Page 1 of The Final Faceoff
ChapterOne
Hailey
How to Switch Lines Without Losing Your Mind
If I had a dollar for every bad decision I’ve made, I’d have enough to bribe my way out of this one. But it’s impossible. I have to be there for my grandmother’s thirtieth birthday.
Okay, technically, it’s her seventy-eighth, but she insists she’s celebrating her “thirtieth”—again. She claims thirty is the perfect age: old enough to know better, young enough to pretend you don’t. I don’t question it. I love her dearly, quirks and all, and if she wants to keep turning thirty until the end of time, who am I to argue?
Usually, I never visit my family or friends when I’m working. When I’m deep in a project, the rest of the world fades out, and I convince myself that answering texts and sending the occasional “miss you” counts as keeping in touch. But the whole, “this might be my last birthday,”thing seemed important. Major guilt trip, sure, but important.
So, I’m here. Just for a week. Then it’s back to Greece, where I’m knee-deep in unraveling the world of Greek superstitions, curses, and the infamous evil eye.
It started as a curiosity—a lighthearted look into ancient folklore—but the more I dig, the more I realize how deeply these beliefs still shape everyday life. Fishermen won’t sail without their blue glass charms. Shopkeepers spit—discreetly but deliberately—after receiving a compliment. And I’ve met a yia-yia who swears she cured a neighbor’s back pain with nothing but olive oil and a whispered prayer. Some people laugh it off. Others won’t even speak about it out loud, just in case.
After that, Aspen—my best friend—and I will turn our focus toThe Women of Santorini,documenting the widows, grandmothers, and independent women who have spent their lives fighting to keep their homes and way of life intact. It’s a project I’m passionate about, one that feels deeply human and necessary. But before that, I’m here—for a week, for a birthday, for a brief pause before diving back into work.
Maybe that’s why New York smells different this time. Or maybe it’s just the airport. Not the usual mix of espresso-fueled ambition and car fumes, or even that undeniable, electric pulse of the city that hums beneath your skin. It’s something else. Something I can’t quite put my finger on as I make my way through the arrivals hall, dodging travelers clutching suitcases and bleary-eyed families reuniting. My duffel slips lower on my shoulder as I grip a half-full bottle of overpriced airport water that’s warming in my grip.
I know, I know—I should be carrying a reusable one. But mine got lost somewhere along the way, swallowed by one of the many airports I passed through in the last thirty-six hours. That’s the trade-off with booking the cheapest flight possible: multiple layovers and misplaced belongings.
Still, the scent is . . . I can’t pinpoint it yet, but I will figure it out soon enough.
Leif would say I’m romanticizing things again, the way I do whenever I land somewhere new and convince myself the air holds possibility. But this isn’t new. This is New York—as close to home as I get.
Not that I actually have a home.
For the past few years, I’ve been a professional nomad. My belongings live in a storage unit in Queens, waiting for me to figure out where I belong. For now, I’ll stay at my grandparents’ house. Maybe visit Leif while he’s playing at . . . Speaking of Leif, I better check in with him before he has a coronary.
I wrestle my duffel higher on my shoulder, the weight threatening to slide it right back down. With my other hand, I dig into my backpack, fingers fumbling past tangled cords and a crumpled boarding pass until I find my wireless headphones. The strap slips again as I try to pop them in, forcing me to hitch the bag up with my elbow while dodging a businessman charging past with his roller suitcase. JFK is a blur of bodies and overhead announcements.
Still, I manage to tap my phone screen and call him, exhaling as the line starts ringing. Honestly, it’s a miracle I haven’t taken out a small person or face-planted into someone’s luggage yet. Coordination has never been my strong suit—especially not when I’m juggling half my body weight in baggage and sleep deprived.
“Hey,” he answers immediately, like he was already waiting for me to check in.
“So, I made a new friend,” I say, weaving through the crowd.
On the other end, Leif exhales. It’s partly amusement and frustration but mainly concern. “Ugh, Hailey.”
“It wasn’t my fault.”
“Of course not,” he groans. “You’re just too . . . chatty.”
“Listen, I was minding my own business at one of the airport’s coffee shop when this adorable older woman asked if I wanted to split a blueberry scone. And obviously, I said yes. I mean, I had to do it. What kind of monster says no to a grandma?”
A low, knowing sound rumbles through the phone. He already sees where this is going, but he lets me tell him anyway.
“She told me all about her grandson—a doctor in Miami—showed me pictures, and then—get this—asked if I’d consider dating him.”
A pause. Then, flatly he asks, “And?”
I push through the rotating doors and head toward the train. “And I told her that while he looks like a very nice man, I’m not exactly in the market for that kind of thing.”
Leif hums, the sound vibrating in a way that makes it clear he’s holding back judgment. “And by ‘that kind of thing,’ you mean a relationship with someone who is functional and emotionally available?”
A slow smirk tugs at my lips. “Exactly.”
“But you still exchanged numbers with her, didn’t you?”
