Page 95 of Oh, Puck!
I glance up from my laptop just long enough to watch Beck stuff an entire pretzel into his mouth sideways, like a squirrel preparing for a nuclear winter.
Tyler, who Colin has somehow claimed as hisownassistant and not one that was hired to helpme, drops his head into his hands. "I didn't sign up for this."
Three rows back, Corbin Cole has both armrests in a death grip, knuckles white, eyes squeezed shut like he's willing the plane to stay in the sky through sheer force of nervous energy.
"It's just turbulence, kid," Coach Pearson calls from across the aisle, not even looking up from his tablet. "The plane isn't going to fall out of the sky."
"I know that, sir. Statistically. I've read the studies." Corbin doesn't open his eyes. "Mybodyhas not read the studies."
Somewhere near the front, Finn's voice crackles through on the intercom. Apparently he has somehow convinced the pilot to let him make an announcement, which nobody should have allowed because half of what comes out is complete Irish squabble that none of us understand.
"—and if yer lookin' out the left side, that's the coast, lads. And if ye squint ye might see me nan waving at us from Galway, God rest her, she's not actually there, that's just a bit ofcraic—"
"What doescraicmean," Beck whispers to Mason.
"I still don't know," Mason shrugs. "Three months on the team with that guy and I still don't know."
I turn my attention back to my laptop, mostly because if I keep watching this circus I'm never going to get any actual work done.
And despite our recent success, I still have a season to save.
Darcy's beside me, cross-legged in her seat with her own laptop balanced on her knees, sipping something fruity the flight attendant handed us. It's this gorgeous swirl of orange and pink juice in a chilled glass, garnished with a little paper umbrella that Darcy immediately confiscated and stuck behind her ear.
"What you working on?" she says without looking up from her own screen. "You've been staring at that calendar for ten minutes, so either you're planning to quit, or you've found something interesting."
"Maybe both." I pull up the Bears season schedule and scroll until I find what I'm looking for.
There.
Beachside vs. Portland Thunder. Home game. Four weeks out.
Our biggest rival. The kind of game that should sell out in Beachside.
And given enough time, which four weeks should be enough, I think I can make that happen.
I grab a red pen from my bag and circle the date on the printed schedule taped inside my planner.
Darcy leans over, sipping her drink. "What's special about that one?"
"That," I say, capping the pen, "is going to be the Beachside Bears first eversellout."
"Oooo. I do like a girl with confidence." She winks.
"I don't do confident. I doplanned." I tap the circle. "We've got four weeks. If the trend holds, and this road trip goes well, I'm confident I can get local news to bite on a rivalry angle. If I can do that… the game sells out. Every seat."
Darcy studies me for a second too long, that sharp, assessing look she gets when she's running numbers behind her eyes. "And why does that particular date matter so much to you? Beyond, you know. Doing your job and saving the franchise, of course."
Because if that arena is full… maybe I finally prove that women do belong in sports. Maybe I finally get the chance to show what I can do instead of just telling the one person who refuses to believe in me.
I don't say any of that.
It's too big, too fragile, the kind of thought that shatters the second you say it out loud before it's ready.
"Just professional pride," I say instead, and go back to my laptop before she can push.
Across the aisle and two rows up, I catch a glimpse of the back of Declan's head. He's got his AirPods in, staring out the window at nothing, his face set in that grim, closed-off line he's been wearing for almost a week now.
He hasn't looked back at me once since we boarded.
