Chapter Four
KENDALL
First class looked at us like we were the reason their bubbles were going
flat when we entered the flight but at least now that we’re in the air, people
have moved on.
We weren’t late. We were exactly on time for a gate that had been
threatening to close for twenty minutes. Still, I felt the collective snarl as
Aleksi shouldered our bags into the overheads with that big easy body of his
as I slid into the window seat like I owed every stranger here an apology. The
man across the aisle exhaled “finally” into his napkin. A woman in a camel
coat performed an Olympic-level eye roll.
Just before we hit altitude, the flight attendant appears with politeness
honed to a weapon. “Can I get you anything to drink?” she asks Aleksi,
smiling like she wants to be mad at him but can’t quite resist the cheekbones.
“Get in line,” I’m tempted to tell her.
Aleksi’s fan club of women in his jersey coming to every home game and
many away, is large enough to fill this aircraft. And I pass no judgement. He’s
equal parts sweet and funny, with the boyish good looks but sexy in all the
right ways. Not to mention that seeing him play out on the ice is its own
aphrodisiac.
“Champagne,” he says, then glances at me. “Two.”
My head whips toward him. “No, he can’t,” I tell her. Remembering I’m a
doctor, first and foremost. “He had a concussion tonight. No alcohol.”
He doesn’t miss a beat. “They’re not for me, Doc.” He taps one thick finger
against my shoulder. “They’re for you. To take the edge off. Your shoulders
are up to your ears.”
“They are not.” I attempt to lower them and feel them climb higher.
He tips his head, all smug. “We raced a small marathon to get here. You
hate flying. Sit back, take a deep breath, and drink a couple glasses of
champagne. You earned it.”
The attendant—Team Aleksi—vanishes and reappears with two gold
glasses that fizz, and that admittedly look like the type of liquid relief I could
use. The second one she parks on his tray with a wink. He doesn’t touch it but
keeps it for me so I can keep one hand on my glass and one hand still in his as
a lifeline I’m not ready to relinquish just yet.
At least not until this champagne kicks in.
The stem is cold against my fingers, the bubbles slipping up my nose with a
hiss that somehow feels like a kiss from the fruity alcohol. One sip and I feel
my jaw unclench half a centimeter. I hate how fast it helps…. and I love how
fast it helps.
“Thank you,” I say, because decency demands it. “For all of this.”
I feel his hand squeeze mine… just a little, but it’s there.
I sip again. He shifts, a silent offer, and I let my shoulder lean half an inch
toward his. My body knows before my brain catches up that the space is safer
with him in it.
“Don’t look at the door,” he says, like he knows what I’m thinking before I
say it. “Look at me.”
That’s… ill-advised. But I do. The bruise has bloomed up under his eye, a
purpling crescent that makes him look worse and somehow more like himself.
The pupils are equal, reactive, normal. The grin however…? That is a real
problem. Mostly a problem just for me.
“I’m sorry about the hit,” I say.
He shrugs it off like he’s shaking rain from his shoulders. “I’m not. If I had
known that a concussion in an away game would mean you’d have to stay by
my side the whole way home, I would have taken a hit sooner.”
I don’t answer, but I don’t pull away either.
We hit a small bit of turbulence, the liquid in my glass sloshing slightly. I
shut my eyes for a second and breathe like the podcast woman taught me.
Four in, four hold, six out. The champagne does its quiet work. So does the
hand wrapped around my knuckles. The city falls away. My shoulders find
their proper latitude. For one blessed minute, there is nothing to do but exist.
“See?” he murmurs. “Already better.”
“I hate that you’re right,” I say, and take another sip to keep from smiling.
“Theo told me to keep you talking. So tell me a secret.”
“A secret? Like what?”
“Anything,” he says, grin tilted, voice low enough that it feels private even
over the hum of the engines. “Okay. I’ll go first. Ask me anything you want.”
I arch an eyebrow. “Anything? That could be dangerous.”
“Good,” he says, leaning back. “Danger keeps the flight interesting.”
The seatbelt light dings off. Somewhere ahead of us, someone laughs too
loud. The moment feels suspended, fragile, and strangely safe.
“Fine,” I say, giving in. “Tell me about your heart surgery. I’ve read your
medical history but I don’t know much about it. You were young, right?”
He looks surprised, then thoughtful. “The scars are hard to miss huh? I
forget it’s there most of the time.”
“It’s my job to know your history.”
“Fair.” He glances at our joined hands, thumb tracing idle circles against
my skin. “I was born with a congenital defect. My twin sister was perfectly
healthy–I wasn’t. My dad found a specialist in Germany. He said it was my
best shot. He flew us there when I was two. Surgery lasted eleven hours. He
said afterward I looked like someone stitched together with sheer willpower.”
