Chapter Three
ALEKSI
Seattle morning fog hangs low over the private terminal as we load the
Hawkeyes jet. Out on the tarmac, the wind tastes like rain and jet fuel;
inside, we’ve got the usual team soundtrack. Some guys are already asleep
against their pillows, some are hyping up with headphones blaring, others
go over plays with assistant coaches.
There’s an edge you can feel too.
Series: 2–1 them.
Denver tonight. Steal this one and the world evens out. Lose it, and the
season tilts the wrong direction.
I like road games. The world gets small in a good way. We only have
each other to rely on, and the fans who show up are the die-hard kind. No
distractions, no noise—just hockey.
I jog up the stairs to the plane two at a time. Part superstition, part habit.
Also because I want to get to Row 9 before Theo does.
Kendall’s already there, window seat. Headphones looped around her
neck like she meant to wear them and forgot. Her team-issued sweats look
softer than anything I own; the hood is up, blonde hair spilling out in a
messy, perfect cascade. Her bag’s tucked neatly beneath the seat in front of
her. Her hands—steady in blood, steady on the bench, steady in chaos—are
clenched on her knees. One bounces just slightly. Not loud enough for
anyone else to notice.
But I do.
Claustrophobia doesn’t care that you’re the smartest person on the plane.
“Seat taken?” I ask, already angling my duffel into the overhead.
She tips her chin up to see me, gives the same quick scan she gives every
player, as if checking for an injury. “Theo usually sits with me,” she says,
the kind of sentence that would stop most people cold.
“He hasn’t gotten here yet,” I say, “and I brought a care package.”
Her eyes narrow, skeptical but interested. “A care package?”
I take the seat since she doesn’t object right away. Pull the loot from my
backpack like a magician. “One neck pillow with a cooling gel insert. One
stress ball… or my hand, if you prefer. You can squeeze until you break it.
I’m strong.”
That earns me a muffled chuckle. I take it as a win.
“And—” I keep going, “one bag of gummy bears you pretend you don’t
like but always steal from Theo, one spare power bank because you always
forget yours, and—” I set the crown jewel on her tray “—an iPhone I
bought last night so I could download this claustrophobia podcast offline.
No ads. The good kind. A woman with a soothing voice like a sauna towel.”
“You bought a phone for a podcast?” she asks, somewhere between
disbelief and something softer.
“It was the cheapest one,” I say. “I didn’t have to leverage my hockey
contract to afford it. Also got the premium app. They plant a forest when
you buy it.”
The corner of her mouth fights a smile. “Of course they do.”
Finally, I spot Theo boarding. Kendall’s scrolling through the phone, too
absorbed to notice him. His eyes find me sitting beside her, and he smirks—
half amused, half unsurprised. Everyone in the locker room either knows or
suspects my crush on Dr. Kendall Hensen. I don’t bother denying it.
Theo finds a seat a few rows up with one of the assistant coaches. Good.
That feels like permission.
I reach for my seatbelt, and it’s not lost on me that Kendall’s knee stops
bouncing as she looks over my offerings. She smells like orange sanitizer
and chai. She’s already braver than anyone I know, which is why it kills me
to watch her swallow fear like medicine every time we fly.
“Are you sure you want to sit with me?” she asks. “I took Dramamine.
I’ll be terrible company in ten minutes.”
“I like terrible company,” I say. “I can keep up a two-way conversation
on my own.”
She nods with a knowing smile, like she’s not surprised, and reaches for
the neck pillow. “Yeah, I suppose that’s true.”
I help settle the pillow behind her neck, waiting for the nod that says it’s
not too close, not too much. Her throat moves when she swallows. She
presses the stress ball once, twice—testing it like a pulse.
“Phones in airplane mode,” I say.
“You’re bossy,” she mutters.
A callback to our last conversation.
I grin. It means she’s still thinking about that night on the bench. So am I.
The doors whoosh shut with that sound that makes the world small too
fast. I queue the podcast, lean the phone against the tray lip. The woman’s
voice fills the space—low, calm. I already know where Kendall’s starting; I
listened first to make sure it would help.
Inhale for four, hold for four, exhale for six.
Kendall mirrors it, eyes closing. I match her cycles in my head, a quiet
inside joke with myself. The engines build to a soft roar. Her hand finds my
sleeve without looking. I let it stay.
