Page 1 of Perfect Score

Chapter One

Brent

“Ladies and gentlemen, we’ll be closing the door to the aircraft momentarily. We have one last passenger making their way down the gangway to board,” the flight attendant announcesover the intercom, her Santa Claus hat swaying back and forth as she speaks.

I glance at my watch, my jaw clenching. Three days until Christmas, and I need to get back to San Diego tonight. This is the last non-stop flight today, and tomorrow’s flights are already overbooked. If I don’t make it tonight, I’ll miss Gran’s birthday party tomorrow. That’s not an option. I promised her, and she’d never let me hear the end of it.

I hate flying.

I mean, I really hate it.

I guess that’s to be expected since my parents died my senior year of high school in a private plane piloted by my dad. It’s a miracle I’m even willing to get on one of these things at all. The only reason I’m not on a private flight right now is because that everything else was booked solid for the holidays, and now I’m stuck on this cramped commercial flight, counting down the minutes.

There’s really nothing to like about commercial flights.

For starters, the seats are too small for someone my size. They cram us into these tiny spaces, shoulder-to-shoulder with other people while we all inhale recycled farts. And turbulence? It's like God handed the controls over to a sadistic toddler, shaking the plane like a snow globe while grown men cry inside.

I let out an audible sigh, glancing over at the last open middle seat between me and another guy who’s about as big as I am. Earlier, we shared a knowing smile, thinking we were the lucky bastards who might get some extra room, but with this delay, it’s clear that hope’s dead. There’s no way that seat’s staying empty.

We should have known better.

“As soon as this passenger is seated, we’ll be on our way. Thank you for your patience,” she concludes, then hangs up the receiver.

I resist the urge to groan. If there’s one thing that pisses me off more than anything, it's people being late for their flights. It’s like the rest of us are being held hostage by someone else’s inability to manage their life. And now, I’m sitting here, stewing, knowing that my chance of getting home on time is in the hands of whoever this person is that's dragging their feet.

The Christmas music the pilot is streaming over the speakers only adds to my irritation. The jingling, the tinsel, the giant tree in the terminal—it all feels like a mockery of how things should be. Christmas is supposed to be about family, not getting stuck in an airport because someone can’t show up on time.

I rub a hand over my face, trying to calm myself. The last thing I need is to lose my cool, but it’s hard to keep it together when everything is so damn packed. I spent thirty extra minutes weaving through the chaos of the airport, stopping for selfies and signing autographs for Hawkeyes fans in Christmas sweaters. And I still made it on time.

Whoever’s late has no excuse.

Not that I mind the fans. They’re the reason I get to live out my childhood dream of playing professional hockey. I love them for it. But what I don’t love is arriving at the airport only to be told that the plane originally scheduled for this flight had issues with the lavatory and was out of commission. So now I’m stuck in coach because the replacement aircraft cut first-class seating in half. I’ve been bumped, and my oversized frame is jammed into this aisle seat.

I sigh again, glancing at the window as the seconds tick by, my anxiety bubbling under the surface. If this person doesn’t show up soon, I’m going to lose it.

As if this packed weekend wasn't enough, I’ve also got the Hawkeyes' big game against San Diego coming up right after Christmas. That’s where my head really needs to be. It’s a rivalry game, and the stakes are high. We’ve been preparing for weeks,and I can’t let my guard down for even a second. This isn’t just another regular season game—it’s San Diego, and we all have to be playing at our best for this one.

If we lose this game, we might not recover from it.

It could cost us the season.

It could cost us the Stanley Cup.

My phone rings in my pocket as I wait impatiently for the inconsiderate passenger who still hasn’t walked through the airplane door.

Grandma calling…

“Hi, Gran,” I say.

I shift in my seat, trying to get comfortable in my pleather chair with zero lumbar support.

“Hello, my favorite grandson. Are you on your flight?” she asks in a chipper tone.

I chuckle at the way I can already tell that my grandmother is working to butter me up for something she wants.

The last time she called for a favor, she asked me to fly out for the retirement center’s annual Summer’s Night Ball to take her best friend Trixie to the event. Trixie was too shy to ask any of the men in their retirement community.

Turns out that men of that age in retirement communities tend to get a little territorial of the single woman they have at their disposal. They don’t like younger men coming in and taking the available stock.

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