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My larger bag is stowed under the aircraft with everyone else’s.
I move into the last row and plop down in the window seat. It’s early morning, and the sun is barely coming up.
I recline my head against the headrest and shut my eyes. A few minutes later, I hear the rustling around of luggage in the overhead compartment above me.
I peek open an eye to find Seven Wrenley stowing his backpack and then sits in the aisle seat in my same row.
I quickly glance in front of us to find that at least three rows ahead are still completely vacant. He didn’t need to sit this close.
“Is this seat taken?” he asks.
When he asks, he doesn’t look in my direction. He just starts to pull out his cell phone, a tablet, and a set of headphones. I get the impression that Wrenley doesn’t ask for permission.
“Nope,” I say simply.
Wrenley is one of the oldest players in the league, somewhere in his late thirties, and has had an unheard-of long career for a goaltender, which is why the fans coined the nickname “Lucky.”
One is because of his legal name, Seven, and two is because he has one of the best stats an longest-running stats in the league’s history as a goalie.
He’s well respected in the league, though the media doesn’t like him because he refuses to do interviews. If a reporter calls him by his nickname, Lucky, he’ll ignore their question altogether.
I should be honored that Wrenley decided to take a seat in my row, but honestly, I’m not here to make friends. Just win a Stanley Cup or two, gain back Sam’s respect, and get Penelope to look at me for longer than the few seconds it takes her to pass judgment or insult my way.
If we can at least tolerate each other, that’s enough for me.
“There are other open rows if you’d rather,” I say as if he missed them on his stroll through the aisle.
“I figured I should get to know my roommate,” he says again, not looking in my direction as he puts his right Bluetooth earbud in his ear.
“Roommates?”
He finally looks over as he places the left earbud into his ear next.
“Ryker and I paired up as hotel roommates. You took his spot, so I guess that makes you my new roommate, rookie,” he says.
He hits the play button on his tablet, and I can just barely hear loud music streaming through his earbuds. It’s the most I’ve heard Wrenley say in all our practices since I showed up, but now he’s done talking.
A man of few words.
Something I can appreciate about him.
It doesn’t take long before the aircraft is filled up, two players to a row and only one vacant row in front of Wrenley and me.
An hour into our three-hour flight, I hook up to the jet's internet and pull up a video streaming service. I input Penelope Roberts pair skating, hoping to find the old routine she used to skate in college to confirm if it’s the same one I watched her skate a few days ago.
I pull up the first one, but I can tell instantly that this program with her old skating partner doesn’t start out the same way. It doesn’t matter, I’m too mesmerized to stop the video and find a new one.
She’s so goddamn beautiful when she skates. She pours so much emotion into her routine, even when she’s just practicing, and to think that I’m the one who cut her career short kills me.
Her fluid motion makes it look like she’s floating instead of skating.
I have no idea how to fix her missing partner problem, but there’s one thing I can do… I can at least give her someone to skate with in the mornings.
I’m not a figure skater, and God knows I have zero training in lifts, spins, and death spirals. It’s not as if I’ll ever be good enough to skate competitively with her. I’m not built for it, and I’m a lifetime behind to be a real partner for her. But fuck it, if she’ll agree to train me, I’ll show up every day to spin her around that rink. Even if it’s just for the hell of it.
I’m strong enough to hold her, and I can learn everything I need with her instruction.
There’s one thing she can be sure of: I’ll take a blade slicing through my skin if that’s what it takes to ensure I never physically drop her.
