Page 10 of Skating and Fake Dating
An arm flies forward, mushing against the side of my face as the hand towel dispenser cushions the blow to the back of my head.
“What the?—?”
“Sorry, sorry, sorry. The lavatory in coach was occupied and I really needed to—” She goes quiet.
“Bailey?” I say at the same time she says, “Mr. Crane?”
Pressed against the sink, Bailey’s eyes wide with shock, and still wearing her mismatched pantsuit and pineapple blouse, somehow makes this whole scenario even more absurd.
The plane dips again. I brace myself with one hand againstthe wall and find Bailey’s waist to hold her steady. So much for maintaining professional boundaries.
“We keep meeting like this,” she says.
“In an airplane bathroom?” I immediately regret it, belatedly realizing what she means.
“Small confined spaces. The elevator, my cubicle, and now?—”
The plane shakes again, jostling us with the reminder of how very close together we are.
“We were lucky earlier and didn’t get stuck in the elevator. Let’s hope the plane—” I stop myself because not only do I seem to struggle with stringing sentences together around this woman, but I don’t want to scare her.
I jiggle the sliding lock mechanism on the door to try to open it and show her we’re fine, but it’s jammed.
She can’t crane her head to see, but asks, “Is it stuck?”
“Appears so.”
I knock on the door a few times but refrain from hollering,Help! I’m impossibly close to a beautiful woman who makes my pulse bounce off my ribs like a puck against a stick during close passing drills.
Lifting her voice, she calls, “Excuse me. I think we’re stuck in here. Please open the door.”
Bailey is shorter and smaller than me, but having had to stuff myself in here, now with the extra occupant, we’re nearly face-to-face. She makes me feel like a rookie again and not because I was abruptly traded to a brand-new team. More like off balance, unsure, hyper-aware of everything … including how very close we are, mashed together, right now.
Her inhales and exhales press against mine like a seesaw. I peer down at her. The fluorescent light casts a bluish glow over her face. Strands of her blonde hair have fallen loose from their clip. I’d brush them away from her wide, hazel eyes, but my arm is pinned. The scattering of freckles dotting her nose are brighter now as if her makeup wore off over the course of the long day.
I draw a shaky breath. “It’s going to be okay. Promise,” I say when no one responds to her cry for help.
She swallows thickly.
To help set her at ease, I try humor and I say, “Fancy meeting you here.”
“Small world, right?” she says in a shaky voice.
“Small bathroom.”
She chuckles.
Just then, the plane steadies. Neither of us moves. Whether it’s because we don’t trust that the turbulence is over or for another reason, I’m not sure, but it’s like we’re both suddenly aware of exactly how close we’re standing. I can smell her shampoo—vanilla with a hint of something sweet like maple syrup.
I ask, “Why weren’t you in first class?”
She laughs like I just told a terrible joke.
I take her response to mean that while I get special player privileges, she does not. This reminds me that the inappropriateness of our proximity could be a problem. But it sure doesn’t feel like one and I have to stamp out any sparks before they ignite.
Voice gruff, I say, “You should be. I can arrange that for future trips.”
She arches an eyebrow. “I’m the one who arranges the travel. Plus, it’s only temporary. I’ll be out of your hair before you know it.”