Takeoff. The runway bumps turn to air, and everyone pretends not to
notice their stomachs lift. I stare out the window—bright wet smears of
Seattle sliding away beneath the clouds. I think about the blue line, the
seam that opens if you hit it with speed. I think about the sound of the
building exhaling last night when we won.
By the time we climb above the first clouds, her breathing has evened
out. Her hand slides from my sleeve to my forearm, slowly, as the
Dramamine takes hold. The space between us shrinks until her knuckles
brush my ribs. Her head tilts toward my shoulder in stages, like a tree
deciding where to land—then lands there.
I don’t move for a long time. Not even when my arm starts to tingle.
I invent a drill in my head called Become the Doctor Pillow and I nail it
perfectly because she doesn’t so much as flinch.
Eventually, I risk a glance down. The lashes I teased last night are even
more unfair up close. Her mouth is soft. A sweet pink I’d bet tastes just as
good as it looks. The crease between her brows has smoothed out; the
tension is gone. Dramamine and a woman with a sauna-towel voice—1.
Fear—0.
“Good?” I whisper to no one.
She doesn’t answer. Her hand curls, not around mine but near it, like a
truce flag. The podcast voice tells her she’s safe, but I could have told her
that myself. As long as I’m around, she always will be.
I’d say it out loud, but she’s not ready to hear it. Maybe she never will be.
If that’s the case, then I’ll settle for flights like this. When she lets me sit
beside her, lets her guard drop, lets me be the pillow.
And if that’s all I get, then Coach better get used to me taking more hits
that draw blood for her to bandage up.
Denver air hits differently when we land. Everyone says altitude like it’s
an excuse; it’s not, it’s a fact. It dries your nose out and makes your legs
feel like you forgot to charge them. You skate through it. That’s the job.
Morning skate is legs and touches, pucks snapping off fiberglass, Coach
Haynes barking in that gravely tone that still says he scored thirty-one goals
one year. I run my pattern. If I do nothing else in this life, I will skate clean.
I owe eight-year-old me that much—back when I was all elbows and thriftstore pads and a rink that smelled like ammonia and the sea.
We go lines… we go reps. I win more draws than I lose, and Wolf chirps
at me between circles about how my faceoff win is the only reason he
tolerates my “finnish finesse” on zone entries.
Kendall watches from the tunnel with Theo, clipboard tucked against her
chest. She is backlit by the fluorescent, scientifically unflattering light, and
still I swear she glows. She catches me looking and points two fingers at her
eyes then at me: hydrate. I make a show of chugging back a barrel to
impress her and get a head shake I don’t deserve.
We bus back, take naps, wrap sticks while eating lunch. I text my mom a
picture of the skyline and she sends back three blue hearts and a photo of
the dog asleep on her knitting. She asks if Kendall liked the licorice. I say
she is brave and add a winky face. Mom sends thirty-five question marks. I
tell her to watch the game.
The building is full before warmups. Denver’s band does this drum thing
in the concourse that makes your ribs rattle.
In the first period, we settle into a long fight ahead of us. Everyone is
pretending not to have nerves. I take the first shift and waste it winning a
puck battle that goes nowhere, but it puts sweat on my back and quiets my
head. Second shift, I turn a middle pickup into a controlled entry and feed
Slade late. He looks at me like I did it on purpose, though he knows I did.
Sorry buddy, next time.
We get it back on the power play. I fake a pass to Luka Popovich, and
then send it to Slade. He hammers it. 1–1. I take a seat on the bench, down a
water bottle and take a deep breath. Oxygen is a drug in thin air.
Between shifts, I hear the steady sound of Kendall’s voice without
making out words. Theo nods; she writes. The headset cord drapes from the
back of her collar, and I have an unreasonable urge to tuck it someplace safe
so nobody trips. Focus.
Second period is a seesaw and not the fun kind. Wolf ends up in the
penalty box more than usual and comes back out with eyes like a
thunderhead. I keep it simple, chips and chases, retrieve and bump, the little
ugly things you do to back up what you advertised in warmups.
On a change, I catch Kendall’s line of sight by accident. She gives me the
world’s smallest nod, like something private just between the two of us. It’s
ridiculous how quickly it gives me a burst of energy. Like I could shake all
night.
