Page 29 of Dream Chaser
Arms crossed. That same unreadable face. He nods at me once, just enough to make my pulse kick.
Nope. Not doing this.
“Let’s go!” Mags yells.
There’s a moment, after the suitcases hit the floor and the door clicks shut, when we all just kind of melt. We’re sore, we’re stiff, we’re starving, and someone—probably me—smells like sour gummies and road trip funk. But we’re together, we’re in Philly, and tomorrow, we’ll watch our boys hit the field.
First order of business: room service.
“I want fries,” Harper groans, flopping onto the bed. “The crispy kind, not the shoestring ones. They’re just disappointing.”
“And onion rings,” London adds, already scrolling through the hotel menu like a woman on a mission. “And sliders. And soup. Like real soup. Not hotel sadness soup.”
“We’re in a hotel.” Lexi chuckles. “How about we order all the things. Champagne, fries, maybe like … three different types of Philly steak and cheese subs to sample.”
“You’re my soul mate,” I say, flopping beside Harper.
“I’ll order.” Riley grabs the phone. “Don’t even bother arguing. I’m eating for two.”
“I have no idea how you haven’t gained like a hundred pounds already.” Mags laughs.
“You don’t want to know.” Lo snorts.
“What?” she stupidly asks.
“Hart’s a professional athlete. In season, full of testosterone,” London tells her. “She’s doing at least thirty minutes of cardio a night.”
We all start laughing.
“Hold up. Does that mean the off season’s going to … end the nightly cardio sessions?” Riley asks, looking mortified.
London shakes her head.
Harper laughs. “Until after you have that baby and you are terrified to have your petals plucked ever again.”
“Petals plucked?” Mags snorts.
“Oh my God,” Lexi gasps. “That’s a new one. Add it to the list.”
“You mean the list of all the ways we’ve tried to say ‘got laid’ without saying it?” Mags ask.
“Yes!” Harper sits up. “Okay, ‘punched her V-card’ is out.”
“Got her passport stamped,” London adds, cracking up.
“Mined for gold,” Lexi offers.
I chime in, “Visited the bone zone.”
“Got her tires rotated,” Lo deadpans.
“Horizontal tango,” I say, grinning.
“Danced the forbidden jig,” Harper finishes, raising her mug.
We’re in hysterics, breathless and pink-cheeked, when someone knocks on the door. “Room service.”
Half an hour later, the room smells like heaven: truffle fries, tomato bisque, mini tacos, and the most amazing Philly cheesesteak subs. We eat on the beds, our knees tucked up, fingers greasy, laughing and talking about everything … like we used to do.
