12. Kennedy

“Is this your car?”I gasp.

Shane pulls up in front of my apartment building in a fully loaded BMW 5 series, wearing grey sweats with wet hair.

“Why, do you like it?” he grins. “It’s totally me, isn’t it?”

“I don’t know you well enough to say if a ridiculously expensive foreign car is you or not.”

“That’s fair, beautiful.”

“Hey, can you not call me that?”

“I see that the truth bothers you?”

“That’s cute, but no.”

“Then why?”

“We don’t know each other well enough for nicknames.”

“Beautiful is an innocuous term of endearment.”

Obviously, by the way he throws it around with every girl on campus.

“You’re making my point for me. We shouldn’t be using terms of endearment with each other.”

“At least not yet.”

“Whatever,” I roll my eyes, trying not to crack a smile. Shane flirts like a kitten batting around a ball of yarn. “Do you flirt with all the girls on campus like this?”

“Is that what you think?” he gets super serious momentarily. “That I’m flirting with every girl that I speak to?”

“I mean, sure, that’s just your personality, right? You call me beautiful. You called Lisa beautiful.”

I think a look of self-realization fills his eyes.

“So you think I kiss every girl on campus, too?”

I assumed he didn’t remember what happened at the bar crawl because he’d probably had too much to drink that night.

But it looks like he did.

“That wasn’t a real kiss,” I say, trying to downplay the unforgettable act when it’s all I’ve thought about since that night.

“I can give you another one for comparison.”

“I’ll pass.”

“I promise I can do better.” His eyes twinkle with mischief.

“Will you stop?”

“Get in.” He pats the passenger seat, laughing at my expense.

“Are you independently wealthy?” I ask, remembering how he casually had a hundred-dollar bill in his back pocket at the bar crawl and now this.

“The car is a rental. I will park it at the airport so we have a ride when we return.”

“Why can’t we just take an Uber?”

“I have practice the same day we land. I want to ensure I get you home and get to the rink on time. Plus, I can store my duffles in the trunk.”

“And you can afford that?”

“That’s what credit cards are for.”

“Sounds like a lot of effort. I told you we didn”t have to coordinate our flights together if it would be a whole thing.”

“Now, does that make any sense? It’s a group project. We need to work together.” He stresses the g sound in together.

“Yes, but I’ve already identified the part that you need to work on by yourself, catch up king,” I mock.

“By myself? Now, where’s the fun in that?”

“There’s nothing fun about any of this. Project-based learning is not my thing. I hated it in high school, and I damn sure didn’t expect to do it here.”

“You rather work alone?”

“Always.”

“You think you work better alone?”

“In all things.”

“Why?”

“I just don”t have a lot of patience for people. They’re always disappointing,” I explain, thinking about my parents in particular.

“Well,” he turns his head to look at me as he pulls onto the highway. “There are definitely some things that are better with a buddy.”

I release a small chuckle. “You never stop, do you?”

“There it is.”

“There what is?”

“That million-dollar smile I love to see.”

I scoff at the compliment, but a part of me can tell that there’s something genuine about it, like he means it and it’s not some tired “line” he uses to get in a girl’s panties.

At least, I hope it isn’t.

In the thirty minutes we spend driving to Reid International Airport, I learn a lot about Shane since he does most of the talking. He’s an only child who grew up spending most of his free time playing sports. He grew up in a working-class neighborhood in Pineboro and is one of the few kids on his block who ended up attending college. He’s still very close to some of those friends, and they plan to go to an annual homecoming party together, which he seems excited about.

He’s very close to his mother, who was a teen mom and married his father young. Sadly, she’s been a widower since Shane was ten years old. He didn’t talk much about his father, but we did spend some time listening to a few songs on the radio that he said reminded him of him. I recognize the Whitney Houston one as one of my mom’s favorites too.

When we arrive at airport parking, things happen fast. We park in a space that Shane has already reserved online. We take a shuttle to the departing flight area and then stand in line for check-in because I have a large bag to check-in.

