Page 102 of Slap Shot Daddies

“Thanks for dinner.” I scoop up my purse and keys from the table, the leather straps cool against my fingertips. “I have to go home now.”

With that, I stride confidently out the front door, my head held high, my heart brimming with newfound resolve.

It’s time to go to my real home.

To my men.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Braden

The plane landswith a sudden jolt, shaking me awake from a restless half-sleep. My neck aches from being twisted in an awkward angle for too long.

The engine's dull roar gradually fades, replaced by the sound of seatbelts clicking open and passengers stretching their stiff limbs.

I push the discomfort aside.

I yank my earbuds out and stuff them into my pocket, barely registering the flight attendant’s upbeat announcements about safely deplaning.

Standing, I reach for my bag in the overhead compartment, its weight feeling like a leaden burden despite my light packing for this short trip.

As soon as I step into the bustling terminal, the icy Minneapolis air greets me like a rejuvenating breath, instantly dispelling the stuffy warmth of the plane.

I waste no time; with my phone in hand, I stride toward the rideshare pickup zone, scrolling swiftly to Kenzie’s contact.

I press call.

The phone rings once, then twice, and a third time.

Voicemail.

Damn.

My jaw clenches as I impatiently open the Uber app and type in her address. Surely, she must be back from Ohio by now, I reason, trying to reassure myself.

A sleek black sedan pulls up to the curb, and I toss my bag into the trunk before sliding into the back seat. "This address," I instruct the driver, my voice terse.

I let out a sharp breath, resting my forehead against the cool glass of the window as the cityscape blurs by. It's time to figure out what I'm going to say to her when I finally see her.

The Uber driver keeps glancing at me in the rearview mirror, his eyes flicking between the road and the restless movement of my foot tapping incessantly against the floorboard.

The cityscape blurs past, a chaotic dance of headlights and shadows as we weave through the snarled traffic.

My mind is a jumble of urgency and regret.

I need to see her, to talk to her.

Fumbling for my phone, my fingers tremble slightly as I dial her number once more.

Straight to voicemail again.

I mutter a curse under my breath, frustration bubbling up as I rake a hand through my hair, the strands slipping through my fingers. This whole situation is a tangled web of mistakes and misunderstandings.

But it’s my mess.

And I’m the one who has to unravel it.

I lean my head back against the seat, eyes fixed on the streaks of streetlights that paint the night sky, my thoughts racing alongside them.

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