10. Scottie Elise Reed
Scottie Elise Reed
Cash: if we were stranded on an island—
Me: I’d swim home.
***
We all ended up crashing at Nico’s house after the brunch because apparently a group of fully grown adults still believed in sleepovers.
Everyone else had been up for ages.
Cash, however, had decided to spend the morning in the shower while I stood outside waiting.
“You’re late,” I say, snapping my wrist up to check my watch with a level of theatrical precision that is, frankly, my brand.
“By four minutes, Scottie. Take a breath,” Cash says, strolling out of the entrance.
He’s carrying two massive duffel bags like they’re filled with nothing more than dreams and air, his stride loose and effortless.
He’s wearing a gray t-shirt that’s definitely seen better days and a pair of dark sunglasses that make him look like a high-end trouble-maker who’s never once been told “no.”
“Four minutes is the difference between making a flight and watching it take off from the terminal bar,” I snap, though I’m mostly just trying to keep my eyes from lingering on the way the sun hits the corded muscles of his forearms.
“Good thing we’re driving then.”
Jenna saunters over, her third mimosa of the morning—or maybe just the same one she’s been nursing since 7:00 AM—sloshing in her hand. She looks at me, then at Cash, and her smile turns positively predatory.
“Bye, Scottie,” she chirps, throwing her arms around me in a crushing embrace. “Try not to break him too early. And for the love of God, remember what I said. Use the gear shifter. It’s got great leverage.”
“Jenna!” My face heats up, and I can hear the suppressed laugh vibrating in Cash’s chest behind me.
She pulls back, winking at him. “Keep her hydrated, Cash. She gets cranky when she’s thirsty.”
Leo and Nico are the last to say their goodbyes, both of them looking like they’re recovering from a marathon rather than a wedding.
“Don’t let her trade you to the KHL while we’re gone, Cash,” Nico grunts, clapping a heavy hand on Cash’s shoulder. “I need someone to buy me dinner when we get back.”
“No promises,” I say, tapping my watch again. “Okay. Enough. We’re burning daylight. Cash, where is the vehicle?”
Cash’s grin stretches into something downright suspicious.
“I don’t like that smile.”
“You will. Wait right here,” he says, tossing me a quick wink.
Before I can ask what on earth he’s planning, he turns on his heel and starts running. He isn’t just jogging either; he’s sprinting down the sidewalk, elbows pumping, his sneakers slapping against the pavement.
I watch in absolute disbelief as he cuts around the corner of the brick building and vanishes from sight. I stand there for a moment, blinking at the empty street, wondering if I’ve finally, officially lost my mind.
“…Why is he running?” I ask.
The three of them immediately lose it.
Leo bends over, clutching his stomach as he gasps for air. “He’s actually doing it,” he wheezes, unable to hold back his amusement.
“Oh, no,” I say, glancing between them with a growing sense of dread. “Doing what? Someone tell me what is going on.”
Nico crosses his arms over his chest, rocking back on his heels. He looks far too pleased with himself, his eyes dancing with a mix of mischief and suppressed excitement.
“I’ve been sworn to secrecy,” he says.
“Nico, seriously?” I press, stepping into his space.
“All I’ll say,” he replies, fighting a losing battle against a wide, toothy grin, “is that you’re going to love the ride.”
“I don’t believe you for a second,” I scoff, crossing my own arms.
“He’ll be back soon,” Nico adds, his gaze drifting back toward the corner where Finnian vanished.
“With what?” I demand, my patience wearing thin even as my curiosity spikes. “What could he possibly be bringing back that requires a full-speed sprint?”
Nico’s smile grows even wider, almost splitting his face in two. He shakes his head, clearly savoring the anticipation. “Oh, Scottie…”
An engine rattles to life, accompanied by a familiar, throaty hum. A second later, the blunt, flat nose of a vehicle creeps around the corner, and my soul leaves my body.
Cash is behind the wheel, leaning out the open driver’s side window with a triumphant, shit-eating grin as he rolls the monstrosity to a stop right in front of me.
“No,” I whisper, my voice cracking.
It’s the old vintage Volkswagen van he’d threatened me with. It’s painted a shade of orange that can only be described as ‘Radioactive Clementine.’ It’s loud, it’s boxy, and it’s arguably the most offensive thing I’ve ever seen on four wheels.
“Meet the Goalie-Mobile,” Cash says, spreading his arms wide through the window like he’s presenting a five-star resort.
“Cash, tell me you’re joking. Tell me the real car is parked behind that… that citrus-colored breadbox.”
“She’s a classic, Scottie! She has character.”
“It looks like a place where dreams go to die.” I gesture vaguely at the rust-pocked, rounded exterior, my voice rising in pitch. “I am a professional, for heaven’s sake. I cannot be seen in a fruit-colored van. It’s practically glowing.”
