Page 67 of Fake Out

He extends his hand for a shake.

“Thanks,” I say, surprised at the unexpected attention. These days, even with my improved image — thanks to Marissa — I still get more heckles and glares than smiles. “I appreciate it.”

He leans in, lowering his voice. “Listen, the public’s been way too hard on you. You never should’ve been kicked off the Thunderhawks.”

His sincerity catches me off guard, and for a moment I don’t know what to say.

“Actually…” I clear my throat. “I did deserve it. I had a good thing going with that team, and I screwed it up.”

It feels strange to confess my mistakes to a stranger, but there’s something cathartic about it, too.

The man studies me, his brow furrowed as if trying to solve a puzzle. “Well, your new girlfriend must’ve changed you.” He nods toward the magazine on the stand. “You’ve gotten all wise and shit.”

I smirk at his observation. Marissa has changed me, but not in the way he thinks. “Something like that,” I reply cryptically, not wanting to divulge the truth about our relationship.

Just then, the intercom crackles to life. “Final boarding call for Flight 422 to San Antonio!”

My heart leaps in panic. I was so caught up thinking about Marissa that I lost track of time.

“Shit. That’s my flight,” I mumble. “I gotta go. Have a great day!”

Holding my bag close to my shoulder, I take off. My chest tightens with each step, a mix of adrenaline and the nagging fear that I’ll miss the flight.

And if I miss this flight, I miss the meeting. Which will make me look awful to the reps and owners. There’s a good chance they wouldn’t want to reschedule.

I sprint through the airport, my heart pounding as I weave around travelers dragging their suitcases. Flight 422 here I come.

Please just wait a little longer for me.

My legs strain with each stride, but I push myself harder.

“Wait!” I shout just as the gate attendants are about to close the doors. “Please, just a moment longer.”

“Sir, we’re closing the gate,” one attendant informs me, her voice firm but polite.

“Please,” I insist, desperation lacing my words. “I’m waiting for someone.”

The two attendants exchange glances, then relent with a nod. I linger in the doorway, my gaze scanning the bustling terminal. Where is she?

“Charlie!” That familiar voice cuts through the din, and there Marissa is, sprinting toward the gate, backpack slung over her shoulder.

Relief washes over me like a tidal wave.

“Marissa!” I exclaim, unable to contain my excitement.

The attendants glance at her, then back at me, clearly understanding our connection.

“Come on, you two,” one of them says, ushering us through the gate. “We need to get you seated.”

“Thank you,” I say breathlessly, my eyes locked on Marissa as we make our way down the ramp. She’s here! She came.

“Cutting it close, huh?” Marissa teases, a smile playing on her lips as she catches up to me.

“Wouldn’t be us if we didn’t,” I reply, my chest still heaving from my mad dash.

As we board the plane, the flight attendants hurry us to our seats. There’s no time for heartfelt conversations or lingering glances. We’re squeezed into a confined space with strangers all around, but I couldn’t be happier.

“Made it,” Marissa whispers, settling into her seat and buckling her seat belt.

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