Page 11 of Mile High Coach

Ten minutes and a second coffee from the place down the street later, I’m stepping into yet another Uber, except this time it’s taking me toward the Blue Crabs arena. The administrative offices are on the top floor.

As we pull through the city, I sip on the coffee, realizing it’s making me more jittery than normal. My hands are shaking from a combination of nerves and caffeine.

Coffee doesn’t normally make me feel like this because I don’t normally get this much sleep. A solid three hours onthe plane with that man, tucked into his arms was the most consecutive period of sleep that I’ve gotten in months.

I shift in the backseat. I should be thinking about the upcoming meeting, reviewing my notes, and not reminiscing about what it felt like to wake up to the sound of his breathing and the feeling of his warm chest pressed into my back.

But it’s like each time my mind goes quiet today, it drifts back to him, those memories filling in all the cracks, my mind running away with the details of what happened.

Even thinking about it now makes a hot flush run up my spine, and I shift again, taking a deep breath, trying not to think about the part of my brain that didn’t want to use a condom. It would be wrong, and besides, he doesn’t seem like the kind of man that would want a kid.

He probably already has a bundle of them, adult children who were devastated at his divorce, or something like that. Children my age.

The thought occurs to me for the first time—maybe there was no divorce? Is it possible that he was married? There was no ring—I checked—but men take their rings off constantly.

Even as I’m thinking it, something inside of me, something like intuition, rejects the idea. Even though I was only around him for a few hours, there was something about him that made me certain he would never cheat on a wife.

These thoughts are still racing through my head when we pull up to the Blue Crabs arena. Tall, chrome, and reflecting in the bright Baltimore sunshine, it could blind you if you looked right at it.

I step out of the car and drop my sunglasses onto my face, liking the sound of my heels as they click up the sidewalk.

My email from Ki Park instructed me to park in the employee lot and follow the walkway up to the doors, so I make my way around the building, taking in the details.

Immaculate landscaping surrounds the arena and there are sapphire-blue tulips lining the front of the building, the shade perfectly matching the color of the team’s jerseys. It’s tasteful, unlike the shining metallic exterior of the building.

I’m a bigger fan of old brick stadiums, buildings with history. But the Blue Crabs arena was built just a few years ago, so they had to go futuristic with it, I suppose.

“Good afternoon!” a bald, pot-bellied security guard meets me at the door, his grin jovial. “What can I do for you?”

“Nice to meet you. I’m Lovie Waters.” He looks surprised when I offer him my hand, but takes it and gives it a firm pump.

“Jason Franklin,” he says, “but most people around here call me Jay.”

“I’m a new employee,” I say, taking my bag from my elbow and setting it on the conveyor belt. “Here for a meeting with Ki Park.”

He nods and types, then prints me out a visitor’s badge. “They should get your employee badge soon. Until then, you’ll have to wear one of these while you're in the building. Follow this hallway straight back, and you’ll find the escalator to go up. Unless you want the elevator, which is around the corner here.”

“Perfect.”

“Good luck with your meeting, Lovie Waters.”

“Thank you, Jay.”

I take the tag, grimacing when I have to stick it to the breast of my suit. I’d much rather have the kind that clips, so I won’t destroy the fabric with adhesive, but there’s nothing to be done about it now. I collect my bag and follow his instructions to go up an escalator, which deposits me in the administrative offices of the Baltimore Blue Crabs.

This is it. This is the last moment I could possibly turn around and go back, give up the Blue Crabs money and head home to Portland.

But I’m not giving up. My dad needs me. Chrys needs me.

So I take a deep breath, locate the conference room listed on the email Ki Park sent me, and push through the door, putting a professional smile on my face.

A professional smile that threatens to crack and crumble when I see the man from the plane sitting right at the head of the table.

The man that I was with last night, his body against mine, his breath hot on my neck. The man whose scent I recognize from across the room, whose hands are familiar to me in ways they shouldn’t be—not if we’re attending this meeting together. As professional associates.

I’m finally able to place what made him so familiar to me. The man from the plane is Harrison Clark.

Harrison Clark, handsome and controversial head coach of the Baltimore Blue Crabs. Known for his illustrious career, his public scandal with his wife and best friend, and also for his charisma and charming ways in front of the cameras.

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