Page 8 of Home for the Hockey-Days

Shit.

Apollo rubs my shoulders like I’m about to step into a boxing ring. “You’ve got this, amigo.”

Nice, nothing like a little extra, external pressure from your team to raise the stakes even higher.

I gesture at Lachlan to go first, he does, knocking over eight bottles.

I need a strike to win. Fuck. Couldn’t he have gotten only one or two down?

I line up the ball, resisting the urge to kiss the damn thing before I throw. Everyone collectively holds their breath when I release the ball at the collection of empty bottles.

The crowd goes wild when the ball knocks over all ten bottles, and we win the battle of the —not at all important but feels like a Stanley Cup victory—airport empty-bottle bowling.

After a quick handshake line, the crowd disperses, and both teams go back to lounging around at the departure gates.

“What’s next?” Raffi Shaw asks. “Two truths and a lie? Rock, paper, scissors tournament? Trivia showdown?”

“What about a paper airplane making contest?” One of the Wolves offers.

“I have Uno cards.”

“Charades.”

“Twenty questions?”

“What about airport bingo?” It’s one of the Wolves rookies who suggests it, and we all stare at him like he’s grown a second head.

“How do you play bingo in the airport?” Artemis might be the one to ask it, but it’s the same question that’s on everyone’s mind.

“We’d each create bingo cards with typical airport shit, like a crying baby, a person running to catch a flight, a flight attendant, someone sleeping on the floor... And the first team to get a bingo wins.”

Kinda sounds like fun, and if we find a person running to catch a flight we’ll be gearing up to board a plane ourselves. No take offs, no running.

It’s not much longer before I’m put out of my misery of being stuck in the airport.

An announcement comes over the intercom, the flight is canceled, game canceled, go enjoy Christmas vacation, and we’ll try again in the New Year, Coach says. I wait in my seat for a couple of minutes now the announcement is official, my thumb hovering over Rowan Armistead’s contact when something about the number tickles my gray matter.

What is it about this number that’s pinged something in the depths of my brain?

I need to set up a date for us to get started. With only a few days left of term before Christmas break it’ll probably beJanuary before we get together. And if I play my cards right, I could push it back even further.

Traveling with the team, busy with the holidays, I could give her every excuse I can come up with so I don’t have to see her Judgy McJudgerson face staring at me with pity when she realizes I’m a dumb jock. The dumbest of dumb jocks.

Clicking on her name, I suck in a breath. I could tell her I’m sticking around, get a jump on playing catch up. The longer I leave it, the worse it’ll be. Or so Coach says. Would she even want to get together this close to Christmas? Is she traveling somewhere for the holiday?

Guess I won’t know if I don’t ask.

Something about the number still prickles in my mind. I dig out the crumpled up piece of paper with the details of my fender bender from the day before, and compare it to the number on my screen.

The answer to my earlier question is staring right back at me.

Rowan Armistead is the one who crashed into my car yesterday. The woman who hasn’t replied to my message about tutoring, is the woman who destroyed my beloved Rusty.

What are the fucking odds?

August: Let me know when you’re free for tutoring. Turns out you owe me one. Or twenty.

The dots on the screen stop, start, and stop again, like she’s trying to figure out what to write.

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