Hearing about his childhood and his surgery at such a young age makes me
feel closer to him in an unexplainable way. “So you’re a medical miracle.”
He shakes his head lightly. “No. My dad never let me think that way. He
said I wasn’t fragile, just built differently. He put me in hockey when I was
five to toughen me up. Told me that if I could survive the ice, I could survive
anything. People would underestimate me, and that would be my
superpower.”
I’ve never met his dad and I already like him. “You believed him,” I say
softly.
“I had to. He believed it enough for both of us.” A smile flickers. A fond yet
heavy memory. “I was small when I was born. Sickly. Even as a kid, I
couldn’t even lift a hockey stick without falling over at first. But hockey
made me strong.”
“And look at you now,” I say.
“Yeah,” he murmurs. “Look at me now.”
The air between us shifts. A quiet admiration, something warmer creeping
in.
“He passed away?” I ask gently. I know a little about this too, but only that
he passed away before Aleksi came to the states.
“Yeah.” He exhales. “Right before I made the international team. We never
got to celebrate together. He spent half his life getting me there, and then he
was gone before the payoff.”
“I’m sure he sees it,” I whisper. “He’s watching. And I bet he’s proud of
you.”
He swallows hard and I can tell he’s trying to keep his emotions in check.
“I hope so. He was my best friend.”
Our hands are still linked. His thumb brushes once more across my
knuckles, slower this time, as if he’s memorizing the texture of comfort. I
don’t move away.
Then he clears his throat, the smile tugging back into place—his escape
hatch. Happy go-lucky Aleksi is back. “Okay, my turn. Why the NHL? And
what’s with the no-player rule?”
I blink. “Wow, going straight for the jugular on this one, aren’t you? It’s
almost as if you planned it.” I tease.
“You had full license to ask anything you wanted. Now I get the same
question.”
He’s still smiling, but there’s curiosity beneath it–genuine interest.
I swirl what’s left of my champagne, watching bubbles break against the
rim. “I left the NFL after it became too toxic following my divorce. And my
no-player rule has a lot to do with my ex-husband, and the fact that I’ve seen
what happens when doctors get too close to the people they treat. Lines blur,
then ethics blur. I told myself I’d never let it happen again.”
“Again?” he echoes quietly.
Before I can dive into the hell of the medical board audit, the investigation
into my love life, and the ugly divorce that wrecked my finances worse than
anything since I escaped my mother’s home after high school, a loud
commotion erupts in the back of the plane.
We’ve been in the air for maybe forty minutes when we hear a stewardess
call over the intercom. Not the scripted safety voice. This one is hurried yet
trying to keep calm. “If there is a medical professional on board, please press
your call button.”
My body is up before my brain finishes the sentence. Muscle memory. I
unclip, press the button, and Aleksi is already shifting to let me into the aisle.
The attendant hustles up, face pale under the perfect makeup.
“Row twenty-three,” she says. “He just… collapsed.”
Behind me, a different call button pings. A white-haired man in a
comfortable sport coat is already standing. He’s got ER written all over his
posture. A calm triage wrapped in retirement if I’ve ever seen it. “I’m a
physician,” he says simply. “Emergency medicine, twenty-five years.”
I could hug him. “Kendall, sports med,” I offer as we move. “I’ll follow
your lead.” I tell him and let him stride quickly in front of me.
“John,” he says simply back to me. “Tell me what happened, everything…”
he tells the stewardess as we follow behind her.
She gives a quick recap but before she can get much detail out, we see the
man laid out in the aisle.
We reach the back third of the cabin, where the usual economy rustle has
turned to a circle of alarm. The man is in his mid-fifties, pale in that waxy
way I hate. His wife is kneeling, clutching his hand. “Steve? Steve, honey?”
Her voice is controlled panic.
“Okay,” the ER doctor says, dropping to his knees with more grace than his
age suggests. “I’m John and this is Kendall. We’re doctors. We’re going to
help him. His name is Steve?” He asks his wife. She nods and then he looks
at me, and the baton passes in a glance. “Airway, breathing,” he says. “You
take vitals.”
I’m already kneeling. No gloves–no time. I slide my fingers to his throat
and start calling out what I know so John can get instant information as soon
as I have it. “His pulse is there but it’s too fast. Respirations are shallow.” I
take a look at his hands and face. “Skin… clammy.” I clock the sheen of
sweat on his temple and the chill of his fingers.
“Steve? Can you hear me?” John says, voice pitched to calm. He opens one
eyelid with gentle fingers. The pupils react, sluggish. “Steve, can you squeeze
Kendall’s hand?”
