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My breath goes ragged. I plant my feet wider, speed up, fist squeezing harder. Tension coils through my lower back, my abs clenching. My free hand curls into a fist against the wall, the sore, broken skin of my knuckles pressing against the cold tile.

I come with her name caught behind my teeth, my cock pulsing in my grip as I spill against the shower wall. The release rolls through me in waves, leaving my legs unsteady.

I stay there a moment, breathing hard, watching the water wash everything down the drain, imagining it on her stomach, her thoughts. Then I soap up, rinse off, and shut off the water.

The mirror is fogged when I step out. I towel-dry, hang up the towel, and stand there a second longer than necessary.

Intriguing, I'd called her, and that she is.

I press my palm flat against the sink counter, staring at my own blurred reflection.

Yeah. Something like that.

CHAPTER 5

CANCELLED

Anna

My original flight from New York to Frankfurt was canceled before I even made it to the airport. Lufthansa rerouted me through Chicago, which was inconvenient but manageable. I had a ticket, a connection, and a reasonable expectation of getting home.

Then O'Hare happened.

I stand at the Lufthansa counter while the agent explains that the winter storm has disrupted international departures. My connection to Frankfurt is canceled, and she can't tell me when flights will resume.

"Tomorrow?" I ask.

"We're hoping to resume operations tomorrow, but I can't guarantee that. I can rebook you when the schedule opens."

"And until then?"

"I'm afraid you'll need to make your own arrangements."

She gives me a sympathetic smile that suggests she's already had this conversation a hundred times today. I thank her, collect my paperwork, and step away from the counter.

My head gives a dull throb. Nothing serious, just enough to remind me that my concussion hasn't entirely disappeared. Lenzin and Hildy insisted I stay in New York until I was feeling better. I listened, even though being fussed over for several days nearly drove me insane.

Now I'm ready to go home and face my parents, and I can't.

I open my phone and search for hotels near the airport. The first few are fully booked. The next few are three stars and lower. I’d rather sleep in the airport than catch bedbugs, or worse.

A couple of people glance at me as I cross the terminal. I ignore them until my phone starts buzzing with notifications.

Someone has posted a photograph of me at the Lufthansa counter.

Anna Winterfield spotted at O'Hare. Anyone know why she's in Chicago?

I swipe it away and another notification appears, this one a tag in a different post.

Apparently, being stranded at an airport is a spectator sport.

I have no idea who knows I'm here, but I can guess how the information will travel. Someone recognized me from the Brooklyn game, took a picture, and put it online. Now anyone who follows the Bears or has an interest in the aftermath of that incident can speculate about my whereabouts.

I turn off my notifications and return to the hotel search.

A few minutes later, a man in an airport uniform approaches me. "Ms. Winterfield?"

I look up. "Yes?"