Page 9 of Perfect Score

I give the bag a gentle push at first, but it doesn’t slide under even an inch.

I try again but it seems like the fabric of the bag is stopping it.

A frustrated huff escapes me as I shove it harder.

This stupid seat.

This stupid bag.

This stupid flight.

Everything feels too small, too cramped, like the walls are closing in on me. It’s not the airplane–I’ve never been a nervous flyer. It’s just the stress of what’s riding on this weekend; a perfect wedding for Phoebe and maybe Liam realizing that hemisses me. Sitting next to my nemesis isn’t helping to lower my blood pressure either.

Finally, with one last push, the bag slides into place, but not before my head smacks into the hard plastic seat back in front of me.

“Ooof,” the passenger in front of me groans.

I already know my cheeks just turned an embarrassing shade of cherry red.

“Sorry,” I whisper, rubbing the sore spot on my forehead.

I don’t look up at Brent as I slowly ease back into my seat, gently rubbing the injured spot.

It really hurts, but I don’t want Brent to know. I’m embarrassed enough as it is.

I realize that getting comfortable on this flight home is no longer an option—not with my large bag under my seat, a small welt on my forehead, and zero legroom to stretch out. At this point, I just need to get through this flight and then the next three days in proximity to my ex and the barista, and Brent, the guy who stood me up at prom.

The guy in the window seat has his headphones on and seems to be fast asleep already, leaning his head against the window. Brent clicks his seatbelt back into place, and I do everything I can to pull my body as far from him as humanly possible, waiting for him to finish so that I can do the same.

I steal a glance at him—his broad shoulders filling the seat, his relaxed posture—and I hate him a little more for looking so damn composed. Of course, he wouldn’t be fazed by this. Nothing rattles Brent Tomlin.

I should know. I spent most of my high school years sitting on the stadium bleacher seating of our local rink, watching my now ex-fiancé, Liam, and Brent play hockey. Nothing seems to rattle Brent, which makes him such a great hockey player, even though admitting that tastes bad in my mouth. I don’t like tothink of anything about Brent in a positive light. Especially what a talented hockey player he is… he’d enjoy my good opinion too much.

Or maybe he wouldn’t care at all. He certainly didn’t care that I had my heart set on going to prom.

It’s been years since prom night, and yet, here I am, still fuming about it. I close my eyes, willing the memories away, but they slip back in—the dress, the flowers, the excitement… all ruined because he decided that shooting pucks was more important than taking me to prom.

I take a deep breath, opening my eyes and staring straight ahead. I just need to survive this flight. And the wedding. And the next few days of seeing Liam parade his new life in front of me.

The seatbelt sign dings, and I fumble with my phone as it vibrates in my pocket.

My sister.

Before I can type a reply, Brent lets out an audible groan beside me, shifting like my texting is somehow a personal offense to his existence. My annoyance peaks.

"Really?" I mutter under my breath, but before I can say anything else, the flight attendant approaches our row, the tail of her Santa hat swaying, her eyes immediately lighting up at the sight of Brent.

Of course.

“Mr. Tomlin. Is there anything I can get you before we take off? I’m so sorry you were bumped from first class," she says, her eyelashes fluttering at him.

"It's okay. The holidays are busy, I get it. And call me Brent."

Her smile widens, a full, toothy grin at his charm.

Ugh. Somone, get me a barf bag.

"Ok, Brent," she says, trying his name out on her lips, clearly enjoying it. She shifts a little closer. "Great game last night. I saw that hit you made in the third period."

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