Love On The Air

Britt

Mornings start with cuddles and confessions, and deliveries bring more than just parcels. As Britt and Holden navigate their not-so-casual fling amidst the quirky charms of small-town life, each delivery and nickname becomes another stitch in the fabric of their budding relationship. From confrontations with the cheeky delivery kid, Blink, to unexpected father-daughter phone calls, Britt's stay with me becomes less about escape and more about entanglement. She's getting deliveries that disrupt more than just her morning; they're reshaping her understanding of home. As the jerseys don Express and hearts start to show signs of staying, let's watch Britt juggle her burgeoning feelings and her fierce independence. I might just be the place that tethers an unlikely soul.

Playlist: "Even If She Falls" by blink-182

My first thought on waking is that I'm very warm and very cozy, and just a little bit turned on.

"Mm." I snuggle deeper into Holden's arms and sigh against his chest. "This isn't so bad."

Holden kisses the top of my head. "While you're here," he qualifies.

My second thought is that I've been in Sorrowville for over a week. That makes my eyes snap open, and I squirm out of his grip. I'm getting way too comfortable here. "You get me. I'm not sure what to think about that."

I want to keep snuggling him, which is exactly why I don't. At some point, HR is going to call and demand that I come back. I don't want this to become more complicated than it already is. If I indulge in too much post-coital snuggling, my oxytocin is going to overtake my good sense.

"I do. Now, I have to go get on a phone call. I'll be in my vehicle so you can be as loud as you want." Holden rolls out of bed and digs through a drawer in search of boxers, giving me a delicious view of his shapely ass. I'm so busy staring at his butt, and his thighs, and where his butt meets his thighs, that it takes me a moment to snap back to reality.

"Excellent." I reach for my phone to avoid the temptation of ogling my… Holden. My Holden.

Uncomplicated. Right.

Oxytocin, listen up. Stand. The. Fuck. Down.

At the sight of my phone screen, I cheer up considerably. I placed a very important order on the way back to his place last night, and the delivery status has been updated. I scramble out of bed and start grabbing clothes at random.

Holden, now wearing pants but no shirt, turns to watch me shimmy into my jeans. "Are you leaving? Because this shouldn't take long. It's cool if you—"

The unmistakable thump of a fist meeting wood echoes through the house.

Holden's eyes narrow. "What have you done?"

"Nothing. It's nothing. Really." I clasp on my bra and reach for the Express jersey.

Holden crosses his arms. I think the effect is supposed to be intimidating, but it's actually kinda hot. "This is my I-don't-believe-you face."

"This is my I-don't-care-a girl's-got-needs face." I yank open the bedroom door and sprint down the hall. Holden follows me in bare feet, still pulling on a shirt as he goes.

I open the door to reveal a young man with a mop of shaggy hair. His lanky limbs, acne, and slouched posture make it pretty clear that he's in his teens. His eyes widen when he sees me, and he straightens up a little. "Wow," he says. "Seriously? You're way out of his league."

I don't recognize the kid, but Holden must because he comes to a stop behind me. "You," he hisses, like they're old rivals. Which seems unlikely, given that the kid on the porch barely looks old enough to drive.

"Yeah." The kids holds up the bags he's carrying as evidence. "I expect we'll be seeing a lot of each other."

"What makes you think that?" Holden grumbles.

"You look like a confirmed bachelor with a new girl," the kid says. "Do that math."

"Temporary girl," I correct.

The kid arches an eyebrow at me. "You're already planning to leave him? I mean, I get it with him outbatting his average and all that, but ouch." He flinches, presumably on Holden's behalf.

Holden fixes him with a glare. "Goodbye, Blink."

"Blink?" I repeat. Seriously, small towns are weird.

Blink hands off the bags. "Your packages, madam."

I accept the bags and immediately start digging through them. "Crap," I mutter under my breath.

Blink is still standing there with his hands tucked in the pocket of his Walmart hoodie. He's not even staring at me, just… around, like he's analyzing the parts of the house that are visible from the front door.

"So, you delivered your package…" Holden flicks a hand toward the younger man to shoo him away.

Blink backs away with a smirk. "This isn't goodbye, government boy. This is TTFN."

"What makes you so sure?" Holden asks. He doesn't notice me fiddling with my phone.

"Call it intuition." Blink holds up a scanner. Right on cue, it chimes. He grins when he sees the notification. "Cold foam frother with separate whisk attachment? I got you, girl. See you soon!" He aims finger-guns at me again, then trots down the front steps, which groan in parting.

"That's my move, part-timer!" Holden bellows after him.

Blink calls back from the driveway, "If I were you, I'd stop worrying about the competition and start worrying about how to keep your girl!" He slams his car door after him, honks twice, and peels out into the road.