We go out for the third period, tied.
The first thirty seconds are nothing but shifts—pucks in feet, whistles at
bad times, the universe trying to see if we’ll blink. We don’t. Our line
catches a matchup I like; their second pair is gassed from the last kill. I win
the draw clean, slide it back to Luka, and we roll.
I get it on the half wall with a touch of space. One stride, then two,
weight on the inside edge. I slip the puck to my backhand when I see an
opening like a curtain. I see Slade cutting back. I see the goalie’s shoulder
twitch—and then I see nothing.
It’s the legal kind of hit that doesn’t feel legal from inside your skull. A
body, shoulder high to my chest, my head whipping on the swivel of my
neck. The boards come too fast and in slow-motion at the same time. I don’t
even hear the whistle.
Then the world turns dark with only stars shooting into my vision and
then… nothing.
Coming back is like walking out of a pool with all your clothes on. It’s
heavy at first. Then you are aware of small things, like the ice brutal against
the back of your arms, a burn at your cheekbone, the ridiculous thought that
someone needs to fix the arena lights because they are too bright and one is
haloing a person’s head like a painting.
“Kendall,” I say, except my mouth doesn’t shape it right. I can tell
because she shakes her head. The kind of headshake that says I am here and
we are okay but we are not doing this your way.
“Hi, Mäkelin,” she says, low, steady, not soft. The Doctor voice she uses
with all the players when she’s in doctor mode. Not a great sign for me.
There’s a hand on the back of my helmet, anchoring, and another near my
jaw. “Don’t move yet. Eyes on me.”
Her eyes are very green. It’s important information and not important at
all. I swear there’s a sprinkle of hazel in them too. I try to focus harder on
them but my eyes feel blurry and heavy.
“What period is it?” she asks.
I blink. I catch sight of Theo kneeling at my hip, the world narrowing to
our circle and the scrape marks around us. “Third,” I say. It feels true. I
hope it’s true.
“Score?”
The drum in my ear is my pulse.. “One-one?” I offer, and the moment it
leaves, I know I’m wrong.
“Okay,” she says, in the same even tone. No judgment. She moves a
penlight, and it becomes a comet with a tail. “Follow my finger.” The light
shifts left and I try to make my eyes do the thing but they lag like a
streaming game on hotel Wi-Fi.
I try to grin because that’s what I do when anything hurts. It makes my
cheek feel like glass.
Slade is a looming shape at the boards, murderously quiet, and then I see
Scottie skate up next to him. I can’t see Wolf and that either means he is
hunting someone or serving penance. I want to tell everyone it’s fine. I want
to sit up and demonstrate fine. My body sends a memo that says nope.
“Don’t try to move,” Kendall says before I even twitch. Her hand presses
briefly, a reminder, not restraint. “You’re doing well. What’s your full
name?”
“Aleksi Henrik Mäkelin,” I say, and the syllables click in that familiar
path my tongue learned at six.
“Team?”
“Hawkeyes,” I say, like she doesn’t know.
“Give me a fun fact, Mäk,” she says using the nickname the team calls
me.
“Did you know that Saturn is big enough to hold the earth one-thousand
times?”
She leans into my field of vision, blocking the neon cyclone, and for a
second, she is the whole world. It’s not the halo light, it’s her. She smells
like cold and peppermint and that stupid orange sanitizer. I could be twelve
and have a scraped knee. I could be thirty-four and bleeding. Either way I’d
listen.
“Any neck pain?” she asks.
“No.” It’s honest. My neck is a rubber band, but it isn’t breaking.
“Headache?”
“Little,” I admit, and that earns a tiny nod like I passed a test by not lying.
“Good. You’re coming off,” she says, already signaling. Somewhere in
my line of sight, the stretcher option is a question mark, but she shakes her
head at Theo—no board, not needed. “Scottie and Slade,” she calls without
looking, and there they are, two walls with legs. “We’re going slow. Aleksi,
we’re going to roll to your side and up. On my count. One—two—three.”
They could lift a truck. They lift me like I am a net full of fish I forgot I
was carrying. The world tilts and then steadies. My skates find ice in a way
I don’t trust. Kendall’s hand is on my elbow, not for show. I wish I was
faking this for drama, but I’m not.
