Chapter 12

: Brandon

I ’d say this day can’t get any worse, but I haven’t seen the state my sister is in yet. I’ll reserve judgment for when I get to Jackson Hole. Or wherever she is in the middle of nowhere.

Andrew here—I make myself laugh—doesn’t seem to be having a great day either. I wasn’t trying to eavesdrop, but she was on FaceTime, so what was I supposed to do?

It’s kind of shitty that her parents didn’t tell her they were away, but it sounds like she didn’t tell them she was coming either. Serves her right.

I text my sister.

Me: Hit a delay with the weather. I’ll send you my ETA when I have that information

What time is it anyway? We left Boston around seven. My phone says it’s almost ten. Does that mean ten here? Or ten in Boston? I have no idea how long we were even flying for. The thing I hate most about travel is the time zone thing. I can never figure it out.

I google “what time is it in Boston?” It’s almost eleven there, so my phone must have automatically updated.

But it’s been at least five minutes, and there’s no answer from Jess. I try not to read anything into the fact that she doesn’t respond. It doesn’t mean she’s up to no good. She might be out in the fields or in a barn or something. I don’t really know what she’s doing out there. I try not to let my imagination get the best of me.

So I distract myself by listening to Andi’s phone conversation and otherwise looking over her shoulder to see what she’s doing on her phone.

“Didn’t anyone ever tell you it’s rude to look at someone else’s phone?” she says in a huff, moving over one seat.

“I don’t worry myself with what other people think of me.” It’s true. They’re going to think the worst no matter what, so why bother? “You should try it sometime.”

Her phone signals an incoming FaceTime call. She swears under her breath before answering it, her eyes rolling. But then the oddest thing happens. As she accepts, it’s as if a mask descends over her features and a banal smile forms on her mouth. “Hi, Mike, what’s up?”

“Where are you? Did you get the money thing straightened out? Don’t tell Nate I told you what we make per game. I don’t think we’re supposed to talk about it. I don’t need to get on his shit list. You know, you probably shouldn’t bring it up either. Not if you want more games. He seems like the type to hold a grudge.”

The distance between seats means I can’t see who it is, but I can definitely hear. He’s talking about games. Is it someone I know?

She sighs slightly. “I didn’t bring it up, and I’m probably not going to. I can’t. I’m on thin ice as it is.” Her eyes dart to me. Of course, I’m not even pretending that I’m not hanging on every word. She makes a hand gesture, shooing me away.

If that’s what she wants, she’s got it. I stand up and begin to walk down the aisle. As soon as I see her gaze return to her phone screen, I double back, walking behind her row of chairs. As I come up behind her, I lean in.

Mike Barnaby. He’s a tool. He’s also one of the refs in the USSL. I guess it only makes sense that they talk. “Hi, Mike!” I wave, grinning like a fool. “How’s it going?”

I see his mouth drop open in the millisecond before she ends the call. She stands up and, in the iciest tone I’ve ever heard, says, “Do you know what you just did? You just ruined my career.”

“All I did was say hi to Mike Barnaby. That guy’s a total tool.”

She immediately begins pacing. She’s muttering to herself. Every so often, she looks over at me and glares.

“Andrew, calm down. It’s not the end of the world.”

The look on her face says that it is. “I ... I cannot ... How could you? He’s gonna tell them we were together.”

“We’re not together. We just happen to be in the same place. It’s no big deal. And why does he care, other than he’s a jackwad? He the jealous type?”

She lets out a bitter laugh. “Not with me. Not since the divorce.”

Andrew here was married to Mike Barnaby? That’s interesting. I can’t picture them together. I step over the back of the chair and sit down, crossing one leg over the other. “Why don’t you sit down and relax? I think they said we’d be boarding soon.”

I run my hands through my hair and pull it back into a ponytail. Andi watches me, the bridge of her nose wrinkling ever so slightly. She’s probably jealous of my luscious locks.

“Have you ever heard of conditioner? Your hair is fried.”

Okay, maybe jealous isn’t the right word. “I’ve never had any complaints before,” I say with a sly grin.

Andi makes a little gagging motion. “Please don’t,” she says, holding up her hand. I’m about to ask don’t what when a kid comes running up. He’s maybe seven or eight and wearing a Boston Buzzards jersey. “Are you Brandon Nix?”

His father arrives a moment later, breathless. “Maverick, you can’t bother this man.”

I lean forward, putting my elbows on my knees and lacing my fingers together. “I am Brandon Nix.”

“I told you, Dad,” he says glancing back at his father. “You didn’t believe me.”

I nod sagely. “It’s the hair. No one recognizes me when I wear it down. The minute I put it up ...”

Maverick is practically vibrating with excitement. “You’re the Boston Buzzards’ leading scorer! But you get kicked out too much. You should stop drawing penalties. Did you know your penalty cost your team the semifinals last year?”

I hear a dampened laugh come from next to me.

“Actually, it’s the goalkeeper’s job to stop the penalty kicks,” I reply.

“And it’s your job to make them.” This kid pulls no punches. I glance up at his father whose face is beet red.

“Would you like a picture or not?” I huff. I glance over at Andi who’s turned away and practically eating her fist, her shoulders shaking. “This is Andi Nichols. She’s a referee for the USSL. You should get a picture with her too since apparently you know all the rules.”

Andi’s glare of death is back, but it disappears the minute she turns to face the kid and his father. I do not envy that man at all. He’s got his hands full. Serves him right for naming his kid Maverick.

Pictures are done, and we’re left standing there. Andi opens her mouth to say something, but we’re interrupted by the announcement that they’re ready to reboard our flight. Andi and I move toward the gate and board with the first-class passengers. We reach the row of our seats, and Andi arches her back as she hoists her suitcase above her head to the overhead bins. Her back presses to my front. Without thinking, I reach up and guide it in, my arms forming a cage around hers.

“I don’t need your help,” she says with a huff as she sits down.

I fly so much, helping others with their luggage is a natural reaction. I’m only 5′ 10″, but I can bench press well over 200 pounds. In case you’re wondering, at this point in the season, I’m about 165 pounds of pure muscle, so you have every right to be impressed. Lifting a suitcase up just helps speed along the boarding process.

“You don’t have to get all snippy.”

“And don’t touch me.” She plops down in her seat and puts her laptop and headphones in the seatback pocket.

“When did I touch you?” I’d think I’d remember touching her. She is so not my type. And the way she’s dressed? She looks ridiculous. I’d never be interested in someone who takes so little interest in their appearance.

“You practically broke my hand when we were landing. You kept grabbing me.”

Oh. That. I sit in my seat and buckle my seatbelt snuggly. “We were going down.”

“It was just a bit of turbulence.” She slides her earbuds in. I don’t know if they’re connected or not, but I get the message loud and clear.

Trust me, Andi Nichols. The feeling is mutual.