Ben blinks, sniffling. “Man, that really hit a chord with me.”
Amobi pats him on the back in reassurance. Ben turns, throwing an arm around him and says, “I love you, man.”
“I love you, too, but get off.” Amobi shoves him, smiling. “Just because we’re unpacking our embedded patriarchy doesn’t mean I like unsolicited hugs.”
Unlike lots of other professional sports teams, the MLS, up until last year, flew its teams almost exclusively commercial. This year, after basically a decade of back-and-forth with the powers that be, we’ve been guaranteed at least eight chartered flights, and the cross-country trek for our first preseason game against New England has been deemed a solid candidate.
So, rather than packing onto a regular old Boeing 747 along with everyone and their grandmother, we’re stepping onto a private plane. No screaming babies or awkward rubbernecking to sneak pictures of us. No legs squished in a seat whose row doesn’t begin to accommodate my six-three frame. No layovers lasting hours on end.
I should be ecstatic.
Instead, my chest is tightening in an invisible vise named anxiety triggered by new environments meets general fear of flying.
“Bergman. Hayes.” Coach points to the pair of wide leather seats that comprise the lone first row on the plane. “Seats of honor.” She raises her eyebrows, her expression loud and clear: I’m watching you. Play nice.
Without waiting for us to answer, she walks past us and joins Jas in the next row, who’s already tugging on their headphones to tune out the team’s noise.
Gavin exhales a slow, measured breath, turns, and pops open the first compartment, then throws his bag in there before easing down to his seat. I follow suit, lifting my bag to stash it in the overhead compartment, but my hands are so shaky, I drop it.
The bag lands right on Gavin’s knee. The one that seems to bother him most.
“Fuck’s sake,” he growls under his breath. He glances up, angry coffee-dark eyes pinning mine.
“Sorry.” My voice comes out hoarse and tight, but it’s the best I can do. Clearing my throat, I pick up my bag. My heart pounds in my ears. I’m a clumsy mess, but I manage to get my bag in the overhead compartment and shut it before more or less collapsing into my seat.
I want nothing else than to slip in my earbuds and tune out the flight with my favorite Best of Broadway playlist I always listen to, but I realize my earbuds are still in my bag, and I think if I try to so much as stand up and go back in my bag, I just might pass out before I even get there.
Gavin slants a glance at me, brow furrowed. “What’s wrong with you?”
“I’m fine,” I mutter, focusing on breathing. Or trying to.
My heart’s a snare drum in my chest, its frenetic beat reverberating through my body. I shut my eyes, clamp my hands together over my stomach and focus on feeling my breaths. Extending my legs, I do everything I can to luxuriate in the rare pleasure of being able to stretch them fully, rather than fly with my knees wedged against the seat in front of me.
Dimly, over the roar of blood in my ears, the rapid thud of my heart, I hear the chief stewardess explain flight safety, the captain come over the intercom and tell us we’re in for a smooth cross-country flight.
“Bergman,” Gavin says. “What’s going on?”
“Can’t.” It’s all I can manage, shaking my head. I’m too focused on doing everything I know to cope with my escalating anxiety.
I suck in a breath through my nose as the plane begins to roll forward and turns onto the runway, as the engines begin to roar. The plane picks up speed. Momentum pins me against the seat, exacerbating the compressed sensation in my chest.
My anxiety’s such a frustrating conundrum. It ebbs for stretches, lulls me into a sense of calm. Days will go by that I feel like I finally have the best medication, the right balance of comforting routine and mood-boosting variety and excitement, and then this happens—I wake up, my chest tight, my breathing short, my stomach knotted so hard I can barely eat, because of something that just a few days ago I felt would be completely manageable.
Gripping the edge of my seat, I sink my fingers into the cool, buttery leather and beg the choking sense of dread tightening my throat, tearing through and around me like a tornado, to release its grip.
“Oliver.” Gavin’s voice cuts through the chaos like a hot knife through butter.
And now I’m melting.
My name. He’s never said my name. Let alone like that—like the blackness swallowing me up is an immaterial veil his voice has rendered, a wisp of smoke cleared with one sweep of gravelly sound: Oliver.
I’m on the precipice of a full-blown panic attack. I recognize that now, scrambling at the edge and then—
A hand. His hand. Warm, rough, heavy. It settles over mine. Air rushes out of me before I suck it in, stuttering as if I’ve surfaced from too long underwater, as if my lungs were about to burst.
“You’re okay,” he says. His hand is so heavy. So strong. Wrapped around mine, squeezing it tight. “You’re safe.”
I’m too desperate for the lifeline to try to make sense of who threw it, the last person I ever expected to give me kindness, let alone comfort. I spin my hand and clutch his, because I’m still there on the ledge, panic whistling around me like a violent wind that’s about to send me over into a terrifying freefall.
For long moments, as the plane climbs in the sky, I count my breaths, grounded by Gavin’s hand clutching mine so hard I feel my pulse in my palm. A pulse that’s slowing, steadying.
My breaths come easier, oxygen flooding my system, bringing me back to my body.
“S-sorry,” I mutter.
He squeezes harder, his thumb sliding along the back of my hand. Something cracks inside my heart and spills through my limbs.
“You should apologize,” he says, his voice low and quiet, “for glitter-bombing my car. For forking my yard and sticking shit-looking peanut butter on my doorknob, but not for this.”
My mouth tips into a faint smile. But it doesn’t last. I’m so tired. I’m always tired after this happens. And I slept like hell last night because I was nervous. About the game. The flight.
Him.
As the plane finally levels, the bands of my anxiety start to loosen around my ribs. And when sleep wraps around me, heavy, peaceful, I feel it still—
His hand. Warm. Strong. Holding mine.
I have a feeling Viggo would have something to say about this.
I stand just inside our hotel room.
Gavin’s and my hotel room.
And there’s only one bed.
Something niggles at the back of my brain. It’s been years since I’ve read a romance novel, back when we were in high school, when Viggo left them lying around Mom and Dad’s house and I’d pick them up once he’d finished. In one of those romance novels, I remember there being some situation like this. A couple at odds, newly married but strictly for convenience, pausing their travel by carriage to sleep at an inn, only to realize there was only one room for them and only one bed.
That they had to share.
And then sharing a bed led to sharing much more.
Which is definitely not going to happen. Especially since my skin is still warm, my palm tingling with the memory of Gavin’s hand wrapped around mine.
The. Whole. Flight.
When I jolted awake as we touched down, Gavin slowly released my hand, then used it to wrap his old-school earbuds around his phone like it was nothing. I didn’t know what to say or do. So, since then, I’ve said and done nothing except move like a zombie, going through the motions. Deplaning, getting on the bus, staring out the window as we rode to our hotel, then accepting my key. Riding the elevator with Gavin.
Walking down the hall with Gavin.
Stopping outside the same room as Gavin.
“Fucking hell,” he grumbles, tossing his bag aside and heading for the bathroom.
Which only has one shower.
Not that I’m thinking about sharing a shower with Gavin Hayes like I’ll be sharing a bed.
“I call window side,” I say to his back, trying to defuse the massive tension in the room.
He lifts his hand, and a long, thick middle finger, before disappearing into the bathroom with a thud of the door.
“Warm and cuddly as ever,” I mutter, crossing the room and setting my bag on the dresser. I pull back the curtains and glance around, trying to distract myself with the view of Foxborough and Gillette Stadium, but it’s pointless.
I can’t shake what happened on the plane.
Worse, I don’t want to.
9
GAVIN
Playlist: “Come a Little Closer,” Cage The Elephant