feet.
But the weigh-in is tomorrow afternoon. The press obligations start in the morning.
If I’m not there, Roman walks into the biggest moment of his career without his coach in his corner, and that’s not fucking happening.
“Great,” I mutter. “That’s just great.”
“Tell me about it.” Brooke crosses her arms. “I have an interview scheduled for tomorrow morning, so that’s already shot. There’s a hotel across the road from here, though. The woman at the counter said rooms are filling up fast with all the grounded flights, but it’s worth a try.”
I sigh. “Did she say where exactly we are?”
“Valle Quieto.” Brooke pulls up something on her phone, squinting at a map. “It’s in Chihuahua state, in the middle of the Sierra Madre Occidental. About five hours from Mexico City by car, if we could drive, which we apparently cannot unless we want to die in a flash flood.”
“Population?” I ask, as if that information might somehow be useful.
“Around fifteen thousand, according to this.” She squints at her phone. “Apparently it’s known for some hot springs nearby. That’s the main tourist attraction.”
“Great. Hot springs and a grounded flight. My two favorite things.”
“Could be worse.” She pockets her phone. “I could be stuck here with someone I actually like. Then I’d feel obligated to be pleasant.”
“The silver lining of mutual antagonism.”
“Exactly.”
I look around the terminal at the other stranded passengers.
Some of them are already settling into chairs like they’re prepared to sleep here, jackets balled up as pillows, resigned expressions on their faces.
Others are still crowding the counter, demanding answers that don’t exist. Through the windows I can see the rain coming down in sheets, the sky so dark it looks like midnight even though it’s barely seven.
“Well, a hotel sounds better than this,” I say. “Shall we?”
She nods toward the exit. “Yeah, though we’ll need to make a run for it. She said take a left and the sign’s impossible to miss. Hotel Paloma, it’s called.” She looks out at the rain and grimaces. “Ready?”
I nod, and we head for the doors.
The automatic doors slide open and the rain hits us like a wall.
It’s not just coming down, it’s coming sideways, driven by a wind that cuts right through my jacket and shirt.
Within seconds I’m soaked through to the skin, and Brooke is in the same condition beside me, her hair plastered to her face as she squints through the downpour.
I scan the street for light and spot the Hotel Paloma sign flashing through the rain about a hundred yards down, neon pink letters buzzing against the dark. Ordinarily that would seem conveniently close to an airport. Right now it looks impossibly far.
“This way,” I shout over the roar of the rain, pointing toward the sign, and we run.
The rain is relentless. We’re both completely drenched, and the wind keeps shoving us sideways.
The Hotel Paloma sign gets closer, buzzing and flickering in the storm, and I can make out the shape of the building now, a low two-story structure with a covered entrance that, at present, looks like the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.
The mountains loom in the distance, their peaks lost in the storm clouds that are still churning overhead, dark and ominous. We sprint and burst through the front doors into a lobby that smells like cleaning products, both of us dripping puddles onto the tile floor.
Brooke pushes her soaked hair out of her face, breathing hard. “Well. That was refreshing.”
I shake water off my hands and look around.
The lobby is small but clean, with a front desk to the left and a seating area with worn leather couches to the right.
A TV mounted on the wall is playing the news in Spanish, footage of the storm system swirling over a map of northern Mexico.
Behind the desk, a woman in her fifties looks up from a paperback novel and takes in the two drowned Americans standing in her lobby.
“Buenas noches,” Brooke says, stepping forward and launching into Spanish that’s way more fluent than I expected.
I catch pieces of it, enough to follow the general shape of the conversation.
Something about the airport, the storm, needing rooms for the night.
Dos habitaciones. Two rooms. The woman responds in rapid Spanish, nodding sympathetically, and Brooke keeps up without missing a beat, asking questions, clarifying details, the whole exchange flowing naturally like she does this all the time.
The woman turns to her computer and starts typing, and I lean toward Brooke.
“Damn,” I say, keeping my voice low. “I knew you had some Spanish, but I didn’t know you were this fluent.”
She glances at me, looking pleased. “Spanish and Italian, actually.”
I nod, a piece clicking into place. “Right. Your dad’s Italian American, isn’t he?”