Page 3 of Powder
I flashed him a smile because, wow, it was Jack O’Leary, in the flesh.
I dropped into the seat to his right, still catching my breath, fumbling the belt until it finally clicked home. The steward hovered nearby, no longer scowling but still making sure every buckle snapped, and every tray locked as if the fate of the flight depended on it. Heat radiated from me, sweat damp at my collar, and I tried to play it cool while sneaking sidelong glances at Jack O’Leary like this was no big deal at all.
The captain’s voice crackled over the speakers, the announcement muffled and half-lost in static as usual. I caught something about taxiing to the runway and takeoff being scheduled at oh-something, but the rest blurred. I leaned back, trying to focus on breathing, pretending like I wasn’t coming apart with excitement atJack O’Learysitting right there.
Say something.
“I reckon they take lessons in how to speak over the intercom,” I said out loud, and to my shock he glanced at me. I grabbed the chance, cupping my hand like a mic and slipping into my best crackly-static pilot impression. “Good evening, ladies and—krrshhhh—gentlemen, we’ll be—krrrshhhh—taking off—krrrshhhh—end of the century—krrshhh—and the weather in wherever the hell we’re going is… probably fine.” I let the words trail off in more static and static-filled mumbling, grinning sideways to see if he’d bite.
He didn’t bite.
He looked kind of shellshocked.
I cleared my throat, wiping my palm on my shirt before extending it toward him. “Tian,” I said, trying to sound casual. “Professional snowboarder, occasional idiot who nearly missesflights, and your seatmate, apparently.” My grin widened, nerves bubbling under my skin. “Nice to meet you.”
“Jack,” Jack O’Leary-NHL-Star said.
“Oh, I know!” I blurted before I could stop myself, words tumbling out like an avalanche. “You’re the Railers captain—defenseman, all-star, the guy who’s been carrying the team since forever. Not the same since the old guard, y’know? The Tennant Stan years, right?” I winced the second it left my mouth. “Oh, wait, I didn’t mean it like that. Crap. Verbal diarrhea. Sorry. What I mean is… I’m a New York fan. And you—you’re kind of the bane of our existence.”
He raised an eyebrow, and I studied his features. I wasn’t small… well, I was, kind of. Five-nine, wiry, muscles, sure, but not built like Jack. I’d never grow a beard that could match what he had—nor do I think I ever would—no big loss, since my skin was smooth as a baby’s behind because of one of my more lucrative sponsor deals with Heavenly High Cosmetics. They were also the reason I was flying out of Harrisburg instead of my hometown of Denver, after I visited their head office for a recent photoshoot.
His beard looked insanely soft, and his piercing blue eyes showed confusion as he stared at me. A look I knew all too well. I knew I was in people’s faces too much; Mom always said my personality was bigger than my body. I couldn’t help wondering if Jack was proportionate. Oh fuck—did my gaze just drop to his lap? Shit. Was I checking him out? He’d kill me. I’d be dead in the bathroom with a hockey puck shoved down my throat.
“Sorry,” he rumbled, and I blinked at him, my cheeks heating.
“Huh?”
“For being the bane of your team’s existence.”
“Oh yeah, I—” The plane gave a little shudder as it began to move, slow and steady, to the taxiway. Words tumbled out of meagain before I could stop them. “You can’t help being one of the best,” I said, then rolled my eyes at myself. Smooth, Tian. Real smooth. “You deserved better than going out first round for the Cup.”
Jack quirked his eyebrow—ginger-blond, unlike his fully red beard—and the corner of his mouth twitched. “Given it was New York who took us out, I thought you’d be happy.”
“Dude,” I said, groaning inside even as the words slipped free, “we knocked you out in four games. It was too easy.”
Fuck. Why did I say that?
Jack’s frown deepened, and he turned his attention back to the book in his hand, shutting me out. My stomach dropped. Great. I’d offended him. My mouth had this way of running ahead before my brain even engaged, and now the silence between us felt sharp enough to cut.
“Shit,” I said, and touched his arm so he looked at me. “I didn’t mean?—”
Jack sighed and spoke, his voice lower now. “You didn’t offend me, Tian. It wasn’t just you guys. We barely scraped into the playoffs, and we lost because we didn’t have enough heart. Left it all on the young guys, and that’s on me as captain. New York was strong this year, no question. But we’ll get you next year.”
Wow. He sounded beaten down, used up, like he was done with it all. And that? That was on me, for running my mouth without thinking. I was overexcited, buzzing on adrenaline and nerves. After all these years, I had solid sponsorship, and this trip to Caye Caulker was my prize from them for being, in snowboard speak, a total powder hound who could throw down clean tricks when it counted. An amazing winning dude. And here I was, ruining it by talking trash to Jack O’Leary.
I couldn’t fix it straight away; the engines rumbled louder as we taxied, the plane picking up speed, every bump in the tarmacjolting through me until gravity pressed me back in my seat and the nose lifted. My stomach swooped with takeoff; my words trapped behind clenched teeth as the ground dropped away from us. He read his book through the whole thing, not a care in the world, while I clutched the arms of my very comfortable first-class seat as if it were a lifeline. I’d hurled myself off cornices that made other riders blanch, spun clean off cliffs with the drop yawning beneath me like nothing, just another day on the mountain. But flying? Nah. Flying was different. Flying, I hated. I counted down every damn second until we leveled out.
And then my gaze caught on the gorgeous, built-like-an-outhouse Viking beside me. Jack looked like a bear without any of the soft parts, all bulk and harsh edges, and I couldn’t help wondering—what does that make him in gay slang—me being five-nine, slim, wiry, more like an otter than anything? Before I could stop myself, I blurted out, way too loudly, “Our last main season game, you played like thirty-one insane minutes on the ice, two assists, and blocked eleven shots like it was nothing. I remember because I yelled at the TV when you crushed our power play. I’m kind of a fan of yours,” I admitted, words rushing out too fast. “Back when you were in New York, I followed you obsessively. Not in a creepy stalker way, not just you, the team, I mean. Peak obsession.” He glanced at me and gave me the magic eyebrow, and I sank deep into my seat, convinced I’d just screwed this whole thing up. But then Jack closed the cover on his book.
He studied me for a beat, then said slowly, “You remember all that? Huh.” He sounded surprised. “Most people don’t care about blocked shots unless it’s their guy in front of the crease.” His mouth twitched, almost a smile.
The flight attendant rolled up with a tray, offering drinks and fancy displays of snacks—no tiny bags of pretzels in first class, clearly. I took the plate of snacks—tiny ramekins withwarm mixed nuts, olives, and neat little squares of cheese, plus a couple of fancy crackers—stuck to water because my mouth was dry from running and nerves, and Jack asked for coffee, black. I considered how long we’d be partners side by side on the flight—Harrisburg to Belize was, what, about five hours in the air? Plenty of time to dig myself in deeper, or maybe, just maybe, make him laugh once before we landed.
We chatted for the longest time, right through a delivery of salmon with asparagus and a tiny ramekin of truffle mashed potatoes, the kind of fancy first-class plating that made me feel out of my depth. The ramekin was like a child’s toy in Jack’s hands, and I couldn’t stop watching him. He held tight to his book that he’d read none of.
“You like books?” I fished for something to say.
He tilted the cover just enough for me to see—some thriller by an author I hadn’t heard of. “Don’t get to read much,” he said. “Bought it in the airport. Figured it might help me get in the holiday mood.”
