Page 9 of Mile High Coach

She drops them in the trash can, and I’m already preparing my speech for how to keep her here, in the seat, in my arms. I want to talk her into grabbing coffee together when we hit Baltimore.

Maybe she’s too young for me, but maybe she doesn’t mind.

I don’t get a chance to even make the pitch, however, because twenty seconds later, I realize she’s fast asleep on my arm.

Somewhere across the plane, a passenger is asking for water. Another person presses their seat back, and there’s the faint swish of the curtain between first class and coach moving, the sounds from all the other passengers filtering in around us.

Earlier, this part of the plane smelled like expensive cologne. Now, all I can smell is the woman against me, her sweet, light perfume playing with my senses.

I was going to rise and go to the bathroom, finish watching that game with her. But there’s no chance in hell that I’m moving now.

When I wake up, it’s to someone tapping me gently on the shoulder.

I blink groggily, the flight attendant coming fuzzily into view above me, her hair in a perfect bun, her smile tight. “Sir, hi—it’s time to disembark.”

Standing, I realize the attendant has already fetched my bag from the compartment, and is giving me an impatient look. I shuffle down the aisle, pulling my suitcase behind me, trying to clear out the haze of sleep over my brain.

Attendants from the flight give me patient smiles, and I realize I’m the last person to climb off. Then I realize I woke up alone this morning, with no Knockout—Willow—beside me.

And once I walk into the airport, passing just a few stragglers waiting for their luggage by the conveyor belt, I realize she must have slipped away quietly on purpose.

It shouldn’t matter. Just another casual meet-up in a long string of them.

But something about her—about last night—felt different. Maybe it was being on the plane, or maybe it was the way I sensed she was doing something different, something special she doesn’t normally do. Like she was making an exception solely for me.

Now, I stop at an airport coffee place and order a flat white, before making my way out to the short-term parking and scanning the row of vehicles for my car.

The drive through Baltimore this early is gorgeous, the sun filtering through the buildings, the leaves that specific Technicolor green I always associate with the off-season. I take it slow, enjoying being back in my car again, and when I turn into the underground parking garage at my apartment building, I have the bone-deep sense of being home.

By the time I take a quick shower, throw everything from my suitcase in the washing machine, and put on something thatmakes me look like the halfway respectable, Stanley Cup-losing coach that I am, my stomach is growling. If I make good time, I’ll be able to stop for an early lunch.

After a quick flip through my mental Rolodex of places, I decide to swing by Mastellone’s Deli to grab a sandwich. My luck only increases when there’s a parking spot open right out front, and I’m able to slide into it. Then my luck helps me out again when I beat a rush to place my order.

I’m standing against the wall waiting for my food, feeling pretty pleased with myself, when a bell rings over the door.

It’s not the first time that’s happened since I got here. People have started flooding in for the regular lunch rush, but for some reason, I know to turn and look.

Of course.

Brad’s eyes widen when he sees me in the quick one-two look of recognition, and I almost miss them calling my number. He’s raising his hand, trying to get my attention, but my sandwich is ready, and I’m getting the fuck out of here.

“Harry,” he says, actually having the nerve to sidestep in front of me, his hands up like he doesn’t want a fight.

If he didn’t want a fight, he should have kept his fucking hands to himself. If he didn’t want a fight, he should have done the bare minimum to be a good friend to me, and he didn’t.

“Don’t fucking call me that,” I spit, drawing the attention of a few other customers. My eyes skip to the door behind him and the sweet freedom that exists only a few steps past him. “And get out of my fucking way.”

“Can we just—” His face is wild, desperate, and I feel the tiniest flicker of sympathy for him. It passes just as quickly as it came. Fuck him for even making me consider his feelings. He sure as hell never considered mine.

“No.”

Shoving his shoulder none too gently, I push past him and practically slam into the door, the little bell above it jingling loudly in protest at the violence. I know everyone inside is watching, and I know they probably all think I’m the asshole here. I don’t give a single fuck.

I glance at my watch as I slide back into the driver’s seat and throw the car into drive. Just great. Not only did I have to see Brad’s ugly face this morning, but I’m also going to be late.

Chapter 5

Lovie

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