Holden sighs and rubs his forehead. "I'm really starting to hate that kid. Can't you order from somewhere else?"

"Everywhere else takes too long in this tiny town." I lift my spoils in both arms and head for the kitchen. "Besides, if I ordered from Amazon, I'd just be making more work for you."

Holden makes a noise like an angry raccoon. I know what that sounds like, now, because I totally ran into one hanging around the motel dumpster the other night. It was kind of cute and chunky, and it was making the same mildly irritated expression that Holden's making right now, although I don't think he'd appreciate the comparison.

"Fine," he says at last. "I'm going to go have my radio interview now."

"Which station?" I ask.

"There's really just the one. Everything else is kind of fuzzy. I guess we're in a place where the stations, like, overlap or whatever?" He gives a sheepish little shrug.

"Gotcha." I nod. "And the cell towers are being repaired. And the internet cuts out without warning. And—"

Holden raises a hand to stop me. "Point taken. Yeah, we're a little behind the times. But at least we have…" He trails off and frowns at the ceiling.

"Hot dogs," I supply. "And a terrifying sentient mammer with unknown mammer parts."

Holden opens his mouth, then thinks better of it. "Interview," he says by way of explanation and bolts for the car.

There's an honest-to-God radio by the stove—seriously, I thought people had moved on to podcasts by now—and I turn it on before I start unpacking my bags. I got some real food, finally, and a coffee maker that will turn actual beans into actual coffee, with nary a hint of the instant crap. I can't wait to be able to have access to caffeine that I don't need to get dressed to enjoy.

The radio's already tuned in to the one and only local station. I only half listen while the hosts play a prerecorded spot for Walmart, then an outdoor supplies company, then read their way through some endearingly inept ad copy. After a while, Holden's voice cuts in. They talk about the game for a bit while I get everything set up, then consider my breakfast options.

"So, how about those new jerseys?" one of the announcers asks.

"I was wondering about that myself, Mickey," the other one says. "Express. It's got flair."

"Not as much flair as Shep Flare," Mickey shoots back. They both laugh.

"True!" His buddy laughs. "But we're not talking about road flares here; we're talking panache."

Holden groans. "It's just a joke. Because I'm a postal delivery worker by day."

"You should know, we talked to other team members. It seems like there's more to it than that." Mickey laughs again. "Me think the gentleman doth protest too much, don'tcha, Arnie?"

"We heard there was a woman involved," Arnie confirms. The speakers crackle, followed by one of those canned sounds they used to play on old TV shows to simulate a gasping audience. It's funny, but I'm pretty sure it's also an accurate reflection of the town gossips.

Holden sounds nervous now. "I see where you're going with this. Don't give the listeners the wrong idea. This has nothing to do with…"

"Your off-ice performance?" Mickey speculates.

I can picture Holden's frantic nodding. "Exactly. I delivered her to her friend's house one time. She's from the cities. She was lost. I helped her find her way. Don't get me in trouble here…"

Arnie makes a little noise of comprehension. "Right, so she calls you ‘Express.' And it stuck."

A pause. "Apparently."

Mickey hums. "And she seems like someone special."

"Definitely." Holden pauses for a beat. "I mean… what makes you think that?"

"We heard it's the woman who kissed you before the last game."

"It's only while she's here!" Holden's voice cracks like a hormonal teenager's. I dimly realize that I've stopped unpacking and am leaning against the counter, listening to Holden get razzed by a couple of men I've never met. I should probably be annoyed by this violation of privacy—I would be if this was happening back in the city, for sure, but it all seems a little funny now, and mostly harmless. Their questions aren't mean or malicious, like paparazzi would be. Their tone reminds me more of Beth's when she was asking me about my interest in Holden. These two guys care about their team and its players. I'm suddenly glad that I got to answer her questions in private, without having to worry that he'd overhear my replies.

"Oh, and how long is she staying?" Arnie asks.

"Hard to say." Holden's voice is so high, it sounds like he huffed helium.

"How long do you want her to stay?" Mickey asks.

I hold my breath as I wait for his response, which I'm dying to hear. It's one thing to agree that we're here for a good time, not a long time, but I'm the one who keeps saying that. Holden gave me a freaking key, which is enough to make me wonder what he really wants.

But I don't get to hear him, because my phone's ringing in the bedroom, and I have to run to find it just in case it's Susan from HR calling to tell me that my luck's run out. Dammit, I really don't want to go home yet. Things in Sorrowville are just starting to get interesting.

As it turns out, it's not Susan calling. It's my father. I send him to voicemail, but within seconds my phone starts ringing again. He's never been good at hearing me when I tell him not now.

