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I finished showering, wrapped myself in a towel, and stepped out.
Still sitting on the toilet lid, Mason had a small smile on his face, his eyes off in the distance. Ah, they were so cute!
“Hey,” I said softly. His eyes focused on me then widened at my serious expression. “I truly wish the best for you two, and I want you to know that no matter what happens between you guys, you will always be family. If you happen to become my brother in the future, that’ll just be icing onthe cake.”
Mason shot up, and the next thing I knew, I was being crushed in a hug. I chuckled and wrapped an arm around him, keeping a hold on my towel withthe other.
I took the seat beside Mason as everyone got settled onto the plane. He had the window seat and was already putting his noise-canceling headphones on. It was the only reprieve he had from me. I had been bugging him about Drew for the last couple hours, but I recognized my annoyingness and let Mason get some rest for tonight’s game. As per usual, he was unconscious in two minutes flat. I took a picture of him and sent it off to Drew.
He responded immediately with a picture of him in a fancy office with the city skyline behind him. Then a text came, telling me that he loved me. I told him I loved him too. It had become a habit for us whenever we got on or off planes.
Twenty minutes later, I sat stiff-backed in my seat as the plane taxied down the runway and took off. Once we were in the air, I unclenched my hands from where I hadn’t realized they dug into the armrests. It had been almost six years since the plane crash that killed my parents, but I still wasn’t comfortable on planes; I didn’t think I ever would be. Drew had it easier, but I could never fully shake my nerves. Still, I was getting better.
It only took a few rounds of breathing exercises, and by the time the seatbelt light turned off, I was as calm as I could be in the situation. I undid my buckle and reached for my backpack to pull out my iPad and review tapes of Vancouver’s shooters for the dozenth time.
But before I could unzip the bag, a sharp whistle came from the back of the bus then, “Warren,heads up!”
I whipped around then immediately shot out of my seat to catch the tennis ball flying down the aisle. I caught it with a solidthunkand stared incredulously at the person who hadthrown it.
Kingston waved me over as he sat back down in the seat he had vacated to launch a ball at me. Confused, I hiked my backpack over my shoulder and walked over, swaying slightly with the movements of the plane. On either side of the aisle, most of the team were in their own worlds, either asleep or watching videos on their phones.
“Nice catch,” Kingston said when I got closer. Behind him, Ethan Jones had an impressed face on.
“Eh. It’s not like it was a hard throw,” I chirped with a smile and tossed the ball back to Kingston. As it landed in his hand, I noticed for the first time how bright yellow it was. Had Kingston bought fresh tennis balls just to throw them at me? The thought sparked a feeling that I pushed down quickly. He was just trying to be my friend. Because we were friends. Just friends. “What’s goingon here?”
“Texas hold ‘em,” Jones said, organizing colorful chips on his tray table. “You ever play?”
The “poker table” consisted of four aisle seats forming a square. Jones and Erik “Ice” Berg, the teammate who had laughed at my Russian chirp to Lukin, sat in the back two seats. They both had teammates passed out next to them, headphones on. Kingston sat in an empty row in front of Jones, leaving the row across the aisle from him open. This must be his first attempt to help me make friends on the team. I sat, dropped my backpack onto the free window seat, and angled my body so I could see Berg behind me and Jones diagonally across from me. Copying the boys, I lowered my tray table.
“Yes, I have played,” I said with all the confidence of a professional competitor. Little did they know that I, Riley Alina Warren, was the world’sworstpoker player. Drew had taught me a long time ago, and while I got the rules, I was a stubborn bastard. I couldn’t force myself to fold, not even when I really should. What was my strength on the ice—my inability to give up—was my downfall at poker. My strategy was to win as much as I could before they realized that I wasn’t bluffing, I was justhorrible.
Kingston broke out a deck of cards and shuffled with the dexterity of a professional magician, the cards moving fluidly between hisbig hands.
“Oh-ho-ho,” Berg laughed, his blond beard shaking with his rumbling chest. Berg was an intimidating Nordic man, and his beard was just as large as the rest of him. “Well then, Warren. It’s a two-hundred-dollar buy-in. Think you canswing it?”
“I think my wallet can take it,” I teased, pulled said wallet out of my backpack, and dropped the cash into the kitty piled on Kingston’s tray table, already saying goodbye to it. I knew I wasn’t going to win it back, but damned if I wouldn’t try.
Berg and I put our blind bids on the edges of our tray tables, and the game was on. Kingston dealt out the cards. I came up with two eights and leaned back in my seat, a confident smile on my face. This was a good start. Let them think I was always this cocky.
As we settled into the game, small talk filled the space between bets.
“Is your wife pissed at you, Berg?” Jones asked.
“A little.”
“You’re married?” I asked Berg. I hadn’t known that. But to be fair, I didn’t know much about the guy other than he was Swedish, a damn good defenseman, and understood some Russian.
Kingston put down the flop, and I tried my best to keep the smile off my face. I didn’t succeed.
“Yeah, eight years today.”
I winced. “Ouch. Missing your anniversary?”
“Yeah, but that’s the life, you know,” he said with a shrug. Everyone nodded.
“And you chose to get married in the middle of the season,” Jones added.
“At least hehasa girl,” Kingston playfully shot at Jones. I couldn’t hold back my snort. Damn.