We move toward the gate. People pound the glass—three angry thumps,
three sympathetic ones, twenty idiots with beers sloshing. The PA
announcer is saying something that floats above us like a bad cloud. The
bench parts, coaches lean, I swallow. It doesn’t change the taste of metal in
my mouth.
In the tunnel, the sound turns to the squeak of my blades on rubber
matting and the echo of the crowd getting further away. The adrenaline
finally gives up a little. My legs realize they are attached to my body.
Kendall’s voice shifts gear to her concussion checklist. It’s now all about
lights, nausea, dizziness, any ringing?—”yes”. She and Theo slot me onto
the little bench in the quiet room like they’ve done it a hundred times… and
they have. She palms the back of my head again when she checks my
helmet ridge for blood. I close my eyes because it makes the world less like
a tilt-a-whirl and more like a dark room where someone left the door open.
“You got clipped high,” she says, narrating so I stay with her. “We’re
going to run through orientation and symptoms and then you’re staying
with Theo. No arguments.”
“Wasn’t planning to,” I say, which is a lie I used to tell. But I don’t lie to
her. “What’s the score?” I ask, like I didn’t just fail that test.
“Two–one, them,” she says. “Eight minutes. Your line’s eating up minutes
and not letting anything pretty through.”
“Sounds right.” My tongue feels thick. “I’m fine,” I add, because some
habits die very, very last.
She arches a brow the way she did when I was bleeding last night and
flirting like a moron. “You’re concussed,” she says. No apology. No sugar
coating it. A diagnosis and a wall to lean on at the same time.
I think I smile but I only know that because it hurts.
Theo takes over the checklist. I answer like a good boy. Kendall watches
my eyes, then my hands, then my eyes again, as if my pupils are trying to
tell secrets. I want to tell her a thousand things. About the phone and the
forest app and how she sleeps when she finally lets herself, about how I will
sit on any plane on earth if it means she won’t be afraid for two hours, but
she is my doctor right now and I am her problem and the ice is still out
there eating minutes. She still has a job to do.
“Stay with him,” she tells Theo, and then to me, “Don’t move unless you
need to puke, in which case, do warn Theo first so we can jump out of the
way.” The last part she’s teasing, Theo’s already got a puke bag ready just
in case.
“Yes, ma’am.”
She hesitates at the doorway, half a breath and no more, then she’s gone
in a gust of cold air and a flash of teal and back team colors, back into the
chaos we came from. I let my head thump back against the cinderblock wall
and listen to the game as if it will tell me a story about myself I couldn’t
hear on the ice.
The story it tells is short and unfriendly.
We lose… by one.
I don’t see the goal. I hear the horn and the building’s joy and our bench’s
stunned quiet and I hate everything for a second: my timing, my skull, my
dumb beautiful sport.
Theo squeezes my shoulder. “We’ll get them at home,” he says, and I
believe him because the alternative is unthinkable.
I close my eyes and see the light haloing Kendall’s hair again, the
moment I woke up to her voice and the way she made the world small in
the way that doesn’t hurt. I will not say angel. I will not.
But if I did, no one would hear it here.
The locker room smells like loss.
Not the bitter kind just yet—it’s the dull version, wet gear and frustration
under the hum of the vents. Every player moves slower than he means to.
Equipment bags hit the floor with the quiet thud of a collective hangover.
I’m half dressed, still in compression pants and one sleeve of my
undershirt when Kendall reappears. She’s traded her sideline jacket for the
navy team hoodie, which means she’s ready to get to work, hair twisted into
a knot that’s trying to escape. Her expression is pure calm—the kind you
only get when you’re barely holding your own adrenaline together.
“Light sensitivity?” she asks.
“Yeah.” I say.
“Headache?”
“Only when I think about the scoreboard.”
That earns me a look that isn’t a smile but isn’t not one either. She steps
closer, shining her little penlight, checking my pupils. I can smell the faint
coffee on her breath from between periods. The sound of the team behind us
fades to a low static.
“Are you still dizzy?” she asks.
“Only when you’re this close.”
She exhales through her nose, and then gives me a side-eye with a head
tilt. “Real answers would be more helpful right now, considering your
condition.”
“Which is technically concussed,” I say. “It explains a lot.”
