Page 78 of Crossing the Top Line

@BoyMomma66: If the game is cancelled, I should receive the refund automatically. When will I see my money back in my account?

“That’s not how this works. That’s not how any of this works,” I hiss into the silence of my office, rubbing at my temples.

I send the customer service number one more time before muting the conversation and exiting the thread. At this point, I’ve done all I can.

Shutting my laptop screen, I lean back in my chair, tilting my head back to face the ceiling and closing my eyes. This isn’t the first message of its kind today, and I doubt it’ll be the last. Not with the notice that the team put out this morning. Games are postponed for the next week, at minimum. Like the rest of the city, the New Orleans Mystic are hunkering down to wait out the storm.

I check my phone, sighing deeply. Terry’s gone from a passing annoyance to a serious threat overnight, the meteorologists predicting near record storm surges and dangerous winds. We’re still in Category Two, but just barely.

A text comes through, my heart skipping a beat as I read the sender’s name, a little smile pulling at my lips.

Oliver: How are things on your side of the river?

Me: As good as they can be. Michael next door is putting storm shutters on half the houses on the block, and I’ve already laid out my sandbags.

Oliver: Coach told us to take our stuff home today. I guess the higher-ups are getting hints that Terrytown might have to evacuate. Something about the rain last week pushing the pumps to max and flooding could get bad.

Cursing under my breath, I open my laptop to pull up the local news page to look for evac announcements. A few of the neighborhoods closest to the lake were told to get the hell out of dodge as of last night, but the list has gotten longer since I checked earlier today. Though I’m not surprised that management was given an advanced warning before it’s public knowledge. It lets the team figure out arrangements for staff to make sure the hatches are properly battened.

My phone goes off in my hand, but I ignore it as I check my email, trying to make sure I haven’t missed any communication or notices. But then it buzzes again, and a third time in quick succession, forcing me to look.

Oliver: If you have to evacuate, do you have somewhere to go?

Oliver: It might be better for you to get out sooner rather than later. If the order comes through, traffic is going to get crazy.

Oliver: I don’t know if you’ve looked outside today, but it’s getting really bad, Tor.

My brow furrows as I read that, and I stand up from my desk for the first time since I sat down at half-past five this morning. Plywood covers all of my windows, and I realize that the hammering I was hearing is coming from the house on my other side. When I reach my front door, I can’t tell much from the limited view through the frosted glass. But when I unlock it and poke my head outside, I regret it immediately.

The wind is blowing the steady rain at an angle, drops pelting me in the face even under the protection of my porch. I can hear trees creaking, though I don’t see any of the ones in my immediate line-of-sight bent at distressing angles yet. The difference in air pressure makes my front door slam as I close it, shaking the glass in the frame. I’ve received another message in the short time I’ve been away from my desk.

Oliver: Spencer wants to come get you.

Me: To take me where? It’s safer for us to stay inside and wait this out.

Oliver: They’ve just added Whitney to the evacuation list, Tori.

With a hard swallow, I refresh the news page. And sure as fuck, there it is. I unlock my phone to reply, but Oliver beats me to it.

Oliver: Where do you usually go when this happens?

I bite my lip as I consider my answer. In the six years I’ve lived here, this is the first time I’ve ever had to deal with a hurricane evacuation. My neighborhood isn’t that far below sea level, but the river has been higher than usual from an extremely wet summer and early fall. The city has been overly cautious ever since Katrina, so there’s a chance this is just a “better safe than sorry” evacuation.

Me: I’ll be fine.

Oliver: Wrong answer.

Me: What is that supposed to mean?

All I get is radio silence. I roll my eyes and set my phone down to answer an email. Now that I’m listening for it, I can hear the wind howling, and my little house creaks ever so slightly under the pressure. I’m still answering emails, when I hear pounding on my door.

I pace out to the front door, grabbing a few twenties from my purse to give Michael for his help. But when I open the door, my jaw hits the floor.

Spencer Black staggers inside, closing the door before I can stop him.

“What the hell are you—”

He shoots me a sharp look, the ocean blue of his eyes churning like the sea not too far from us. And whatever I was about to say dies in my throat.

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