Page 9 of Fly Boy
“No.” I shake my head, watching her reflection through the glass.
“Great,” she whispers to herself, running her fingers along the edge of the windowpane. “Just when I could really do with talking to him...” she trails off, shifting again before turning to look at me. “Are you sure he won’t be there?”
“Unless he got someone else to fly him home, your father is in St Barth's for the weekend.”
“Like he’d get anyone else but you if you weren’t flying me around,” she mutters. “Why St. Barths?”
“Excuse me?”
“Why did he go to St. Barths?” she repeats. “Was it for business or pleasure?”
“Originally business, but your father extended the trip to last the weekend.”
“Of course he did,” she huffs. “Is Nancy there too?”
“She is,” I say, and her shoulders droop ever-so-slightly. Not enough that people would notice, but I do. She’s quiet, barely acknowledging my response, returning her focus to the window again, her fingers toying with the blind until she pulls it down. “Miss Cartwright…?”
“Aren’t you meant to be flying me home, Wyatt?” The chill in her voice makes the air around us plummet. All hints of the playfulness from before are long gone.
Frowning, I watch her, the way she’s closing herself off, and take a step toward her.
“Pip—” I cut myself off with a sigh. Was I really going to ask her if there was anything I could do? I’m herpilot,for fuck’s sake. Not her friend. Not someone she confides in, not someone she turns to for help. “Can you please open your blinds? Window shades have to be up for take-off and landing.”
Immediately, she shoves the blind forcefully upward, and I cringe. While technically, this plane belongs to her—to her family—I still don’t want it to be damaged.
“Better?” she sneers, tapping her foot on the floor. She breathes heavily as she stares at me, her jaw clenching, her throat bobbing as she fights to keep her expression pinched. Pointedly glancing behind me, she waves her hand dismissively.“Well?”
“Of course, Miss Cartwright.”
With a nod, I walk into the cockpit, briefly glancing back at Phillipa, the knot in the pit of my stomach reappearing. Biting the corner of her lip, she rubs her temple before lifting her legs and hugging her arms around them. She’s facing away from me, resting a cheek on her knees, but I don’t need to see her to recognize the sadness that, for whatever reason, has taken over. An ache she hides so well behind her mask of flirtation and wit.
I should know.
My own mask hides the same thing.
Chapter Four
“Looking good,” Coach Camilleshouts from the side of the rink, her shrewd gaze never leaving our synchronized movements as we fly past her. “Keep that core tight, Pippa.”
I barely acknowledge her as I engage my stomach muscles, the tension in my body like a loaded spring, ready for bursting, I’m sure Evan can feel it through our clasped hands. Less than two weeks until our second Grand Prix. Two weeks to nail a routine that will give us a significant boost in our ranking if we win. Not a mere 0.87 advantage.
“I get that she said tight, but Jesus—” Evan huffs a laugh and wiggles his fingers. “Ease up with the grip.”
“Sorry,” I mutter, clenching my jaw but relaxing my hold.Tighten, loosen, tighten, loosen. Nothing is ever right.
“Perfect, that’s better, Pippa. Much better than how you started this week,” Coach yells, and I haven’t missed that shehasn’t given Evan any pointers once this whole practice. “Okay, one more loop and then into the side-by-side triple Lutz.”
We take off around the rink, our blades matching stroke for stroke, and then I start counting in my head, syncing my breaths to the numbers.Three…two…one. We drop hands and launch into the air at the same time. My eyes flutter shut as we spin, fast and weightless above the ice, and my heart almost skips a beat. Perfectly matched, perfectly centered, rotating as one until I hear the snick of one set of blades hitting the ice, followed by the other.
Shit.I know I landed first, a mere millisecond before Evan, and I look at him, my eyes wide, silently screaming. He scrubs a hand down his face, hiding the smile I know he’s fighting to contain.
“We almost had it.”
“Ididhave it,” I say through gritted teeth. “Youwere out of time.”
He shrugs. “No one would have noticed that. And if they did...” he pauses, his nose wrinkling like it isn’t a big deal as we continue skating in unison. “A half-point at most deducted.”
“We can’t afford a half point.” Frustration coats my whisper. “Half a point could be—”