Her hand hovers near my jaw, the light moving between my eyes. “You
scared us for a minute.”
“I scared me too,” I admit. “Did Wolf go nuclear?”
She purses her lips like, as a doctor, she can’t condone his behavior, but
as our team doctor she has a biased opinion that she won’t be sharing with
me. “He did his job,” she says, which means someone on Colorado’s team
is probably icing bruises in interesting places.
Theo calls from behind her, “He’s cleared to fly, Doc, but he’s not playing
until the neurologist signs off.”
“I heard,” I say.
Kendall answers without turning. “He knows.”
The way she says it—gentle but final—hits lower than any hit I took
tonight. She finishes the last of her chart notes and looks at me again.
“We’ll re-evaluate tomorrow after the neurologist has a look at you.” She
holds up a hand between us. “Don’t argue. I already know you want to.”
“I wasn’t going to,” I object.
Her eyebrow arches as if calling my bluff.
“Okay, I was thinking about it.”
She shakes her head with a snicker just under her breath and leaves me
with the smallest grin before moving on to check another player. I’d take
the concussion twice to see it again.
After media, and a team dinner that I just happen to end up sitting next to
her… by complete coincidence… or so I sell it to her, we’re herded toward
the buses in the thin mountain air, Hawkeyes duffel bags hanging off
shoulders, and beanies pulled low. The plan is simple: quick flight home,
sleep in our own beds, regroup for the next game against Colorado at home.
Tight schedule, tighter nerves, and a date for me with a neurologist that will
decide my fate for the next day.
Except the plan doesn’t care about us.
Coach Haynes is already on the phone with operations when the
announcement filters through: mechanical issues. The jet grounded until
morning, maybe longer.
The bus is headed for the commercial airport instead. Slade mutters a
word that makes the rookies blush, and there’s a collective groan of
annoyance throwing the bus. Then we all start pulling out phones and argue
with flight apps and shitty reception.
“Commercials only. We’ll all have to split up to get home. Book your
flights, travel will have to reimburse you, just get home before morning
skate.”
Which means chaos. Hockey players are not built for airports.
Within twenty minutes, the bus pulls up to the airport terminal and
hockey players and families are spilling out and into the lobby of the
airport. Duffles being hurled out of the belly of the buss, while players are
grabbing and running to the desks to check bags and get their tickets in
order to make it through TSA to make whatever flight they booked to get
out of here.
I’m near the back of the group, scrolling flights with one thumb and
checking for my passport with the other, when Theo jogs up beside me.
We’re the last two people from the team to get to the front desk. Coaches
booked too. Everyone’s scrabbling through the TSA line. “Hey, I’m routing
through Chicago,” he says, turning to me, only a few feet away. “I’m trying
to get Kendall on too, but…” He grimaces.
“But?”
“She’ll be waitlisted in case someone misses the flight. They’ve only got
one seat confirmed for me.”
I look to the side and behind him and realize there’s no Kendall anywhere
near him.
“Where the hell is she?” I ask, turning, frantically looking around for
blonde hair and a frown.
We sat together on the bus ride over since she said that she’s sticking with
me tonight for observation but I thought she was right behind me when we
got off the bus.
“I don’t know. I thought she was with you.” he says.
I look over the lobby terminal again to find her outside next to the bus,
still trying to wrangle a stuck medical bag strap from the belly of the bus.
The bus driver is helping her and finally he makes one large pull and
releases it.
“Waitlist isn’t going to work. We’re not leaving her in Denver by
herself.”
She moves like she’s trying to keep her world from falling apart in public
view—methodical, contained, not asking for help as she pulls her bag strap
over her shoulder and jogs towards the automatic doors.
“I can reroute you through LAX and then up to Seattle,” the ticket agent
tells him. “You’ll get in three hours later.”
Theo scrubs his jaw. “Perfect. Because what I really wanted tonight was
LAX flight delays.”
I turn to my agent who’s trying to find me a flight out of here. “Do you
have two seats anywhere to Seattle?”
She types on her keyboard quickly, looking for anything she can find.
“Everything’s booked solid except a Vegas connection with two firstclass seats. That’s it.”
“I’ll take them.”
She hesitates. “It’s about three thousand for both.”
I pull my card from my wallet and slide it across the counter. “I don’t
care about the cost. We go together or not at all.”