I answer with a sniff. "So, you've finally come to your senses and decided to give me my trust fund?"

"I see you still have your sense of humor." For his part, Dad doesn't sound the least bit amused.

"It helps. Like my law degree. The one I'm going to use to find the precedent to file a suit against you for the whole trust fund disparity thing."

"It'd be quicker to marry," Dad says as if there's not a whole airport carousel's worth of baggage to be unpacked there. "Why don't you just come home? Fitz has been asking about you."

I shudder. "Fitz? I'll stay here, thank you very much. I'd rather stay in bumfuck nowhere than marry him." I'd rather tie the knot with Virgil the Zamboni driver. At least he seems like he has a sense of humor. He'd probably treat me like a queen and we could ride the quiet streets of Sorrowville together on Sleetwood Mac.

"He's a fine young man. And the express route to your trust fund."

I should be getting mad at Dad for overstepping, but that word makes me freeze. Express. All of a sudden, I know exactly how to call Dad's bluff. "I think I have my own express route. I can just marry Holden."

He chokes on his next words, which are probably going to be another sales pitch for why I should marry the son he wishes he had. I don't like Fitz, but it's no mystery why Dad does. They're two peas in a pod. Fortunately, my particular subset of daddy issues don't make me want to marry my father's Mini-Me. Subservient trophy wife is not on my list of life goals.

"Who's Holden?" he asks.

"Just this incredibly sexy hockey player I'm shacking up with in Sorrowville."

"You can't be serious. Sorrowville is the minors. I could almost understand if it was the NHL, but the minors?"

"Who cares what he does for a living?" I ask. "I can support us both on my salary… especially when I finally get access to my trust fund."

Dad falls silent. I can't believe I finally won a round of the Stubbornness Olympics. It feels better than Christmas morning.

"Bye, Dad. Say hi to Mom for me." I hang up before he can come up with another biting, dismissive retort.

One point to Britt.

As soon as I hang up, I make a FaceTime call, dialing the one person who never fails to get where I'm coming from. Tierney picks up almost immediately, her face popping up on my screen looking like she's ready to conquer—or console—the world.

"Hey, Tierney," I say, flopping back onto the bed. "Guess who just tried to auction me off to the highest bidder?"

Tierney's eyebrow arches in that all-too-familiar ‘tell me everything' gesture. "Not the first-class patriarch again? What's the offer this time? A castle? A vineyard? Or straight-up cash?"

I chuckle, though the bitterness is hard to swallow. "Worse. Fitzgerald Albert Rademacher. Dad's championing his golden boy again, pushing for marriage as if it's a transaction. And when I mentioned marrying someone I actually like, he nearly had an aneurysm."

"Seriously?" she scoffs, shaking her head. "Holden, huh? I mean, he's hot enough to make a nun kick a hole in a stained-glass window, but are you just trying to tick off your dad with that? I thought it was an ‘only while I'm staying' situation?"

I sigh, my fingers playing with the edge of a cushion. "Maybe a little. But honestly? It's not just to piss him off. Holden... he's different. He's genuine. Like, he makes me consider things I never thought I'd want. Like, you know, actually maybe possibly a future. At least while I'm here."

Tierney leans in, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Girl, that's the sappiest thing I've ever heard you say. But all I want is your happiness. And if that looks a lot like my happiness, I'm not going to judge."

"Yeah, strange thoughts are boomeranging around inside my head," I admit, feeling a mix of defiance and vulnerability. "And not because it's convenient or because it's an escape route. But because... I don't know, Tierney, when he looks at me, I feel like I'm home. Even if it's in the middle of Sorrowville."

"Been there, done that." She smiles, her tone softening. "That's huge, Britt. Just make sure it's what you want, not just a rebound from your dad's latest attempt to control your life. And if it's real, I'm all for throwing rice or strapping on skates, or whatever you need."

"Thanks, T. I mean it." I pause, letting the weight of my own admission settle.

"Anytime." With a wave, she's gone.

I end the call with a click, a flutter of nervous excitement dancing in my chest. Pushing off the bed, I make my way to the living room, where Holden lounges on the couch, a can of soda in one hand and his phone in the other. He looks up from scrolling—probably catching up on post-game analysis or drowning out the noise of his own radio interview from earlier.

I pause at the doorway, my heart skipping a beat. He offers me a casual smile, the kind that usually sets me at ease, but today it sends a ripple of uncertainty through me. I hadn't meant for him to know anything yet—not like this. I hope the low murmur of my voice didn't carry over the small but treacherous distance of his quaint living room.

I force a smile and move to sit beside him, the weight of the words I just said out loud pressing down on me, yet unspoken between the two of us.