Page 54 of Bombshells
I’m on the verge of calling out a greeting to Miguel, my favorite concierge, when the elevator doors open. I move on instinct, darting behind the big wooden desk where Miguel runs the world, crouching low as a pack of my teammates shuttles out of the elevator and towards the front door.
“Morning, boys,” Miguel says calmly, while I crouch like a loser beside his trouser-covered legs. “Your car is outside.”
“We missing anyone?” Castro’s voice says. “Where’s Baby Bayer?”
I drop my head, wondering how I get myself in these jams. This was supposed to be the year that I acted like a grownup. But if my teammates saw me like this, they’d want to know where I was last night, and I’m not willing to say. I haven’t quite processed it yet.
“You know, he’s running a little late,” Miguel says. “He asked me to get him another car and said you shouldn’t wait.”
“Thanks, man.”
I hear the shuffling of feet as my teammates roll their suitcases out the revolving door. Finally, I stand up with a sigh.
“Rough night?” Miguel asks.
“Not really. But I didn’t want to answer questions.” Even as I say this, I’m ducking around the desk. “You’re my rock, Miguel. Can I have a car in—?”
“Eight minutes,” he says, poking at his phone. “Sprint, boy. You got a plane to make.”
I run for it.
* * *
I set a land-speed record for showering and shaving. And because I really am capable of learning from my mistakes, my suitcase was already packed and waiting near the door of the generously sized studio loft apartment that I rent from my cousin Eric.
It only takes me ten minutes to get back to the lobby, where Miguel is holding the car. I pass a twenty-dollar bill into his hand as I hurl my bag into the back of the car.
He closes the door on me and off we go.
It’s all looking good until we end up behind a fender bender on the BQE. Each of the nine minutes that we inch along takes a year off my life. By the time we’re back up to speed, I’ve sweated through my shirt.
I end up doing a comical sprint into the Marine Air Terminal with my suitcase, locating the right gate by the sight of Heidi Jo’s blond hair near the jetway.
Thank the good lord. I made it.
“You’re the last one,” she says cheerily as she crosses off my name on the flight manifest. “Close call.”
Wasn’t it ever. A baggage handler takes my suitcase from me, and I step onto the jetway. My heart is still pounding, but I reach the damn plane a moment later. A few of my teammates raise an eyebrow at my tardiness, but Coach Worthington is near the middle of the plane, tucking his suit jacket into the overhead compartment, looking unconcerned.
If he hasn’t noticed my late arrival, then I’m good. No harm, no foul. I just need to put this ass in a seat before he sees me. There’s only one near the front of the jet.
Right beside Bryce Campeau.
Oh fuck.
He looks up as I hesitate, then moves his magazine off the empty seat. I have no choice but to sit down quickly, tucking my bag under the seat in front of me.
“Good morning,” he says.
“Morning,” I grunt. It’s just sinking in that I’m going to spend the next couple hours trapped here beside him. At least we’re side by side, because I don’t think I could look him in the eye.
This. This is why I spent the last several weeks trying to ignore all the things I feel for Sylvie. Because I never wanted this moment to arrive.
And yet here we are.
The flight attendant gives her safety spiel, and I listen as though I haven’t heard it a million times before. Bear in mind that your nearest exit may be behind you.
If Bryce knew what I did last night, I might need an emergency exit.
