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Owen
“Well isn’t this just fucking perfect,” I mutter, gripping my phone as the text lights up the screen telling me what I already know. My flight is delayed. Another two hours. Because of course it is. That’s how we ice this bitch, with an MCL sprain that has me sitting on the bench for the next few games and praying for a Christmas miracle that I don’t take a hit or turn too fast or some other shit that sidelines me for longer. At least I’m no longer on crutches. My head drops to the seat behind me. With the way my luck has been running, I should have expected an early storm to ground me in Detroit. I turn to look out the bank of windows, at the snow falling gently outside sparkling under the red blinking lights of the airport bay. The issue isn’t really here, the weather is mild enough still to get us out, but the goddamn connector from Toronto hasn’t even left Toronto yet.
Typical. If a snowflake falls in Toronto, the entire city shuts down.
But an east coast storm is causing delays all over the place, and the airport is full of frustrated passengers.
I send a quick text to my sister, Olivia, letting her know I’m probably not going to make it home tonight and my phone pings with sad eye emojis.
I’m looking forward to seeing her, but I’m not looking forward to being home. Coach got pretty frustrated when I kept showing up for practice despite my fucked-up knee. I’m not interested in a permanent injury but this early in the season I can’t risk missing out on the conditioning and team building. It’s my first year in Vegas with the Titanium and it’s hard to build a seamless line if I’m not out there on the ice with them.
Instead, I’m helping Olivia with a wedding of all things. I sigh.
“I have been in four different airports today, Savannah. It’s dark and snowy outside and I’m probably going to have to sleep here—”
This woman sounds like she’s on her last thread. I can commiserate. I look over and blink. Long auburn hair catches the light as she paces, and my gaze travels down, past her wool coat to the tall, black leather boots encasing her curvy legs.
I am a sucker for those boots.
Suddenly she pauses and I glance up, meeting her eyes. I smile and she stares, motionless for a second, before she frowns at me and turns, her pretty hair swinging as she struts away in those sexy boots.
Huh. I’ve never been dismissed quite that easily, but I’m not in Vegas or Toronto and because it’s not official team travel, I’m not in a suit, which gets us far more attention than it should in my opinion. I close my eyes and tip my head back again waiting to hear how much longer before I can get out of here.
“Yes, Sav. I promise. It’ll be perfect.”
I pop my eyes open, just in time to catch those boots as they stride past me to the windows. The woman stares out at the empty bay as if she can somehow will the plane to take off from Toronto. She checks her phone again, sighs and slips it into the large tote bag on her shoulder before walking away again, her curves not at all hidden by her wool coat.
Those boots are something else.
I stretch my back and stand. This night isn’t going to move any faster, especially since Boots disappeared. I might as well go get a drink. I wander until I reach The Brewery, not surprised to see it’s packed. A woman hustles over the podium and totally eye-fucks me. She’s cute, with dark curly hair and she smiles widely when I respond to her question as to whether I’m travelling alone. It’s validation I haven’t suddenly turned into a troll because I’m not wearing a sign that says ‘Pro Hockey Player’.
I follow Curly-locks, who keeps glancing over her shoulder at me, to a table, reaching it at the exact same time another server is wiping it down for a customer.
“This table was mine,” Curly-locks chirps, and the server looks up.
“Place is packed,” she says, shrugging. “This lady was first. That’s why I wasn’t at the podium.” She gestures to a woman who is standing near the bar looking at a menu.
It’s Boots.
Curly-locks tilts her head. “But it’s the last table.”
“That’s okay,” I say. “I can just sit at the bar.” The three of us look over at the packed bar, not a single seat in sight. I look longingly at the German beer on tap. I wonder if they’ll let me get a beer to go.
“I’ll share.”
My head swivels as Boots steps up next to us.
“The table.” She gestures at the seat opposite from the one where she’s setting her bag. “It’s big enough for both of us.”
Curly-locks looks at Boots and then back at me, ruefully. “It’s up to you, but there might be a wait for another table.”
“I’m good here. Thank you.” I send her a smile and a blush rises in her cheeks as she nods, before she sets a menu on the table and hurries off.
Boots slides into her seat, and I do the same.
“Thank you for sharing your table,” I say.
