Page 238 of Scoring the Player

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“I don’t think it’s that serious.”

“Salem.”

“What?”

I tilt my head and squint at him.

“Alright, alright. I’ll go find out. Hold on. I’ll call you back.”

“What’s the name of the charter service? I’ll check their reviews.” I’m met with silence. “Hello?”

I check the screen. He already hung up.

I hit play on the TV as I wait for him to call back.

Did he mention the name of the charter service this morning?I rack my brain but come up blank.

I’m sure it’s fine.

I slide my phone ringer on, so I don’t miss his call, and then twist back and forth, stretching out my torso.

There’s a chorus of boos from the crowd on screen.

I turn to grab the remote from the bed to rewind when I’m locked in place.

Touch it, and his jet will go down.

I glare at the remote.

It’s just anxiety, another voice says.

I lean in, my fingers a few inches away.

Touch it, and he dies.

I step back, my fingers curling into a tight fist. Energy drains from me like I’m hurtling toward a mean post-game adrenaline crash.

I turn and yank the TV out of the wall.

Why hasn’t he called back yet? I check my ringer again.

Yeah, I’m definitely crashing. I need to lie down.

I search for something to get the remote off the bed without direct contact. I eye my guitar and wait for the dread that tells me I can’t use it to hit. When it doesn’t come, I pluck it up and use the body to flick the remote. It crashes to the floor, sending one of the batteries flying across the room.

My phone pings.

Salem

Just boarded. It’s all good. See you soon.

Me

What was the mechanical issue?

I call him, and it goes to voicemail.

Hmph.

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