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“How are you?” I say politely, trying not to notice the way the sun flashes over his face, lighting up his eyes and giving him a glow that makes it hard to look away.
“Bloody fantastic,” he says, and I have no idea if he’s joking or not until he continues, “Those Rosefinches have no idea what’s coming for them.”
“You’re not too confident, then,” I say dryly. His sense of humor must be rubbing off on me. He winks at me but doesn't say anything else.
There’s an awkward silence between us again and I almost wish we could go back to how things were before. At least when we were bickering, we were talking. And at least when we were talking, it felt like… well, something. I don't know what it felt like, but it didn’t feel like this. I can't tell if he regrets it or not. I can't tell if he wants me again or not.
I can’t read what’s going on in his mind at all and it’s driving me even more crazy than pretending that I didn’t like him to begin with. It’s all so complicated, it makes me want to scream.
Luck strikes and makes it so we’re not sitting next to each other on the plane, so I manage to read and sleep all the way up to Boston. It’s quite exciting to be going with the team to an away game because I don't usually get invited.
Then again, I’m not usually babysitting their star player.
I guess they think that having me around might rein him in. I have no idea what the nightlife in Boston is like, but Miles is the kind of person who could find somewhere to go out and party even in the smallest of towns. I swear that guy has some sort of magical power.
When we get off the plane, there’s a little time to stretch our legs as we wait for the baggage carousel to deliver our bags, then what seems like an eternity to pass through security. I keep looking over my shoulder, afraid that Miles is going to appear out of nowhere, but he’s too busy joking with some of his teammates to notice me.
Is that a relief or a disappointment?
Eventually, we pile onto the bus and pull out into the Boston traffic, lurching forward and sideways as we crawl through the winding streets. I flinch every time we round a sharp corner, almost expecting us to collide with something or crush a pedestrian.
Plus, even though I slept on the plane, I’m absolutely exhausted. I was hoping for a seat to myself, but the bus is full. I end up sitting next to Coach Jacobs, thinking that was a good idea because he’s the kind of guy who can fall asleep anywhere, so I'm not going to have to make conversation with him on the journey.
Which was a massive mistake on my part because he chats to me the entire time.
“Miles is a handful, huh?” he says in hushed tones. “I don't know how you’re coping. You must have seen even more shit than me. And I haven’t even spent that much time with him. I’m sicker than an old dog of him already.”
I just shrug. “Everyone keeps saying that to me lately. But he’s not too bad once you get to know him.” The coach gives me a puzzled look, and I wince, hoping that my phrasing hasn’t given us away. I didn’t mean it like that, but that doesn’t stop it from being true.
Jacobs rescues me from scrambling to figure out what to say next. “It’s good that you’re here. It'll keep all the boys in line.”
“I'm just in PR,” I laugh, dismissing his comment. “What can I do, really?”
“Darlin’, the whole world runs on PR. If you can keep Miles out of the press, then you can do anything. We rely on you a whole lot more than you think.”
I laugh again, awkwardly, not quite sure how to respond to this compliment. It’s kind of weird coming from a guy I hardly ever speak to. Not that I even need to react, because he launches onto his next topic, leaving me nodding mutely along to the discussion of trick shots and tactics.
By the time we crawl into the hotel, I’m ready to drop into bed and sleep for a long, long time. As I drag my bags inside, I wish I'd packed lighter because I have two suitcases that are way too heavy. It’s too much for a week but I wasn't really sure what to pack. Summer in Florida is very different to summer in Massachusetts, and I’m a Florida weather kind of girl.
But thinking about it now, drenched in sweat from the humidity, I don't think I really needed to bring a sweater.
The second the manager gets up to the desk, leaving us all milling about in the lobby, Miles sidles up to me and grins. “How was the flight?”
It makes me jump and let out a little yelp, and it takes me clenching my fists and drawing in a deep breath to not hit him. “Good. Did you manage to get any sleep?”
“No, I can never sleep on planes. Too scared it’s going to drop right out of the sky.”
“I don’t think they do that,” I say uncertainly.
“You never know,” he says like he’s sharing deep and true facts with me.
“I’m pretty sure car crashes are statistically more likely than air crashes,” I say. I’m way too tired for this.
He shrugs at that. “Maybe, but I’d rather take the train. You get them to build a good rail network in the United States, and then we’ll talk.”
“Okay. I’ll do that, then,” I say, wondering what parallel dimension I’ve stepped into where this conversation makes sense.
Key cards get thrust into our hands, and I use this as an excuse to move away from Miles. I don’t want him to think I don’t want to talk to him, but I also definitely do not want to talk to him. The whole horde of soccer players and their entourage shuffle to the elevators, and to my dismay, Miles slips in next to me.