“Get in, Sharky,” Cash says, his hand already on the exterior handle. “We’ve got a schedule to keep, and unless you want to walk the miles, this is our chariot.”
“It’ll be cozy,” Jenna calls out from the curb. “And look at all that room in the back. Plenty of space to experiment with… creative seating arrangements.”
I whirl around to face her, my jaw dropping. “Jenna!”
“What?” she says, pressing a hand to her chest with a look of wide-eyed, performative innocence. “Long road trips require flexibility. You’re going to be cramped in there for hours. It’s just logistics.”
“That is absolutely not what you meant, and you know it!”
She just flashes a grin that is far too sharp for someone claiming such purity. “I absolutely don’t know what you’re talking about. My mind is a temple.”
Cash is leaning against the driver’s side door, laughing so hard he has to brace himself against the frame to stay upright. “Oh, I know exactly what she’s talking about,” he wheezes, wiggling his eyebrows.
“Oh my God,” I mutter, closing my eyes and letting my head fall back. “I am surrounded by heathens.”
“Have fun, kids!” Nico calls out.
“Don’t destroy the bus,” Leo adds, holding up a warning finger before he descends into a fresh fit of giggles.
“Or do,” Jenna says with a breezy shrug. “Just make sure you wash the upholstery afterward. It’s basic etiquette.”
“JENNA!” I shriek, my face heating up until I’m certain I’m radiating actual warmth.
She just blows me a playful kiss, unfazed by my mortification. “Drive safe! And be safe…”
I bury my burning face in my hands, unable to look any of them in the eye, and practically scramble into the high-mounted passenger seat to escape the peanut gallery.
As I settle in, the frame of the van vibrates with the rhythmic chug of the rear engine, and the seat springs groan in a long, high-pitched protest.
I grip the armrest, only to realize my fingers are sinking into something thick, matted, and absolutely atrocious. I look down to find the entire dashboard covered in—God help me—a decades-old layer of orange shag carpet.
Cash looks at me, his sunglasses sliding down his nose just enough to show those piercing eyes, sparking with amusement. “Ready, Sharky?”
“Just drive before someone I know sees me,” I mutter, reaching for the seatbelt.
It’s stuck. I jerk it, my frustration mounting. It stays stubbornly locked.
Cash reaches over. His arm brushes mine and he gives the belt a sharp tug. It clicks into place.
He stays in my space for a second too long, the scent of him—cheap soap, expensive cologne, and something distinctly, stubbornly Cash—filling the small, rattling cabin.
“Relax, Scottie,” he says, his voice dropping lower. “It’s just a road trip.”
In the side mirror, I catch Nico, Leo, and Jenna waving between fits of laughter as the Goalie-Mobile rumbles triumphantly down the street.
***
“If you don’t stop that, I will actually jump out of this moving vehicle,” I say, my fingers twitching toward the door handle.
Cash doesn’t stop. He doesn’t even pause to breathe. He’s currently drumming a frantic beat against the thin, circular steering wheel while shouting at the top of his lungs.
“You’re just grumpy because you’re losing,” he shouts over the roar of the wind and the high-pitched hum of the engine.
The sliding passenger window is stuck halfway open, and my hair is a sentient red entity whipping across my face, stinging my cheeks.
“Losing? Losing what, Finnian? We aren’t playing a game! You’re just shouting names of minor league Canadian hockey teams!”
“It’s the Geography of Pain, Scottie! Keep up!” He bangs his palm against the wheel again. “Moose Jaw Warriors! Your turn. Go. Needs to start with an R.”
“I am not playing the Geography of Pain,” I snap, though my brain is, against my better judgment, already scanning every roster I’ve ever memorized. “And don’t call me that.”
“Call you what? Scottie? It’s your name.”
“You said it in that voice.”
“What voice?” He glances at me, a wolfish smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.
“The ‘I know what you look like without your clothes’ voice. Stop it.”
“I’d love to know how you look like without your clothes on,” he shoots back, his tone shifting from playful to something much more dangerous.
“Rochester Americans,” I interrupt.
Cash lets out a triumphant laugh. “Ha! I knew you couldn’t resist. You’re a closet puck-head, Scottie. Admit it.”
“Yes, Cash, I do know some hockey teams. If you didn’t notice, I am a sports agent for an NHL goalie,” I say, reaching for the glove box to distract myself from the heat radiating off him.
I pull out a map—a real, paper map—because the GPS on my phone gave up the ghost somewhere near the last state highway. “And according to this, we’ve still got an agonizing five-hour drive ahead of us to Philadelphia because you were too busy doing air-drums instead of following the route.”