Page 54 of Crossing the Top Line

“Show me,” Oliver demands.

I glare at him through the rearview mirror, slamming my door closed with more force than necessary before holding out an empty hand. I can smell my coffee, but I can’t see it. My best guess is that Oli’s holding it hostage until I comply with his demands. Unfortunately for him, I don’t negotiate with terrorists before I’ve had caffeine.

We’re silent for several heartbeats, neither of us backing down in the standoff. Not even Spencer shifting next to me and Elijah clearing his throat can break my attention.

“Found ’em,” Spencer calls, sitting forward slightly.

I finally break eye contact and look over to find Spencer holding my phone, wallet, house keys, and passport up for Oliver to see. My jaw drops as I gape at him, not that he notices, as he’s bending over to return my stuff to the front pocket of my bag.

Elijah cackles, and I turn my glare on him. He stops and gives me a smile, even batting his eyelashes at me innocently. I huff as I sit back in my seat, crossing my arms over my chest. And to my supreme displeasure, Oliver turns and hands the extra-large caramel macchiato to his accomplice.

“Traitor,” I grumble, not looking at Spencer.

“Well, that’s what you get when you don’t listen,” Oliver says as he puts the vehicle in gear and pulls away from the curb outside of my house.

I watch the houses pass as we make our way to the arena. The first hint of a sunrise turns the sky a dull blue, the few stars that shine through the light pollution winking out. There’s a nudge on my leg and I turn to find Spencer holding the untouched cup out toward me, keeping his attention forward and the cup low to avoid detection. As subtly as I can manage, I take my coffee, catching Spencer’s wink and smirk.

It’s almost nice to be doing something as normal as commuting to work together. This week has been a roller coaster of emotions, to say the least. I can admit to myself that I’m relieved Spencer and I have begun to clear the air between us. I won’t ever be able to forget what happened—the handful of drugs I have to take will be a daily reminder—but I can try to give him grace. And being able to be in the same room as him without making everyone feel incredibly awkward will be a pleasant change. Like this car ride, for example. If Eli had suggested a week ago that they could pick me up and take me to the arena for this stretch of away games I’m accompanying them on, I would have laughed in his face and refused. But now, I’m in the same enclosed space as Spencer, and we’re not making our fellow passengers want to tuck and roll onto the highway to escape the oppressive tension.

That’s a step in the right direction I didn’t think I was capable of. A baby step, sure, but a step all the same.

I wish I could have the same confidence about my relationship with Oli. His intentions are clearly not platonic, and no amount of mental gymnastics could change that. My instincts are in constant conflict, the omega in me wanting to jump feet first into these uncharted waters, while the rest of me is constantly on edge, waiting for the other shoe to drop. I function at my best when I have plans, but I’ve never met anyone like Oliver, or like Elijah. I keep looking for their angle, what theyreallywant from me, and I’ve yet to come to any satisfying conclusions.

The caffeine infusion helps to settle the tentacles of self-doubt and anxiety, allowing me to push my thoughts away into a neat pile in the back of my mind for the moment. By the time I can see the arena between the buildings, I've gotten them in order. There’s no use trying to solve this puzzle right this second, I remind myself. We’ve got a job to do.

When we pull into the parking garage, I drain the last drops from my cup as we pile out of the car, grinning at Oliver as I smack my lips. He looks at me for a moment, like he wants to say something, but instead just shakes his head and stalks off toward the trunk to unload our personal luggage. When I go to grab my carry-on sized bag, he keeps his grip on the handle, dragging me forward so he can lean close to my ear.

“I thought you wanted to be a good girl,” he mutters.

I chuckle once humorlessly even as my stomach does a backflip, very recent memories flashing behind my eyes before I shut it down. “Joke’s on you, then, Ace,” I reply, taking my bag free of his grip before flouncing away toward the exit, pulling my rolling bag behind me as my oversized purse bounces on my hip.

It doesn’t take long for the guys to catch up, falling into stride with me as we make our way toward the main entrance. My heels echo in the empty plaza in front of the arena, the world silent for the moment. But as Elijah pulls the door, holding it open for us, the noise of a small army reaches my ears.

Equipment techs, logistics staff, players, and coaches are all assembled in the main lobby of the arena, patiently waiting for the buses to arrive to drive us to the airport. Everyone is dressed in their Sunday best despite it being the ass crack of dawn. I lead the way to check in, and after passing along our personal bags, I leave them to find the media crew.

“’Chere, you shine up like a new penny,” Gene crows as he spots me, his deep Cajun drawl and his booming laugh pulling my lips into a smile.

“You say that every time, G,” I reply, rolling my eyes fondly.

“And I mean it every time,” he says, wrapping me in a brief side hug.

Gene Robichaux has been the team’s play-by-play broadcast announcer for nearly forty years, and he’s something of a local legend. It’s impossible to miss him in a crowd, standing at well over six and a half feet, the dark skin of his bald head can be spotted from a dozen yards away. And if you don’t see him, you’ll hear his infectious laugh clear as day. When I first started, he made sure I always had a place to sit at team meals, and never failed to include me in conversation.

Mike Martin, his broadcast partner, is another former hockey player, though not for the Mystic. And right now, as I take a moment to give him a once-over, he might be sleeping standing up. A man after my own heart, even if he’s old enough to be my father.

I smell Eli before his arm drapes around my shoulders, pulling me a little closer than what might be considered friendly. Crisp spruce trees and warm cinnamon wrap around me, and I try not to stiffen or wince at the sudden touch.

“Sit next to me on the plane?” he asks softly, pulling my attention away from the conversation with Gene and Mike.

I look at him, finding I have to actually look down with the added height of my heels. Giving him a soft smile, I shrug. “I’m supposed to sit with the staff, not the players,” I reply, keeping my voice down.

Eli sticks out his lower lip, pouting. But then he brightens up. “Sounds good,” he says simply, walking away before I can stop him to ask any follow-up questions.

I push my curiosity and confusion away for the moment as the buses pull up in front of the arena and everyone starts migrating. The players and team staff take one bus, while the support staff take another, which is fine for me. The coffee’s kicking in, and I spend the ride to the airport answering emails and notifications undisturbed. Once we pass through security and make our way onto the plane, I frown for a moment when I take in the seating arrangements.

All of the seats are the larger kind that’re usually reserved for business class on commercial flights, which isn’t unusual. But the rows are arranged with three seats in the center of the plane, and an aisle on either side, separating the trio from two additional seats next to the windows. I find my favorite seat, Row 5, Seat F, letting out a resigned sigh that it is the exact middle seat of the row. But tradition is tradition, so I get myself settled, pulling out my laptop almost immediately to try to squeeze in a few minutes of work before we take off.

But my efforts to be productive prove to be in vain, because not two minutes after I boot up, Eli drops into the seat on my right with a satisfied sigh.

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