Page 55 of Crossing the Top Line

I turn my flat, unamused stare onto him, not that he notices. He’s too busy pulling out a handheld game system and turning on his headphones to notice anything.

“What are you doing?” I ask, trying to keep my exasperation from my words.

Elijah has the nerve to blink at me in confusion, as if I’m the one acting strange. “Getting ready for takeoff,” he says slowly, the end of his sentence lifting slightly in question.

“I told you—”

“Well, this is great.”

I turn at the deep, sarcastic quip, finding Logan standing in the aisle on my left, staring down at me, one eyebrow quirked.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I throw back, spine straightening defensively.

He doesn’t answer, sliding into the seat beside me with a shrug. “Usually, one of my assistant coaches sits next to me,” he says simply, pulling a tablet and notepad from his bag.

I continue to glare at him, daring him to make me move. But instead, he starts watching game film, taking notes every few seconds.

“I’m not moving, if that’s what you’re implying,” I snap back, turning back to my laptop.

“It wasn’t,” Logan mutters, not looking up from his tablet.

I sigh, slumping a little in my seat. Eli is absorbed in his game, though his body is tilted toward me so our shoulders brush. I roll my eyes, turning back to my screen. But I stare at the email from marketing, reading the same bland request four times without really comprehending a word.

“Two coffees. One black. Do you take cream and sugar, Victoria?”

I turn to Logan at the sound of my name, confused for a moment before I realize one of the flight attendants is half squatting in the aisle next to him.

“Black is fine,” I mutter automatically.

The older woman smiles politely before she scurries off to the galley to get our drinks. Most of the team is on board, but the doors are still open as we wait for the equipment managers to finish loading up the gear bags before joining us.

“Why this seat?” he asks, making another note.

I glance at his legal pad, not that I can understand any of the chicken scratch he’s put down. I make out a few names, but beyond that, it might as well be written in Greek. When I look back up, I find his inky green eyes locked on my face, expression neutral but expectant. I sit back, facing him slightly.

“Fifty-six is my number. I was born on May sixth, in Room 256 of the hospital. My dad’s number was—”

“56. Didn’t he get the game winner against the Rangers in the Stanley Cup Final?” he interrupts, genuine interest sparking in his eyes.

I nod. “The final score was 3-2. Five goals scored in game six. The way my aunt and uncle tell it, my mom stopped mid-push when he got his breakaway.”

We share a chuckle, and he opens his mouth to ask something else, but the flight attendant returns with our coffees and he turns to thank her. Passing me my cardboard cup, he lifts it slightly in cheers before taking a sip. He hisses at the heat, but that doesn’t stop Logan from going in again for a much larger swig.

I look back to my laptop, my lips twisting as I consider the email before deciding it can wait. Closing the lid, I balance my cup carefully on my tray as I move to stow it away.

“Wait, is that—did you go to University of Michigan?” Logan blurts, pulling my attention back to his face.

I nod, smiling a little. After I put away my laptop, we fall into an easy conversation about college hockey and our alma mater that lasts through takeoff and well into the flight. Only when the offensive coach sits down in the seat across the aisle from him does Logan turn away, and I swear there’s more than a little reluctance in his parting half-smile.

ThecrowdinNashvilleis rowdy, but not in an unpleasant way. It’s been a close game, the lead seesawing back and forth for the first two periods. And now, halfway through the third, it’s all tied up again. The hallways outside the seats are empty, no one daring to even take a bathroom break as the clock counts down. But I’m walking as quickly as I can manage to get to the visiting team tunnel before the final buzzer.

I meet with the broadcast interview team as they are getting set up in front of a portable backdrop, prepping for the post-game interviews. Once we agree on the list of questions they’re going to ask, I edge my way down the tunnel, not too close to be in the way, but close enough that I can see the jumbotron suspended over the ice.

Three minutes left, no goals scored. This is going to be tight.

I don’t know if there’s a single butt in a seat as the clock counts down, the chanting and noise rising to a fever pitch. My heart races as I follow the action on the screen, hissing and groaning at every shot blocked or deflected. Marku Finney, the center on the fourth line, with Owen Leblanc and Zemgus Ozolins, makes a break for the offensive zone, but gets checked into the boards before he can clear center ice. But our Pair of Ovs on defense, Evgeny Petrov and Grigori Voronov, stonewall any advance the Predators offense try to make.

The buzzer blares through the air, making me jump. We’re going into overtime.

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