Page 3 of Taking It To Overtime
Blondie is still standing hunched in his own aisle. He let the horde pass too, and I sigh because I know what’s coming next.
“Hey,” he says as I step into the aisle and finally straighten my back.
I reach for my suitcase. Maybe if I look busy enough, he’ll assume I didn’t hear him.
“You’re Vera, right? Vera Novak?”
I wonder how long I can pretend he doesn’t exist. Cooper always tells me to travel with headphones jammed in my ears, even if I’m not listening to anything. Plausible deniability. I don’t look up, keeping my eyes trained on the metal handle of my bag, fiddling with the zipper as I try to sidestep past the man.
He’s not bad looking, or even unfriendly, but I am not interested in small talk with a complete stranger. Not while every atom in my being is straining to get off this damn airplane. I’m not interested in smiling and making eye contact and acting pleasant. I want an iced coffee, a bathroom, and to reapply mydeodorant. Not necessarily in that order. The niceness could all be a trick, anyway.
Normally I’d be the first in line to tell anyone—especially women—that we do not owe men an ounce of anything more than basic courtesy. And even that is up for debate. Some men—some people—do not know how to take a hint. Or they’re just assholes. Or both. But it’s different when you’re recognizable. Cooper put me on the map, but it was my Sports Unlimited edition that made me someone who got stopped in the street. Pose in a bikini once, and the world (read: men) thinks I owe them my time and energy.
“I’m Jack,” the man says, and a giant hand appears under my nose. Close enough that a tiny voice in my brain tells me I could bite it. Or sneeze on it. I do neither.
I’d love to ignore every other person on this plane, or sail through a single day with relative anonymity. It’s almost possible in LA, surrounded by people more famous than I am, but the unfortunate truth is if I don’t turn on the charm for anyone and everyone who says hello, then I end up with a reputation for being cold. Aloof. Unapproachable. Three things that sound fantastic. Until I need to book another job and the photographer or designer has “reservations” about my personality.
“Hello,” I say, looking up through my lashes. I was just under one-hundred-and-eighty centimeters last time my agency took my measurements. This man tops me by a few inches. His hands are enormous, sinewy, with short blunt nails. There are calluses wrapping around his thumb and the top of his pointer finger. When I slide my hand into his, I feel one along the base of his thumb too. ”Nice to meet you.”
“I hope you don’t mind me saying hello,” he says, and there’s a hint of a blush dusting his rounded cheeks. Up close, he can’t be much over eighteen, baby-face, patchy, attempted-beard andall. “I wasn’t sure it was you, but I never forget…” he pauses. “A face.” The grin he hits me with is complete with a dimple.
It’s a fight not to roll my eyes.
I suppose he deserves an ounce of credit for keeping his gaze above my breasts. I’d bet my favorite pair of Louboutin heels it wasn’t my face this kid stared at the first time he saw me, and I don’t make jokes about my shoe collection.
I smile and step past him, tilting my head until my hair swings forward, brushing the top of my shoulder. It’s a look I’ve practiced to make me look feminine, sweet, welcoming. It’s meant to distract him while I walk away, and leave him with a fun memory of our very brief encounter. He can tell all his buddies that I was flirting with him. Once I’m ensconced in my hotel room.
“I’m Jack,” he says again, stepping into the aisle behind me. He’s not crowding into my personal space, but it’s impossible not to know he’s there. He’s broader through the neck and shoulders than I realized.
“So you said.” I keep my voice low, beating down my sarcasm with a stick. “I’m sorry, but I need to—”
“Jack Spaeglin,” he says, as if the name will mean something to me. It almost does. A zap in my brain, neurons firing like I’ve heard it before and should recognize it. I don’t. “I’m a hockey player.”
He seems so proud of that fact, dimples spreading wide, blue eyes sparkling in the hazy light filtering in from the tiny, oval windows. I had guessed an athlete of some sort, but I should have known it was hockey. Once upon a time—in a life far, far away—my entire world revolved around hockey boys.Well, one in particular. I squash that thought before I can follow it like it’s a carrot tied to a stick and dangling in front of my mouth. It took me the better part of the last sixteen years to leave the past in thepast. I am not about to dredge it up here and now with a man I’ve never met.
“You must have worked very hard for that,” I say, to soften the blow I’m about to send him, “but I’m sorry, I don’t follow many sports.”
“Oh.”
I glance back at him, over my shoulder, and there’s a tiny wrinkle between his brows.
“My bad,” he shrugs, “I just thought you might follow my team.”
I turn away to hide my eye roll, even as I wrack my brain. Does he play for Buffalo? They’re the closest pro team. Or LA? It must have something to do with geography, which means he didn’t just recognize me. He’s also probably looked me up online.
“I play for the Arctic.”
I almost stumble as the words stretch and condense in my brain. Because I’m a liar who tells big, whopping, fat lies to complete strangers. Idofollow one sport. And one team. And it makes sense that I should have recognized him and his name because yes, the Arctic is the one team I follow. Except I don’t pay attention for him. I pay attention—
“With Robbie Oakes,” he says.
This time I do trip. Stumbling into the bank of seats to my left. My suitcase slams into my ankle bone, the ache radiating up my shin as I try to hide my wince.
Because that one hockey boy that used to be my universe? The one I’ve pretended that I don’t still think about? He and boy wonder are teammates.
And the only reason this kid would be on a commercial flight to the-middle-of-nowhere, New York? During the off-season? Is probably to see the same man that I’m desperate to avoid.
If I hada dollar for every time someone assumed I grew up in New York City, I’d have more money than my current NHL contract. That’s not an exaggeration. Only about a quarter of the players in the league are from the US, when I combine that with the fact most Americans haven’t heard of Kimmelwick, it’s no wonder that the minute I mention my home state, I am greeted with the follow up statement, “oh the Big Apple!”
