Page 56 of Slap Shot Daddies

The plane hums beneath me,a steady vibration that resonates through the seat as we carve our path through the vast sky.

The cool glass of the window presses against my forehead, offering little solace as my mind churns with a storm of thoughts that refuse to settle.

Beyond the glass, an endless expanse of clouds drifts by, the sun painting the horizon in rich, warm hues of orange and pink, but the breathtaking view barely registers in my preoccupied mind.

All I can think about is them.

Ambrose. Braden. Reggie.

Their names echo in my thoughts. I’ve been with each of them, together in a whirlwind of passion, and now, separately.

My stomach twists, not with regret, but with a deeper, more unsettling feeling that gnaws at me.

Surprisingly, none of them have shown any jealousy. There’s been no possessiveness, no tension, just an easy acceptance of this wild, tangled web we’ve woven around ourselves.

They seem perfectly content to share me, to coexist in this complex and unconventional relationship we’ve stumbled into.

I bite my lip, my fingers clenching the armrest with a mixture of anxiety and disbelief. Could it really be that I am enough for them? The thought seems both thrilling and impossible, a tantalizing dream just out of reach.

I close my eyes, letting out a soft exhale. The stale scent of airplane air mingles with the aroma of brewed coffee and the mingled colognes of my fellow passengers, creating a nauseating mix that turns my stomach.

My mind keeps flickering back to the three of them: Ambrose’s hands tracing my skin, Braden’s tender kisses, Reggie’s teasing smirk that always makes my heart race.

My body tingles at the vivid memories, but reality quickly dampens the warmth of those moments as I remember my destination.

Ohio. Home.

The word feels heavy, laden with an impending sense of dread.

I suppress a sigh and shift uncomfortably in my seat as the flight attendant’s voice crackles over the intercom, announcing our descent.

This trip promises to be a journey through hell.

The plane lands with a gentle yet unmistakable jolt, pulling me from my daydreams back into reality. The familiar ding of the seatbelt sign turning off serves as my signal to reach down and retrieve my bag from beneath the seat.

I sling it over my shoulder, joining the slow-moving procession of passengers shuffling toward the exit.

As I step off the plane and into the terminal, I weave my way through a bustling sea of travelers, past chattering families, bored businessmen with their eyes glued to screens, and weary college students looking like they’ve just pulled an all-nighter.

Finally, I make my way to the rental car counter.

Ten minutes later, I slide into the driver’s seat of a sleek silver sedan, the interior suffused with the overwhelming scent of artificial pine. I wrinkle my nose in distaste and crack the window, letting in a breath of fresh air as I steer out of the airport and merge onto the highway.

Driving through Hayesville, Ohio feels surreal, like stepping into a recurring dream that I can never quite shake off.

It’s a nostalgia tinged with unease, the kind that knots my stomach and drags me back to a time when I was sixteen, suffocating under the weight of expectations that never seemed to lift.

Everything remains stubbornly familiar.

Instead of heading straight to my parents’ house, I veer toward my hotel, seeking a final night of solitude before the inevitable barrage of questions and prying begins.

I crave one last moment of peace, a brief respite before diving into the deep waters of family expectations and history.

I settle into the hotel room, slinging my suitcase onto the stiff, unyielding mattress before flopping onto the drab, patterned couch.

With a sigh, I reach for my phone, my fingers flicking through the endless stream of notifications, but my thoughts inevitably drift back to the boys.

No matter how earnestly I try to anchor my focus on something, anything, else, they stealthily weave their way into my mind.

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