Chapter 15
Josie
The private jet is filled with the usual chaos that I'm quickly learning follows the Beachside Bears wherever they go.
"Beck. Beck. If you eat one more bag of those pretzels, I am confiscating the entire snack cart."
"You can't confiscate the snack cart, Tyler," Beck groans, snatching the bag back. "It's not yours. It's ours. It's a team asset."
I glance up from my laptop just long enough to watch Beck stuff an entire pretzel into his mouth sideways, like a squirrel preparing for a nuclear winter.
Tyler, who Colin has somehow claimed as his own assistant and not one that was hired to help me, drops his head into his hands. "I didn't sign up for this."
Three rows back, Corbin Cole has both armrests in a death grip, knuckles white, eyes squeezed shut like he's willing the plane to stay in the sky through sheer force of nervous energy.
"It's just turbulence, kid," Coach Pearson calls from across the aisle, not even looking up from his tablet. "The plane isn't going to fall out of the sky."
"I know that, sir. Statistically. I've read the studies." Corbin doesn't open his eyes. "My body has not read the studies."
Somewhere near the front, Finn's voice crackles through on the intercom. Apparently he has somehow convinced the pilot to let him make an announcement, which nobody should have allowed because half of what comes out is complete Irish squabble that none of us understand.
"—and if yer lookin' out the left side, that's the coast, lads. And if ye squint ye might see me nan waving at us from Galway, God rest her, she's not actually there, that's just a bit of craic—"
"What does craic mean," Beck whispers to Mason.
"I still don't know," Mason shrugs. "Three months on the team with that guy and I still don't know."
I turn my attention back to my laptop, mostly because if I keep watching this circus I'm never going to get any actual work done.
And despite our recent success, I still have a season to save.
Darcy's beside me, cross-legged in her seat with her own laptop balanced on her knees, sipping something fruity the flight attendant handed us.
It's this gorgeous swirl of orange and pink juice in a chilled glass, garnished with a little paper umbrella that Darcy immediately confiscated and stuck behind her ear.
"What you working on?" she says without looking up from her own screen. "You've been staring at that calendar for ten minutes, so either you're planning to quit, or you've found something interesting."
"Maybe both." I pull up the Bears season schedule and scroll until I find what I'm looking for.
There.
Beachside vs. Portland Thunder. Home game. Four weeks out.
Our biggest rival. The kind of game that should sell out in Beachside.
And given enough time, which four weeks should be enough, I think I can make that happen.
I grab a red pen from my bag and circle the date on the printed schedule taped inside my planner.
Darcy leans over, sipping her drink. "What's special about that one?"
"That," I say, capping the pen, "is going to be the Beachside Bears first ever sellout."
"Oooo. I do like a girl with confidence." She winks.
"I don't do confident. I do planned." I tap the circle. "We've got four weeks. If the trend holds, and this road trip goes well, I'm confident I can get local news to bite on a rivalry angle. If I can do that… the game sells out. Every seat."
Darcy studies me for a second too long, that sharp, assessing look she gets when she's running numbers behind her eyes. "And why does that particular date matter so much to you? Beyond, you know. Doing your job and saving the franchise, of course."
Because if that arena is full… maybe I finally prove that women do belong in sports. Maybe I finally get the chance to show what I can do instead of just telling the one person who refuses to believe in me.
I don't say any of that.
It's too big, too fragile, the kind of thought that shatters the second you say it out loud before it's ready.
"Just professional pride," I say instead, and go back to my laptop before she can push.
Across the aisle and two rows up, I catch a glimpse of the back of Declan's head. He's got his AirPods in, staring out the window at nothing, his face set in that grim, closed-off line he's been wearing for almost a week now.
He hasn't looked back at me once since we boarded.
Not once.
Fine, I think, striking the keys on my laptop a little too hard. We'll see about that.
By the time we land in San Francisco, the sky's almost dark. The limo waiting for us at the private terminal is long enough to seat the entire roster with room to spare, and I follow behind Darcy as we all pile in.
"Okay, I take it back," Beck announces, sprawling across the leather bench seat at the back. "This is the good life. Forget the mansion. I want to live in this car."
"You'd have to get out eventually," Mason points out. "For, like, food."
"Did you not see the mini-fridge, Mason?!"