I reach from Steve’s hand and John’s eyes are on me, waiting for my
reaction. There’s a ghost of pressure. “Good. But not good enough.”
“Any medical conditions?” I ask his wife.
“High blood pressure,” she whispers. “And… and he was sick last week.
Stomach. We thought it was food poisoning. He was better and then today…
he… said he felt hot.” She stutters with the words as if trying to remember it
right.
“Any travel?” John asks, eyes never leaving Stevel’s face. “International?
Hospitals? Farms?” I’m trying to think on the fly from my medical rounds
back before my life in sports medicine. What could this be, but nothing is
coming straight to mind.
“We just came back from West Africa to visit the bat conservation. Steve
has studied them all his life but this was the first time he’s gotten to travel to
the conservation.
“Bats?” He asks, with a raised brow as if this is the most important
question he could ever ask. “Did he have any contact with them?”
“Umm…” she shakes her head as if trying to remember. “Not direct contact
but this was his birthday present for his fiftieth birthday and I splurged for a
VIP experience into the cave for him.”
“Did you go with him?” he asks.
“No. I stayed behind and read a book.”
“Has he been bleeding? Any black stools? Vomiting?” he asks.
“Yesterday he threw up once,” the wife says. “But we thought it was the
heat. He said he was dizzy.”
John’s eyes flick to mine, the trained worry passing there like a shadow. He
lowers his voice, enough for me, not for her. “I’ve seen something like this
once but not in person and I didn’t treat it,” he says. “Could be a dozen
things. Could be nothing. Could be… something infectious. I’ve heard of a
recent Ebola outbreak with bats in a few different regions around the world.”
Ebola? My nerves spike at the thought of an infection disease diagnosis.
But without proper testing, we won’t know.
“Do you think it could be?” I ask, matching his own voice.
“I’m not sure. He’ll need to be tested in a proper facility immediately.”
It is wildly unlikely, but with a current outbreak, and bats being the primary
carrier, at this moment, not impossible. The emergency doc in him is
obligated to tell the pilot the worst case. The human in me wants to vomit.
“Okay,” I say, and make my voice steady because mine is the only one I
can control. “We act like it’s contagious until it’s not. Gloves on everyone.
Minimal contact. Keep a perimeter.”
He nods. “We need to isolate the row,” he tells the attendant. “Clear the two
rows in front and behind if you can. Ask anyone who was in direct contact to
stay put when we land.” She looks as sick as I feel, but as the true
professional under pressure, she nods.
I squeeze Steve’s hand gently, noticing that neither John, nor I have gloves
on as we touch Steve. If it’s an infectious disease, we’re also compromised.
But the oath we both took makes the decision that the patient comes first our
priority.
Steve squeezes back the barest whisper. Everything in me leans toward
hope, like a plant reaching for the sun.
“Stay with us,” I tell him. “We’ve got you.”
“Tell the captain we may need to divert,” John says to the attendant when
she reappears. “Nearest airport with medical capacity. And call this in as a
potential infectious case. CDC will want to meet us.”
She nods, eyes wide. “We’re talking to the cockpit,” she says. “They’re
checking routing.”
I glance over my shoulder and see Aleksi appearing at the edge of the
cleared zone, tall and inconveniently gorgeous and deeply out of place in this
small theater. He doesn’t try to get closer; he doesn’t speak. He just catches
my eye and tips his chin, just to let me know he’s here with me, though we
both know he can’t offer any help. Still, knowing he’s here goes a long way.
I mouth, “I’m okay.” He nods again and stays put, a lighthouse in a dark
night where I have no idea where this will all lead.
The captain’s voice arrives over the speakers wrapped in professional calm.
“Ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain. We have a medical situation on
board. We’ll be diverting to a small airport in Nevada to meet a medical
helicopter to take the passenger for immediate assistance. Please remain in
your seats with your seatbelts fastened. We may experience some turbulence
as we descend quickly.”
The ripple runs through the cabin: curiosity, annoyance, fear, the usual
human mix of emotions. The attendants do their jobs well, keeping voices
low and instructions clear.
John and I stabilize what we can stabilize but we’re at a disadvantage on
this aircraft. He needs immediate and specialized medical attention.
The descent is controlled and fast. Ears pop. My stomach lurches. Someone
two rows back prays softly. I press my hand to Steve’s chest when the wheels
squeak along the runway too hard, and I’m briefly grateful for every
commercial flight I’ve hated because none of them were like this. But I
realize that right now, my doctor brain is in control, not my Kendall fear
brain. Which means that my attention is on the patient instead of anything
else. Fear takes a back seat when you’re jumping into survival mode for
someone else.
