Page 2 of Slap Shot Surprise
He shrugged. “Just the drinks, then. Thanks.”
“You got it.” She managed to tear her eyes off him and give me a tiny nod before hurrying away.
“See?” He looked at me and shrugged. “Easy.”
I had a feeling that kind of thing was always easy for him.
The flight attendant had called him Mr. Lupo. The name was slightly familiar to me, but I wasn’t sure how. Outside the window, lightning flashed again, and I jumped. A small squeaky sound escaped my throat.
“Don’t worry,” he said. “I fly through thunderstorms all the time.”
And before I could stop myself, I was blurting out facts, which I tend to do when I’m nervous. “But thunderstorms can contain fierce updrafts and—hic!—downdrafts that can cause violent turbulence and potential structural damage. And the high concentrations of—hic!—supercooled water droplets can instantly freeze upon contact with the aircraft, causing a—hic!—rapid buildup of ice on wings, engines, and other surfaces, affecting the aircraft’s aerodynamics and performance.”
He laughed again. “Are you a meteorologist or something?”
“No. I’m a museum curator.” Inhaling and exhaling slowly, I gripped my knees. “I’m just really, really afraid of flying.”
“I can tell.”
“When I was in middle school, this kid who said he could read palms told me I would die in a plane crash.”
He shrank back a little, his expression skeptical. “I hope you didn’t pay him.”
“I had to. Everyone else was doing it, and I didn’t want to be left out. But it scared the bejesus out of me. I thought he was just going to tell me, like, who I’d marry or how many kids I’d have.”
He shook his head. “I’m pretty sure he did not have any of that intel.”
“You’re right. I’m sure you’re right,” I said, knowing I was babbling to a complete stranger, but unable to stop myself. “But ever since then, I’ve been afraid of flying. And while I was sitting at the bar waiting out the delay on this flight, I Googled ‘flying through thunderstorms.’”
“That was probably a bad idea,” he said, as the flight attendant appeared with our drinks.
“I haven’t even told you about the hailstones, lightning strikes, and wind shear.”
He handed me the vodka soda. “Here. This will help.”
I took a sip, the soda bubbles fizzing on my tongue. “Thanks.”
“A museum curator, huh?” He took a swallow of whiskey. “I think you might be the first one of those I’ve ever met.”
“What do you do?”
“I play hockey.”
I pushed my glasses up my nose. “Like, professionally?”
Another grin. “Yeah. Like professionally.”
“That’s cool.” It had to be the reason his name seemed familiar. I wasn’t really a hockey fan, but maybe I’d seen him on the news or something. It might explain the scars too. Hockey was sort of brutal, wasn’t it?
“Do you follow hockey?” he asked.
“No,” I admitted as the plane pushed back from the gate. “Sports are not really my thing.”
“That’s okay,” he said. “Museums aren’t really my thing.”
“Do you play for Chicago?” I asked.
“Yes. But I grew up in northern Michigan.”
