Grizz
The Westchester County Airport’s private terminal is straight out of a billionaire’s fever dream.
I pull my Escalade into the VIP lot, noting the collection of luxury vehicles already parked in neat rows.
It’s a smattering of Porsches, Maseratis, a couple of Bentleys all in pristine shape and flashy colors.
As I’m grabbing my luggage bag from the trunk, I hear the unmistakable roar of a Ferrari engine. Tanner’s yellow Testarossa slides into the spot next to mine. The man has zero subtlety, which is exactly why I like him.
“Nice of you to join us, princess,” I call out as he unfolds himself from the driver’s seat. “Thought maybe you got lost counting your endorsement checks.”
“Traffic was murder,” he says, pulling a Louis Vuitton duffel from the driver’s-side seat. “Had to take the scenic route. You know how it is coming from Tribeca.”
“Right.”
We walk toward the terminal entrance. The building is soaring glass and polished marble, with modern furniture and artwork. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlook the tarmac where our chartered 757 sits shining in the afternoon sun.
Inside, our teammates are scattered across leather sectionals. There’s a full bar staffed by an actual bartender, not some airport vendor. Flat-screens show highlights from around the league. Hell, there’s even a massage chair that Deacon’s already claimed.
“Gotta hand it to Langley,” Tanner says, surveying the scene. “Man knows how to spend money.”
“Easy to spend money when you’ve got an endless supply of it,” I say. “Doesn’t mean he knows hockey.”
“Well,” Tanner shoots back, “you ever fly commercial with Minnesota? Bag of peanuts and a prayer. No meal service, cramped seats, delayed flights every other trip. Here? We’ve got a chef on the plane and seats that turn into beds.”
I drop onto one of the couches and stretch out. Tanner’s right. Whatever else you can say about Langley—and there’s plenty—he doesn’t cut corners when it comes to the team’s comfort. The man wants to win, and he’s willing to pay for every advantage he can buy.
Tanner’s attention shifts suddenly, his predator instincts kicking in. “Well, well. Look who’s working today.”
I follow his gaze to where a flight attendant is setting up a coffee machine at the service station. Blond, hot, and a friendly smile that toes all sorts of boundaries.
“That’s Jessica,” Tanner says with a grin. “Remember her from the Boston roadie?”
“Vaguely.”
“Not vaguely enough, apparently.” He leans back, getting comfortable for what I can already tell is going to be a story with suspect facts.
“After we landed here from Boston, everyone’s heading home, right?
But she mentions she’s got a layover, staying at the Marriott near the airport. Just casual conversation.”
“Sure it was.”
“So I offer to show her around the area. You know, be a good host. We grab dinner at that Italian place in White Plains, the one with that vodka sauce you like, nothing fancy, I’m just being friendly.”
“Friendly.”
“Very friendly. Turns out she’s got a thing for hockey players. Specifically, she’s got a thing for guys who can handle their stick with precision.”
I shake my head. “You’re unbelievable.”
“She said the same thing. Twice.”
The conversation drifts as more guys filter in, and I find myself thinking about my earlier encounter in the gym with my new PR rep.
The whole thing still irritates me—not just Daisy’s attitude, but the fact that she didn’t back down when I tried to intimidate her.
Most people fold when I push, but she pushed back.
Hard to admit, but it kind of revved my engine for a minute.
Even in the oversized workout gear, there was no hiding how gorgeous she is and that’s hard to ignore.
“Someone shit in your protein shake?” Tanner says. “What’s eating you?”
“Langley’s new pet project to rein me in.”
“The PR chick? What about her?”
I tell him about the gym confrontation, starting with her ridiculous attempt to lift weights and ending with her parting shot about not knowing the difference between enemies and allies. Tanner listens, asking for details, clarifying the timeline.
“So let me get this straight,” he says when I finish. “She shows up in heels and a blazer. You try to embarrass her with the workout requirement. She leaves, comes back in gear, and matches you exercise for exercise?”
“She didn’t match me. She used baby weights.”
“But she stayed. She worked out. She didn’t back down from the conversation even when you were clearly trying to intimidate her.”
“Your point?”
“My point is most people would have found an excuse to leave. Jesus, most people would’ve bolted for the door as soon as they got that famous McAvoy growl. But she stayed and gave as good as she got.”
I consider this. “She’s stubborn.”
“She’s got backbone. There’s a difference.”
I chew on that distinction longer than I’d like to admit. “There was this one moment, though,” I say, and I’m not sure why I keep talking except that it’s been rattling around in my head since I left the gym.
Tanner’s eyebrows climb. “A moment.”
“When she came back in that borrowed gear.” I shake my head at the memory. “The shirt was hanging past her thighs, the shorts were cinched with safety pins. She looked absolutely ridiculous.”
“Okay…”
“But she walked in like she was wearing a goddamn power suit. Didn’t acknowledge any of it or try to laugh it off.
She didn’t try to make it cute either like most girls would.
She just marched straight toward the treadmill and started running like it was the most natural thing in the world.
” I pause, aware that Tanner is studying me with far too much interest. “I don’t know. Something about that was…”
“Endearing?” he offers, grinning like he can see inside me, even though no one can.
“I was going to say unexpected.”
“Sure you were.”
Before I can respond, Jessica reappears, moving through the lounge with professional efficiency. “Gentlemen, we’re ready to board. Please gather your belongings and follow me to the aircraft.”
The guys start collecting their gear, the lazy afternoon energy shifting into travel mode. Tanner shoulders his bag and gives me a look that tells me the conversation isn’t over.
“You know what your problem is, Grizz?”
“I’m sure you’re about to enlighten me.”
We file toward the exit, following Jessica across the tarmac toward the gleaming aircraft. The thing is massive, painted in the green and black Vipers colors with the team logo emblazoned on the fuselage.
“Your problem,” Tanner continues as we climb the boarding stairs, “is that you’re used to people either kissing your ass or being intimidated by you. This Daisy PR chick? She’s doing neither and that’s got you all twisted up inside.”
“I’m not twisted up about anything.”
“Right. That’s why you spent twenty minutes telling me about a conversation that could have been summarized in two sentences.”
We step into the main cabin and the interior is right out of a five-star hotel suite.
Leather seats that recline fully flat, personal entertainment systems, actual tables instead of those fold-down trays.
There’s a lounge area in the back with a full bar and several flat-screens.
Even after having flown on these charters since I arrived in the league almost ten years ago as an eighteen-year-old, it still surprises me just how much better flying private is.
I hadn’t even been on a plane until I was flown to the draft as a seventeen-year-old. Before that, junior hockey was long drives across the Canadian prairies in buses that had no heat during the winter and no air-conditioning during the summer.
Tanner snaps me back to the present. “Sounds like there’s some serious sexual tension between you and this Daisy chick,” Tanner opines as we settle into our seats. “Is she hot?”
“Yeah… she’s beautiful in that girl-next-door kind of way.”
Tanner snorts. “Oh yeah… definite sexual tension. And there’s only one way to solve that.”
I stare at him, completely picking up what he’s putting down. “Are you insane?”
“Think about it. She’s smart, she’s tough, she doesn’t take your shit. When’s the last time you met a woman who challenged you instead of just agreeing with everything you say?”
“She’s not a woman. She’s a complication.”
“Same thing, most of the time.”
The engines start up as the cabin crew finishes their safety preparations. Outside the window, the terminal grows smaller as we taxi toward the runway.
“Besides,” Tanner adds with that predatory grin, “hate sex is the best sex. All that aggression has to go somewhere.”
I close my eyes and lean back in my seat. It’s going to be a long flight… but Tanner’s not wrong about the hate sex.