We taxi to a remote corner of the tiny airport in the middle of nowhere. A
private airstrip but at least it’s here. The windows become a moving painting
of tarmac lights and anonymous hangars. Then the scene shifts: flashing
ambulances and a white van with CDC stenciled in blue on the side. The
plane’s engines start to shut down, as if it’s just as relieved as I am to have
touched down on solid ground… only, this is just the beginning to a long road
tonight since the CDC showed up in full hazmat suits.
When the patient and his wife are taken off our flight and loaded into the
helicopter, it’s our turn to be the potential problem.
Three CDC agents in full hazmat suits enter back into the airplane.
“Out of an abundance of caution,” the lead says, “we’re going to ask that
every passenger disembark and proceed to evaluation and quarantine. We’ll
be putting you up in a motel for the night until the morning when we will see
if anyone else comes up with symptoms.”
Quarantine. The word lands hard. I knew this was probably coming but it
still hits like a slap when it finally comes down.
Deboarding takes forever.
Or maybe it just feels that way because my pulse hasn’t come down since
the words possible infectious disease left the ER doctor’s mouth.
Rows file out one at a time, each passenger stepping carefully down the
stairs of the aircraft–no jet bridge for this disembarkment. The air smells like
jet fuel and desert air. I clutch the strap of my carry-on so hard it digs into my
shoulder.
When we finally reach the bottom of the stairs, floodlights blind me. Lines
of buses wait beyond the cordon. The CDC agents in hazmat suits are
efficient and expressionless, guiding people to separate queues marked
Cleared and Observation.
We’re herded toward a temporary tented structure on the tarmac that looks
like it used to belong to the military. Folding tables. Clipboards. Latex gloves
snapping. People asking the same questions over and over.
Aleksi ends up beside me somehow—he always does—duffel in hand,
watching me from the corner of his eye.
“You good?” he asks under his breath.
“Fine,” I lie, because there’s no point telling him my heartbeat’s been
tripping over itself since we landed.
“Uh-huh,” he says softly. “Tell that to your jaw.”
“What about it?”
“You’re clenching it hard enough to crack your molars.”
I glare at him, but it’s weak at best. He smiles like it’s his job to make me
angry so I don’t drown.
We inch forward until we reach a table where a CDC coordinator is briefing
us. Her face shield fogs with every word. “Limited rooms,” she says, voice
echoing slightly through the mask. “If you came with family, you’ll be with
family. Otherwise you’ll be quarantined alone. Meals will be delivered to
your door. No wandering. Temperature checks in the morning.”
I half expect her to say, “Good luck to all of you. I hope you’re still alive in
the morning.” but she doesn’t. Because the truth of what an Ebola diagnosis
could mean is a scary thought.
Though I know well enough that Ebola would take more than one night to
die of, and with a fifty percent survival rate, it’s not a complete death
sentence… but trying to reason with my brain right now is not worth the
effort.
“Alone?” I echo before I can stop myself. The word tastes wrong.
Aleksi glances down at me again. His brow furrows, the smallest crease
between his eyes. It’s that same look he gave me on the plane before takeoff
—the one that said I’ve got you without words.
The line moves forward. A hazmat-suited agent with a clipboard and the
authority of a minor god reads down a printed manifest. “Name?”
“Aleksi Mäkelin,” he says.
The agent nods, scans the list. “And?”
“Kendall Hensen,” I supply.
The agent’s eyes flick between us. “Married?”
“Yes,” Aleksi says instantly, without hesitation.
I freeze. “What… no—” I start, elbowing him sharply, but the agent’s
already moving, conferring with another clipboard.
“Great,” the hazmat says. “We’ll put you in the same room together. Next.”
And just like that, it’s decided. The next couple steps up. The line moves
again. I’m still staring at Aleksi like he’s grown another head.
“Married?” I gasp. “Are you crazy? Why would you lie about that?”
He leans closer, voice low so only I can hear it. “Because I can see it on
your face that you’re about thirty seconds from a panic attack.”
“I am not—” I stop, realizing how loud I sound. The CDC agent glances
over. I drop my voice again. “You can’t just… lie to federal health officials.”
His shrug is infuriatingly calm. “Would you rather be locked alone in a
strange room all night wondering if you caught something? You hate flying,
Doc. I’m guessing quarantining a small motel room by yourself is going to be
worse.”
I open my mouth to argue, but the words don’t come. Because he’s not
wrong. My hands are shaking, my body running on leftover adrenaline that
now, without a patient to look after, is turning into fear. Being alone right now
sounds like the worst idea imaginable.
