Page 20 of Body Check

Fuck, I want to see her face when Matt hands over the goods. It’s nothing big, nothing monumental, but it’s a peace offering I know she’ll appreciate. If we’re going to be dancing around each other for the next few months, I need her on my side. I need her to know that I’m not the prick who’ll take her for granted when she’s doing it all for me—however much she wants to pretend otherwise.

“Carter.”

I flick my gaze up to Beaumont, who’s watching me with narrowed eyes. “Yeah?” My voice is gruffer than I’d like, and I grab my water bottle from the back of the seat in front of me and take a swig. “What’s up?”

He leans down as far as he can go, his chest crushing my seat back. “You look like you want to take ahit, buddy. Simmer down or you’re going to poke a hole in the bottom of Battleship.”

“Pretty sure this game is supposed to be G-rated,” pipes up Cain from across the aisle, just as I glance down at my crotch and . . . fuck me, but Andre is right.

I’m sporting wood.

For my ex-wife.

In a plane surrounded by my teammates.

Christ, it’s going to be a long four months.

Needing to get the conversation off me and my ill-timed hard-on, I pick up the board game and shove it at Beaumont as I climb to my feet. “Take this, will you?”

His fingers wrap around the sharp, plastic edges, his dark eyes flitting down before zeroing in on my face. “Masturbation in the bathroom won’t get you into the Mile High Club, Carter. Plus, no one on this plane wants to sleep with you.”

Cain chokes on a boisterous laugh when I narrow my eyes at him. To Andre, I drawl, “That’s not what you were telling me before Zoe entered the picture.”

Pure. Silence.

Beaumont lasts a total of four seconds before his neutral expression cracks and he’s bent over the board game, laughing so hard that heads swivel in our direction to see what’s going on. Including Holly’s.

She’s holding her gift bag to her chest as she stares down the aisle, some ten rows separating us. Blond hair pulled up in a ponytail. Black, rimmed glasses perched on her nose. Yoga pants and a blue Blades sweatshirt complete the outfit.

She looks fresh-faced and young, and I’m momentarily hit with memory after memory of waking up to her beside me in bed, her face smashed in the pillow, one arm splayed across my face. I can’t count the number of mornings I’ve woken her up by nipping at her arm, after being almost smothered by its weight in my sleep.

Sometimes romance isn’t cuddle sessions and lingerie—it’s clinging to the edge of the mattress and praying you don’t topple over when your wife decides to hog the entire bed.

Without giving myself the chance to switch gears, I duck my head to avoid smacking it on the overhead bins, and step into the aisle. The team is settling in for our flight to Nashville. Some of the guys are sleeping, heads propped awkwardly in the small confines of the seats; others quietly play on their phones. A few issue me their usual two-fingered salute as I pass them.

Matt, our regular attendant, smiles when he sees me approach. “Do you need something, Mr. Carter?”

I’ve told the guy hundreds of times to call me Jackson, but he always laughs me off. Short, thin, and with a mop of red hair on his head, he could be anywhere between forty and sixty as well as a stand-in for Ronald McDonald.

“Nah, I’m good, man. Just gotta piss real fast.”

Almost comically, he leans his slender frame to the left, his blue eyes no doubt landing on the bathroom at the back of the plane, close to where I was seated. When he looks my way again, I lift my brows, silently daring him to call me out on my bullshit.

But just like he’s always called me Mr. Carter, Matt’s the sorta guy who will always keep his nose out of people’s business. Without a word, he slips into the empty seat to his left to let me edge past him.

I give him a nod.

His mouth pulls wide. “Don’t piss on the floor, Mr. Carter, or you’ll be the one cleaning it up.”

Andthat’swhy the Blades will pay the guy whatever he wants: he gives as much shit as he takes, and like a momma bear, he’s never shy about putting us all in our places if the situation calls for it.

Hard-Ass Matt, the guys call him.

Matt’s shoulders never fail to inch back with pride whenever they do.

Holly has already taken her seat by the time I reach her side. Her camera girl, Carmen, sits beside her. I’ve known Carmen since she came on board with Carter Photography. Nice girl. Quirky. She hasn’t exactly been a cheerleader in my court since the divorce.

Not that I’ve ever worried about divided courts—I think it’s safe to say that both Holly and I have always wanted the people in our lives to feel okay with talking to us both.

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