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What the what?
Ohhhh.
I side-eye the rectangular box I picked up after returning home from Napa and left on the counter. That must be what’s in it—a wedding gift. And if Vance knows about the gift, that means Oliver talked about it in his videos. Because what good is a magnanimous gesture if you don’t let the world know about it?
And you know what?
Let him.
Fucking let him.
I don’t even bother clicking over to his social feed.
Don’t care about Oliver.
Don’t care what he says about me.
And I don’t care what’s in the box.
That’s an excellent feeling—no longer caring about my past hurt. In fact, it’s such a great feeling that my soul smiles for the first time in days.
The fear of being hurt has kept me from Hunter. But Hunter has shown me something bigger than fear and sweeter than knowing I’m over the baggage of my marriage.
Only, he’s not a game of football I lost. He’s not a game I need to leave behind.
I can’t get him out of my head, and maybe that means he’s not supposed to be gone.
40
RIGHT FOOT FIRST
Hunter
I stare out the airplane window as the city flickers far below. Billboards light the sky and monster-size hotels appear tiny from high up in the clouds.
Last time I flew into this city, I had a first-class view.
But the view from row twenty-six is fine too.
Truly, it’s fine. Seeing the city from a distance doesn’t stir my heart.
Even driving into the city makes no impact. But what hurts like a son of a bitch is looking up at The Extravagant a little later that night.
Of all the hotels in Vegas, why, oh why, did Webflix put me up here?
The second I enter the lobby, I’m back in time, remembering us checking in, shooting upstairs, rushing to the room to be alone together.
Then, once I have my key and I’m heading to the elevator, I’m reliving what happened next, hearing the laughter from the VIP room, enjoying the camaraderie, and savoring the night of friendship, infatuation, and wild, daring choices.
I take a detour, cutting away from the elevator banks. Instead, I walk to the chapel we almost got married in. Standing in front of it, I stare at the blinking light advertising The Extravagant Chapel, then at my ring, still shining on my left hand.
Did I marry Nate because I was drunk?
Yes, but no.
I married him because I was happy, the happiest I’ve ever been. I was infatuated, buzzed, intoxicated on him.
And that hasn’t changed.
The next day is wall-to-wall with work, and that afternoon I’m grateful to leave Las Vegas and all its potent memories. I head through the airport to catch my flight to Seattle. The Seattle Wolves will play in Paris in December, so I’ll do some prep work with the team’s PR department in the rainy city tomorrow.
I’m all focus as I march past slot machines and Starbucks, answering emails on my way to the gate. Then my phone trills. It’s Ilene, so I answer immediately.
“Hunter! I’ve got ch-ch-changes,” she says, crooning the David Bowie tune. “I’m in San Francisco today, and we were in a production meeting this afternoon when someone asked who was covering the player auction tomorrow night.”
“Player auction?” I ask. I’m not familiar with this event.
“Fine, it was me. I asked,” she says sheepishly. “And then I realized I hadn’t set anything up for some quick interstitial videos. Good thing I have a cracking, go-getter of a young producer. So I switched your flight. You’re coming to San Francisco.”
My fingers tingle as she keeps talking and I can hardly follow the rest of what she says because holy crap, I’m going to San Francisco.
“The local sports teams here do this auction every year where you can win a date with a pro athlete. It’s a charity fundraiser,” she says, and I’m dying for her to finish so I can tell Nate I’ll be there.
In San Francisco!
“I’m sure Nate’s told you all about it. If you can skedaddle, you can come to the Hawks stadium tonight for the kickoff party before the auction tomorrow night. All the concessionaires are staying late and the VIP guests and sponsors will be here.”
I guess I did get lucky in Las Vegas. “I’m so there,” I say, thrilled and then some.
“Perf. The new flight info is in your email. Well, now it is. I just sent it. And let’s have breakfast tomorrow. We can catch up on everything. TTFN. See you soon.”
We end the call, but before I text Nate, the alert with my flight information pops up. I check the departure board—my gate is at the other end of the concourse and it’s boarding now.
Time to run.
Last time I jogged through a terminal like this I was with Nate, racing to catch our flight to London. I reach the gate in the nick of time, scan my boarding pass, then rush down the jetway.
