Page 12 of Skating and Fake Dating
Bailey’s gaze lifts toward mine and the corner of her lip curls. “Well, this confirms that you remain cool under pressure, especially in unusual workplace environments.”
“I think we’ve gone beyond workplace at this point,” I say, my voice lower than intended.
Her eyes widen slightly.
I quickly add, “I meant the situation. Not us. There is no us. Obviously.”
“Obviously,” she echoes, but her voice catches or it could be that the plane jostles again.
We experience a long minute of turbulence before the flight attendant knocks again. “Sir? Ma’am? You must get back to your seats. I’m going to try something with the door mechanism.”
Bailey bites her lip. “For the record, when we get out of here and face everyone staring, I’m blaming you entirely.”
I try to stifle a smile. “Me? You’re the one who?—”
“Who what?” Her eyebrow arches in challenge, and suddenly, I can’t remember what I was about to say. Something about how she followed me in here? But that isn’t right. Or was it about how her vanilla maple scent is making it impossible to think straight?
I finally manage, “You’re the one who has the better story for her friends.”
She laughs again—that sound I’m quickly becoming addicted to—when suddenly the door slides open with a whoosh.
Bailey pitches backward. Arms full of pins and needles, I catch her before she falls. The corners of Bailey’s smile press against her pink cheeks.
The flight attendant stands there with a small tool in hand, looking both relieved and scandalized. Behind her, a line of curious passengers crane their necks to see the commotion.
Bailey immediately puts six inches between us—the most the tiny space allows—and smooths her hair. “Thank you,” she says with such poise you’d think she was exiting a business meeting rather than an airplane bathroom.
As we awkwardly shuffle past the staring passengers, Bailey whispers so only I can hear, “Next time, let’s exit with a little more pizazz—give the passengers a funny story to telltheirfriends.”
I nearly trip over my own feet. She’s pretty and funny, too. Itake a sharp inhale because those aren’t thoughts I should be having. They defy logic. Lived experience.
Bailey and I do an awkward dance as passengers whisper around us, likely speculating about what went on in the lavatory.
Biting her lip, she points. “Um, I still need to use the bathroom.”
My features scrunch. “Maybe don’t use that one until the lock is fixed. I don’t want to have to tear off the door to rescue you.”
She looks up and smiles. “You’d do that for me?”
I give a nod because I’m afraid of how dangerous answering that question could be.
I return to my seat and the plane levels out, but my pulse still experiences significant turbulence.
When we finally touchdown, reality rushes toward me. I’m no longer on the Knights and the new team is a big, dark question mark along with my future. Yeah, I’m disappointed. But I’m not giving up. My goal is the same as always. I’m going to bring home the Stanley Cup. How much do I want it? Bad. Forget having a pity party, I’ll rally for the new team. For the fans.
But not for a pretty blonde, no matter how cute and adorably awkward she is or how much like a teenager with a crush she makes me feel.
CHAPTER 7
BAILEY
My head tips against the back of my seat, not only because the plane is landing, but because first, the flight was delayed, then we missed our connection and had to wait for the next one. After turbulence and being trapped in the bathroom, this flight has been diverted to another airport.
I left my sense of time, reality, and reason somewhere over the Rockies when Carson and I were squished together in the small bathroom. It was both terrifying and electrifying.
My body still hums from his proximity, from the soft brush of his breath across my cheek, and the way his blue-green gaze turned me to liquid. I think my system is still in shock. The warmth of Carson so close made me pink all over. My cheek against his chest and the thrum of his heartbeat caused a tiny, secret, traitorous smile that just won’t quit.
With a frustrated exhale, I say to myself, “So much for ‘perfect planning equals perfect results.’”
