Page 92 of The Pucking Wrong Rookie

As the night went on, the banter flowed as freely as the non-alcoholic wine, and I couldn’t help but notice Logan relaxing beside me, his earlier tension melting away. At some point, Geraldine leaned over to me, her sharp eyes twinkling.

“He’s different with you,” she said quietly, nodding toward Logan.

I glanced at him, my chest tightening at the softness in his expression as he laughed at something Camden had said. “Different how?”

Geraldine smiled knowingly. “Happy.”

For a moment, I couldn’t find a response. Instead, I just squeezed Logan’s hand under the table, feeling a warmth I hadn’t expected. Maybe Geraldine was right. Maybe he was different.

And maybe, just maybe, so was I.

CHAPTER22

SLOANE

The sleek black car came to a stop, and the driver stepped out, opening the door for me with a polished smile. “Here you go, ma’am,” he said, handing me my suitcase as I stepped out into the humid morning air. The private plane loomed ahead, gleaming against the runway lights. I swallowed hard, gripping the handle tightly. Logan had insisted that I fly with his friends’ wives to the next game, and somehow…I’d agreed. Despite the fact that they’d been overwhelmingly warm and kind at the last game and also at dinner the other night, I was still trying to not be an anxious mess.

Taking a deep breath, I climbed the stairs, each step echoing faintly in my head. As I reached the top, the door opened, and I was greeted by the last thing I expected: a gray-haired woman with spectacles, who had to be at least seventy, dressed in a cat sweater that saidI’m feline fine. She was wearing orthopedic shoes, and her warm smile radiated grandmotherly energy.

I glanced back and helplessly watched the car I’d arrived in drive away. He’d dropped me off at the wrong plane.

“Hi, dearie,” she chirped. “You must be Sloane. My name’s Mabel. I’m so glad you’re here.”

I blinked. Once. Twice. Or maybe I wasn’t in the wrong place. “Uh…thanks,” I said slowly, my voice trailing off as I tried to piece together what was happening.

“Have a cookie while we wait to take off,” Mabel said, holding out a tray piled high with what looked like homemade chocolate chip cookies. “We’ll have all sorts of good stuff for you once we’re up to cruising altitude.”

“Thank you,” I said, my voice trailing off as I hesitantly took a cookie from the tray. I stepped inside, blinking at the sight of another older woman ahead of us with a pitcher of lemonade. Did her name tag say…Edna?

The sweet smell of freshly baked goods followed me into the plane, and I glanced into the cockpit as I passed by. There, to my utter disbelief, were three more older women—all with silver hair—fiddling with switches like they’d been flying planes since World War II.

What was going on?

I kept moving, the cookie halfway to my mouth, as I began to make my way down the narrow aisle. My focus was still on the bizarre setup I’d just seen, so much so that it took me a second to realize everyone else was already here.

Monroe, Blake, Olivia—holding the cutest baby I’d ever seen—and Anastasia were lounging in plush seats, looking perfectly at ease as they sipped what appeared to be lemonade from crystal glasses. Their faces lit up when they saw me.

“Sloane, you’re here!” Monroe said excitedly, patting the seat next to her.

“Hi,” I said awkwardly, her enthusiasm catching me off guard.

“Take a bite of that cookie. It’s life-changing,” Blake urged, gesturing to the warm treat in my hand.

“Oh, right.” I bit into the cookie out of politeness…and then moaned. It was warm and gooey, melting in my mouth. “Holy fuck that’s good.”

“According to Mabel, she’s been working on that recipe her entire life,” said Anastasia, happily snacking on her own cookie.

“Mabel and Edna…are the flight attendants?” I asked hesitantly. “Are they like Lincoln’s grandmas or something?”

Olivia snorted, and a second later, all four of them were laughing.

“Welcome to Grandma Airlines,” Blake said, throwing up her hands and giving me jazz fingers like she’d just got done with a big reveal on a game show.

“I can’t tell if you’re joking or not,” I snorted.

“No, seriously. That’s what we call it,” said Monroe, taking a sip of her drink. “It was Lincoln’s way to ensure that no guy would talk to me, and then the others joined in.”

I gaped at her. “He bought this so other guys wouldn’t talk to you?”

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