I giggle to myself as the limo glides through the city, past glittering high-rises and strings of lights draped across the bridges, and I sip a champagne flute that appeared in my hand approximately four seconds after I sat down.
As always, my eyes find their way to the one place they shouldn't.
Declan's wedged between Corbin and the window, phone in his hand, thumb scrolling without actually reading anything on the screen.
I keep waiting for him to say something. Anything.
Just look at me. Tell me it meant something.
But the whole drive, I get nothing.
We pull up outside the hotel where a doorman is already moving toward the car before it fully stops. Beck is still buzzing with excitement, and I catch Darcy watching him carefully.
The whole team spills out into the lobby in a wave of gear bags and noise, and I hear Sawyer and Max loudly asking if there's a pool.
"Room keys," Tyler announces, a container in his hand, working his way down the group like a very stressed camp counselor. "Beck, you're with Mason, third floor. Finn, you're with Corbin, second floor. Corbin, please, for the love of God, do not let him drink your minibar into oblivion again—"
"That happened once—"
"Coach, fourth floor, Darcy, you're on six. Josie—" he flips a page, "—you're on eight. Separate floor, since PR gets the corner suite for content shooting."
Of course I do. One more floor away from the one person I actually want to see.
Declan's a few feet away, gear bag over one shoulder, and for just a second, our eyes finally catch.
He looks tired. Not the just-flew-across-the-country kind. The other kind. The dark kind that sits behind someone's eyes for days and doesn't lift.
Maybe if he stopped staring at the fucking phone in his hand he might give his eyes a rest.
I can't help but watch as Declan's thumb keeps moving across his screen—typing, deleting, then typing again. He glances up, catches me watching, then looks away fast, shoving the phone into his pocket like I caught him at something.
What is he hiding?
"Room seven-eleven," Tyler says to him, and Declan just nods, murmurs a thanks, and turns for the elevator bank without another word to anyone.
Not even me.
Okay. I press my lips together and grab my key card from Tyler's outstretched hand. That's it. If this man doesn't start using his words on this trip, I don't care if I have to corner him in a stairwell and physically shake the truth out of him.
Or possibly seduce it out of him. On my knees. Doing the thing I've been craving for days.
Oh God, Josie. Not now.
I ride the elevator up to the eighth floor alone, key card gripped in my fist, replaying every single interaction we've had over the past week like some kind of masochistic highlight reel.
The elevator dings and I step out into a hallway, find my door, and swipe the key card.
I brace myself for a lonely night. A minibar Snickers chocolate and some spreadsheet work. Maybe a very aggressive bubble bath to work out my feelings, or maybe just to ease that burning ache that's been simmering between my legs ever since the night of three times.
The door swings open, and I stop dead in the frame.
Oh.
Oh, wow.
The room glows gold in the lamplight, curtains drawn back to show the city skyline glittering beyond the window.
There's a bottle of champagne chilling in a silver bucket on the desk, and beside it, a tray of chocolates. They're the expensive kind too, dark and glossy, arranged like a jeweler laid them out.
I take a shaky step further into the room, looking across at a little cluster of gift bags that are sitting on the bed, tissue paper spilling out the top. I peek inside and find a spa voucher for the hotel's rooftop wellness suite.
And there, propped against the pillows, is a folded piece of hotel stationery with my name scrawled across the front.
My hands are shaking a little as I pick it up.
Josie,
I know I've been a jerk this week. And I know you noticed the way you notice everything, which is one of about four hundred things I like about you.
It's also the exact thing that's making me write this note instead of just texting you like a normal person.
I'm not good at this. My family's never been big on talking about things, but it's something I'm working on.
You told me your dad was the only one who ever understood you.
I want to be that for you too, and I haven't been lately, so I'm sorry.
Something's going on with my family, and I've been carrying it alone for too long, and I know it's not fair to you, and it's not even fair to me, but I'm just trying to be honest with you.
So. Chocolate. Champagne. A ridiculous spa thing I'm told involves hot stones. Consider it a start.
We can talk tonight. If you still want to.
—D
I read it twice. Then a third time.
Something in my heart that's been clenched tight for a week finally comes undone.
He's not pulling away from me. He's drowning in something too, and this is the only way he knows how to say sorry.
Guilt hits me like a wave.