Page 9 of Game Changer

“You’ve still never told me how you met,” I say as we walk.

“At a work party six months ago. We were doing PR for a charity, and he was there on behalf of the Kodiaks, his new team.”

“And now you’re getting married.” I shake my head.

“Don’t sound so shocked. He’s insanely accomplished. He loves me. And he cries at sad movies.” She waves as she spots the tall man hanging up his phone and striding across the arrivals lounge. “I thought we were meeting at the car.”

“Two beautiful ladies. I couldn’t wait.”

“Nova, this is Harlan.”

His grin is quick and welcoming. Every part of him, from the tailored button-down to the firm handshake, says he’s comfortable with himself and good at making other people feel comfortable, too.

“Nova. I’ve heard lots about you.”

“I’ve heard almost nothing about you,” I admit.

Mari gasps, but he only laughs.

The way he rests his hand on her back is familiar and sweet, and there’s a pang in my gut.

They look fantastic together. He’s handsome and polished in gray dress pants a soft mauve shirt that looks beautiful against his golden skin. She’s tall and curvy, wearing dark trousers and a soft sweater in the same shade that seems somehow cooler than black. The freckles that used to come out in the summer are gone, or covered by foundation.

Any reservation I feel is protectiveness over my sister. I never thought she’d fall this hard this fast.

We head toward the arrivals area, where a sleek Mercedes waits.

“The issues resolved for tomorrow’s practice?” Mari asks.

“Not quite.” Harlan puts my bag in the back before rounding to the driver's door.

Mari sighs. “Can’t you cut him loose?”

“He’s an all-star, Mar.”

“He’s going to ruin your life.”

Harlan clears his throat as they shift into the front seats and I take the back.

“Enough shop talk. We’ll bore Nova,” he says as we pull away, reminding Mari I’m here.

“That’s true. The closest she got to sports as a kid was hopscotch. She was always doodling and daydreaming.”

“Hey!” I protest.

“One time in school, they asked what she was going to be when she grew up, and she said a unicorn.”

“It was cute,” I weigh in.

“You were twelve.”

We make conversation, Harlan asking enough questions that I barely get in any of my own.

I tell him how long I’ve been living in Boston, that the only pet I have is a goldfish named Samson whom a friend is watching for the month I’m here, and that I’ve worked the past year since graduating college as an administrative assistant at an interior design firm.

“Here we are,” Mari says as we turn into a neighborhood full of grand houses and rolling hills. The lush landscape is bedecked with manicured lawns and perfectly kept gardens.

“Cherry Hills Village,” I read off the sign, taking it all in with wide eyes.

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