Her brows jump. “You sure?”
“Yes.” I lean forward slightly. “Print fast.”
“I’ll take her,” I say to Theo before I think about it.
Theo gives me that grin that knows too much. “You sure, Romeo?”
His desk agent slaps his newly printed ticket in front of him. “Sir, they
are boarding. You have to go now if you’re going to make it through
security in time.”
“Do you have a better plan?” I ask him as he stares at the ticket now in
his hand.
He doesn’t. He just takes two steps towards me and claps my shoulder
with his hand. “Then she’s all yours. Try not to let her hyperventilate during
takeoff. Let her have the window seat, it helps if she can see out the
window.”
“I know what I’m doing,” I tell him. And I hope to God I’m right.
“Yeah,” he says, walking off, “that’s what I’m afraid of,” he says over his
shoulder.
When the tickets hit the counter, I sign the receipt, stuff them into my
pocket, and glance over my shoulder. Kendall’s just coming in, still
juggling two med bags and her own carry-on. She looks like she’s ready to
collapse and keep going anyway.
I jog toward her, weaving between other passengers, duffel banging my
hip. “Doc!”
She looks up, startled. “Aleksi. What are you—”
“Here.” I hold out one of the boarding passes. “We have a flight.”
Her forehead creases. “We?”
“I got two seats. Vegas connection, first class. It starts boarding in ten
minutes. We have to go now.”
She blinks. “You bought me a ticket?”
“You said that you weren’t leaving my side tonight.” I grin, even though
my head still throbs. “I’m making sure you keep your word.”
Her mouth opens, closes. “Aleksi, that’s… that’s insane. You didn’t have
to—”
“Come on,” I cut in, catching one of her bags and tossing it over my
shoulder before she can protest further. “We’re going to miss it.” I say,
spinning around and start jogging towards TSA.
“Wait. What about Theo—” she says running after me.
I can hear her still struggling with her bags and keeping up. I yank
another bag off of her and slide my hand into hers to pull her along with
me.
“He’s rerouted. I’ve got you.”
Hearing myself say that last sentence to her outloud feels right. Feels like
I’ve been holding it in for too long.
“Aleksi, you can’t carry all of that weight. Give me something back,” she
demands, but she doesn’t pull her hand out of mine.
“Not a chance. I can handle it. We just need to get to our flight.”
She glances down at the ticket in her hand. “Vegas? You’re routing us
through Vegas?”
“It was that or tomorrow morning,” I say over my shoulder. “You hate
flying. I figured you’d rather get it over with, and I need to get back for
morning skate.”
The terminal is loud, a mess of delayed flights and boarding calls. Every
few seconds, a voice on the PA threatens to close the gate. I thread through
the crowd and feel her nerves kick in causing her to grip onto me like a
lifeline, her fingers weaving in between mine, our fingers locking.
It’s for balance, maybe. Stability, or safety. But her palm fits against mine
like it’s been there before, our fingers weaving together.
We reach TSA, both out of breath. The agent behind the podium has the
personality of a tax audit. “Tickets and IDs,” he barks.
I hand over both. The man barely glances before snapping, “You’re with
her?”
“Obviously,” I say, then soften it with a grin. “She’s the doctor. I’m the
patient.”
Kendall shoots me a warning glare but the corner of her mouth twitches.
The agent hands back our tickets with a grunt. “Gate B17. They’re boarding
now.”
We scramble through security—me tossing my bag into the tray, her
trying to explain the array of medical scissors and wraps she’s carrying.
TSA waves her through once they recognize the team logo. I shoulder both
duffels before she can argue.
“Give me those,” she huffs, jogging behind me to keep up.
“Negative.”
“You can’t carry all of it with your head injury,” she demands.
“You can’t carry it with your tiny arms or short legs. Just keep up, Doc.”
She knows I’m bigger and stronger than her. There’s no argument she can
make that will cause me to give up anything. She’s just going to have to
deal with it.
She might be the doctor that gets to make up the rules when we’re in the
stadium, but out here, I’m in charge of her safety and I take that very
seriously.
