Andi makes a little gagging motion. “Please don’t,” she says, holding up her hand. I’m about to askdon’t whatwhen a kid comes running up. He’s maybe seven or eight and wearing a Boston Buzzards jersey. “Are you Brandon Nix?”
His father arrives a moment later, breathless. “Maverick, you can’t bother this man.”
I lean forward, putting my elbows on my knees and lacing my fingers together. “I am Brandon Nix.”
“I told you, Dad,” he says glancing back at his father. “You didn’t believe me.”
I nod sagely. “It’s the hair. No one recognizes me when I wear it down. The minute I put it up ...”
Maverick is practically vibrating with excitement. “You’re the Boston Buzzards’ leading scorer! But you get kicked out too much. You should stop drawing penalties. Did you know your penalty cost your team the semifinals last year?”
I hear a dampened laugh come from next to me.
“Actually, it’s the goalkeeper’s job to stop the penalty kicks,” I reply.
“And it’s your job to make them.” This kid pulls no punches. I glance up at his father whose face is beet red.
“Would you like a picture or not?” I huff. I glance over at Andi who’s turned away and practically eating her fist, her shoulders shaking. “This is Andi Nichols. She’s a referee for the USSL. You should get a picture with her too since apparently you know all the rules.”
Andi’s glare of death is back, but it disappears the minute she turns to face the kid and his father. I do not envy that man at all. He’s got his hands full. Serves him right for naming his kid Maverick.
Pictures are done, and we’re left standing there. Andi opens her mouth to say something, but we’re interrupted by the announcement that they’re ready to reboard our flight. Andi and I move toward the gate and board with the first-class passengers. We reach the row of our seats, and Andi arches her back as she hoists her suitcase above her head to the overhead bins. Her back presses to my front. Without thinking, I reach up and guide it in, my arms forming a cage around hers.
“I don’t need your help,” she says with a huff as she sits down.
I fly so much, helping others with their luggage is a natural reaction. I’m only 5′ 10″, but I can bench press well over 200 pounds. In case you’re wondering, at this point in the season, I’m about 165 pounds of pure muscle, so you have every right to be impressed. Lifting a suitcase up just helps speed along the boarding process.
“You don’t have to get all snippy.”
“And don’t touch me.” She plops down in her seat and puts her laptop and headphones in the seatback pocket.
“When did I touch you?” I’d think I’d remember touching her. She is so not my type. And the way she’s dressed? She looks ridiculous. I’d never be interested in someone who takes so little interest in their appearance.
“You practically broke my hand when we were landing. You kept grabbing me.”
Oh. That. I sit in my seat and buckle my seatbelt snuggly. “We were going down.”
“It was just a bit of turbulence.” She slides her earbuds in. I don’t know if they’re connected or not, but I get the message loud and clear.
Trust me, Andi Nichols. The feeling is mutual.
