Page 51 of Game Point
He shrugged, the grin only growing wider. The delight was clear across his face. ‘I have a bet to win.’ He raised his arm, a teal velvet bag on the other end.
I looked between him and the bag, blinking as I tried to catch up. I still wasn’t sure this wasn’t a hallucination.
‘Did you bring your US Open trophy in your hand luggage? Did you take it all the way to China?’
‘Dylan, I know you’ve never won a slam so you might be unaware.’ He slipped out of his seat, moving his muscularbody around the other passengers. ‘But trophies are much safer in hand luggage.’
He reached up, placing the bag in the overhead locker. The entire time, my brain buzzed the same words over and over.
THERE’S A FUCKING US OPEN TROPHY IN THE OVERHEAD LOCKER.
‘Okay, first of all, that was unnecessary.’ I scowled at him, scooting forward in my seat as I moved closer. ‘Second, what are you doing here?’
‘I’m here for you,’ he answered, as if it was so simple.
I rolled my eyes at him. ‘Well, I didn’t think you were here to see anyone else.’
‘Champagne?’ an attendant appeared next to Oliver, holding two flutes of golden liquid.
I raised a hand to decline, too busy trying to decipher Oliver’s half-answer replies, but Oliver cut me off before I could say anything. ‘Yes, two please.’
‘Jesus,’ I muttered, shaking my head. The attendant spared me a strange glance but held the glasses out to him anyway.
Oliver took one and handed it to me, an innocent expression on his face as he ignored my accusatory scowl. When he turned back to the attendant, taking the second glass, he said, ‘Thank you. We are celebrating.’
The attendant sent him a pleasant look. ‘Any specific occasion taking you to Australia?’
‘Training,’ he simply replied. Oliver faced me again, his hand stretched out as if to clink our flutes together.
I momentarily considered it, pausing as my browspressed together. ‘I don’t know if you’ve heard the news, but I’ve retired.’
‘Oh, come on.’ He rolled his eyes, his glass raised as he took a sip. ‘One post on Instagram you probably made from your hospital bed high on pain medication does not make you retired.’
‘That’s not what happened.’ Around us, the plane started to taxi. ‘And it counts.’
Oliver scoffed. ‘You, Dylan Bailey, are not retired.’
‘And why not?’ I asked, washing away my annoyance with the champagne. It had been hard enough to write the post, let alone defend the validity of it.
‘Because I know you aren’t done.’
I wanted to tell him how wrong he was. That this was the end, and while it was bitter, it was still very sweet. I was going home, to my family. Back where I belonged. Somewhere I could lick my wounds and dig my feet into the sand and feel the sea breeze on my face. Stop for longer than only a few weeks and just … breathe.
The plane rotated on the runway. I adjusted in my seat before changing the subject. ‘How on earth did you manage to book the exact seat next to me?’
He laughed. ‘Honestly, this airline made it appallingly easy to book the chair next to you. One mention at the desk about how I wanted to surprise my girlfriend –’
‘Girlfriend?’ I sputtered, nearly spitting my mouthful of champagne into the chair in front. He looked rather pleased with himself as he waved a hand.
‘It was only an excuse. Don’t get ahead of yourself, Bailey.’ He winked at me, and for a second, I had to remind myself that Oliver was not flirting. That he wasunavailable and entirely uninterested. No matter how easy it would be to read into his actions and come up with a more complex answer, we wereonlyfriends.
‘They recognized me, because, how could anyone forget this handsome face.’ He placed a hand under his chin, framing his face as if he was a model. I could only roll my eyes. ‘And then one small lie about a romantic surprise proposal on the Gold Coast, and alotof money, and I had a business-class ticket sitting right next to you.’
I motioned to our surroundings, keeping my gaze trained on him. ‘You know this is a twelve-hour flight?’
‘I have flowndown underbefore,’ he forced a terrible accent.
I rolled my eyes. ‘I’m sure I can convince my friends at border control to turn you away for that travesty of an accent.’