We sprint through the concourse, dodging rolling suitcases and late-night
travelers. Every few steps she mutters something about professional
boundaries; every few steps I pretend I don’t hear. Her hand finds mine
again when the crowd thickens near the gate. Not flirty this time—it’s
instinct. Like she’s trying to anchor herself to me in motion, making sure
we don’t get separated. She doesn’t have to worry about that. I’d never let it
happen.
“Gate B17!” the agent calls as we round the corner. The final group is
boarding. I quickly scan my ticket and Kendall scans hers next, while the
agent waves us through.
Kendall slows down halfway down the jet bridge now that we’re in the
clear, breathing hard and I match her speed. “You really didn’t have to—”
“I wanted to.” I shift the duffel, glancing at her over my shoulder as we
get closer to the airplane’s open door. “And if you think I’m letting you
panic alone in coach with strangers, you’re wrong.”
Her voice is softer now, almost lost under the hum of the vent. “No one’s
ever done something like that for me before.”
I shrug, trying to play it off. “Then you’ve been around the wrong
people.”
Her eyes lock onto mine, and then I turn my head back as I take the first
step into the airplane to board, “Don’t make me regret this,” she says as we
pass by the stewardess and into the first class cabin.
Inside the plane, the lights are low, the air stale with recycled sleep. First
class means wide seats and plenty of legroom. It’s perfect for someone who
feels claustrophobic and needs a little extra space.
I shove our bags overhead, slide into the aisle seat beside her, giving her
the window like Theo suggested. She’s already buckled in and gripping the
armrest. The engines whine, and she goes rigid.
“Hey,” I say quietly. “Remember the podcast lady?”
“She’s not here,” Kendall mutters, eyes closed.
“Then you’re stuck with me.”
She cracks one eye open. “God help me.”
I offer her my hand. “Better grip than the armrest. Squishy and softer
too.”
For a long moment, she stares at it like it’s a test. Then she slides her
fingers into mine. Her palm is warm, pulse fluttering fast. I keep my thumb
against her wrist. Not enough to make it weird, just enough to say I’m here.
The plane lurches, the kind that sends everyone’s stomach to their throats.
She squeezes.
I don’t let go.
“Want to hear a fun fact?” I offer, trying to get her mind off of the take
off.
I see her shut her eyes and chuckles under her breath. “Yeah sure, Mak.
Let’s hear it.”
“Finland has more saunas than cars.”
She glances over at me like I made that up. “Honest truth. Over 5 million
saunas in the country,” I tell her. “Also, we invented Santa Clause… you’re
welcome. And we are also known as the happiest country on earth. See, I’m
full of fun facts.”
“You’re full of something, that’s for sure. I’m just not yet sure what that
is,” she says but I know she’s teasing. I like to think of it as our love
language, though she doesn’t know it yet.
Then she turns to me. “You grew up in Finland, right?”
“I did… yeah. I spent most of my life there until I got drafted with the
AHL.”
“So, after college?”
I nod.
She lets out a yawn. It’s been a long twenty-four hours but I’m glad she’s
starting to settle in and is feeling safe enough to feel sleepy.
“Do you mind if I ask how your English is so good? Sometimes I hear
your accent, and then other times, I really have to listen to catch it.”
I don’t tease her about listening carefully to hear my accent, or ask her if
she’s into foreign guys because I can tell she’s genuinely interested and I
want to keep this conversation going like that. I want her to be interested in
knowing more about me like I am interested in knowing more about her.
“In Finland, kids are required to learn a second language in school. Not
very many parts of the world speak Finnish. Most kids study more than one.
Swedish and English are the most common.”
“So you started speaking English as a second language really early?”
I nod. “My parents were both fluent in English and Swedish so me and
my sister were brought up speaking all three, which made it easier since
they were also study requirements as we got older. I picked up
conversational German while I lived there for surgeries, and I know a little
French, but only enough to curse at JP.”
She lets out a snicker, her head falling back against the head rest but her
eyes still on me. “Okay, that explains alot.”
Outside the window, Denver dissolves into dark clouds and pinpricks of
city light. Inside, her breathing evens out, slow and steady, the same rhythm
as takeoff from Seattle.
We lost tonight.
We’ll fix it at home.
But somewhere between altitude and silence, I decide that maybe—just
maybe—the universe threw us this detour on purpose.
And if the stars aligned for just one flight with Kendall?
I’ll take it. Every mile.

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