“What’s in that thing?” he asks about my suitcase. “It weighs a ton.”

“Laundry.”

“You’re bringing home a suitcase full of laundry for your mother to wash?”

“I’m going to wash it myself.”

“What’s up with the washers in your building here?”

“They’re in this separate area of the complex. I’m not really comfortable going there.”

“Why?” His face hardens. “Did something happen?”

“No, nothing like that. It just gives me the ick.”

The plane is divided into rows of three on either side, and I feel bad when we arrive at our seats–one window and one middle seat. If we’re going to sit together and work together, one of us is going to have to take the dreaded middle seat, and I’m not sure his muscular, six-foot-three frame is going to be able to fit. Without even asking my preference of a seat, Shane guides me in front of him and gestures for me to take the window seat.

“Are you sure you don’t want to ask the attendant for an aisle seat instead?”

“I already checked. The plane is full.”

“I can sit in the middle,” I assure him. “I’m smaller than you.”

“You seem like a window seat kind of girl, and there’s no way I’m going to make you sit next to a stranger. Now come on, beautiful, people are waiting behind us.”

“I do like the view at take off,” I hesitantly admit.

“Then it’s settled.”

After a few minutes of settling in, shoving my designer tote bag under the seat in front of me, I feel like a selfish bitch.

Shane is smushed.

His knees are pushed up against the seat in front of him, and we’ve got a very long flight.

“What’s wrong?” he asks me, worry etched across his face when he studies mine.

“Maybe we ask someone to switch seats? You’re not comfortable.”

He leans over and stuns me with a quick kiss on the lips.

“You’re adorable, but I’m fine.”

I take a moment to compose myself then say, “Well, if you keep winning like you guys have been, I’m sure one day it’ll only be first-class seats for you in the NHL.”

“That’s sweet.”

“The NHL is the end goal, right?”

“It is. It’s all I’ve ever wanted.”

“You’re really good. You’ll get there.”

“Speaking of hockey, you came to the game the other night with Lorenzo, right?”

“Yeah.”

“How did that happen?”

“Oh, I saw him at the concession stand and he had crappy seats so I offered to give him my extra seat. You didn’t mind, did you?”

“No,” he smiles. “I just wondered how you two ended up sitting together because if it had been a date, that would have made things awkward.”

“It would have made what awkward?”

“VCU Homecoming twenty years from now.”

“What are you talking about, Shane?” I chuckle. “You’re not making any sense.”

“Twenty years from now, when we’re strolling across the yard, and you have to explain to our children, one big-headed boy and one gorgeous girl, that you went on a date with the has-been baseball player before you fell in love with their daddy.”

The man sitting on the other side of Shane cracks a smile, obviously finding what he said amusing. All I can do is shake my head in disbelief, although somewhere deep inside, I’m beaming.

“It’s never going to happen, catch up king,” I tease him.

“Why not?”

“I don’t date hockey players.”

“Do you date baseball players?”

“Shane–”

“Just asking questions.”

“I don’t date at all.”

“Why?”

“I just have other priorities.”

And major trust issues.

“I’ll accept that answer for now but not forever.”

I try laughing his comment off but when I see him staring at me with a focused intensity, I nervously clear my throat and pivot my neck to stare out the window.

The flight staff gives their safety presentation, and we buckle ourselves in.

“I’ll expect you to open your laptop the minute we get to our cruising altitude,” I whisper, not trying to interrupt the presentation. “You’ve got way more important things to worry about than who I’m dating.”

“That’s where you’re wrong, beautiful.” He throws the hood of his sweatshirt up and over his head then leans into my shoulder as if he’s going to take a nap. “It’s all I worry about.”

“Dude, are you about to go to sleep?” I ask incredulously, nudging his heavy body with my elbow. “We’ve got work to do.”

“Didn’t I tell you?” he replies flippantly grabbing my hand as the plane picks up speed for takeoff. “I hate to fly.”