“Besides,” he says, lips twitching at the corner, “we’re technically married.
For CDC purposes only. Limited-time offer. No vows. No witnesses.”
“This isn’t funny.”
“Didn’t say it was.” His voice drops, serious now. “But I’m not letting you
spend the night thinking about everything that could go wrong. If something
happens, you won’t face it alone.”
My throat goes tight again for a completely different reason.
The line moves forward. We’re handed a room key packet by another suited
agent, the laminate fogging with disinfectant. ROOM 214 scrawled across the
front in Sharpie.
“Next,” someone calls behind us.
Aleksi squeezes my elbow lightly, steering me toward the waiting shuttle.
“See? Married couples board together,” he says. It’s sarcastic but also has a
tinge of enjoyment in it.
I huff out a breath that might almost be a laugh if it didn’t sound so tired.
I should be furious. I should be mortified. But under all of that, buried deep
where even I don’t want to look, is relief.
Because he’s right—I don’t want to be alone.
And even if the world outside is unraveling, for the next few hours, I won’t
have to be.
“If we’re married,” I mutter, lifting my bare hand and wiggling my ring
finger, “where’s my ring?”
I’m standing behind the next person, Aleksi, at my back as we shuffle
toward the shuttle steps.
“You want a ring? No problem.”
I glance over my shoulder, not realizing he’s taking that as a challenge,
until I see him elbow-deep in his duffel bag.
“I was kidding,” I say, just as the shuttle driver—also suited head to toe in a
hazmat suit—barks at me to move it along. Apparently I’m holding up the
line. “Sorry,” I mutter sheepishly.
If he only knew that the hockey player behind me is currently making a
fake wedding ring in the middle of a CDC quarantine line, just to sell a
ridiculous lie he told for me so that I wouldn’t be alone tonight, maybe he’d
understand why I look like a deer in headlights.
I climb the three narrow steps into the shuttle, still reeling. Aleksi follows
right behind, still busy crafting whatever makeshift ring he’s conjuring from
the depths of his hockey duffel. Like this is summer camp and he’s making
me a friendship bracelet, instead of a CDC quarantine nightmare, like we’re
not possibly infected, and he’s about to fix it all with a strip of athletic tape
around my ring finger.
And God help me, a tiny, unwanted part of me is glad he’s coming with me.
The shuttle pulls off the main highway somewhere between the middle of
nowhere and should’ve stayed in Denver. The desert stretches out in every
direction, endless shrubs and red dust that glows under the floodlights. The
motel squats at the edge of the lot—two stories, painted the color of tired
toast, and an empty swimming pool surrounded by a crooked
“TEMPORARILY CLOSED” sign.
When we unload, the air is dry enough to scrape my throat. People fan out
toward the lobby, CDC agents shepherding groups with the precision of a fire
drill. My mind is running through every protocol I can remember from
medical crisis training. None of it helps.
Aleksi’s duffel hits the asphalt beside me with a heavy thud. “Five-star
accommodations,” he mutters.
I shoot him a look that’s half exhaustion, half disbelief. “You lied to the
government for this.”
“Technically,” he says, adjusting his mask with a crooked smile, “I lied for
you.”
Inside, the lobby smells like lemon cleaner and despair. The linoleum curls
at the corners. A tired clerk in a matching hazmat suit checks IDs while a
CDC agent oversees the process. Aleksi hands over our room key packet like
he’s proud of it.
“You sure this is a good idea?” I whisper.
“Best bad idea I’ve had all week,” he says.
The clerk hands us two paper bags labeled DINNER – DO NOT REHEAT
and a pair of single-use thermometers. Then we’re directed down a hallway
lined with faded carpet and flickering lights, like a set from a low-budget
apocalypse movie.
Our room smells faintly of an air-conditioner that’s been running too long
and stale cigarette smoke that’s older than I am, masked by the smell of
bleach. Two queen beds, one flickering lamp, a TV bolted to the wall. There’s
a packet of disinfectant wipes on the dresser and a sealed bag of disposable
toothbrushes.
“This is cozy,” I say dryly.
Aleksi grins behind his mask. “I’ve stayed in worse road hotels when I
played overseas.”
“Not during a potential viral outbreak.”
“Details.”
I toss my medical bag on the far bed, peel off my gloves, and scrub my
hands until the sink water runs hot. When I finally look up, I freeze.
There’s something around my ring finger.
A thin strip of white athletic tape. The edge is torn clean, wrapped neatly in
two turns. There’s a delicate design inked onto the center, perfectly stretched
and geometric, the kind of precise linework that makes me blink twice. It’s…
beautiful.
Aleksi can draw.
Yet another unexpected talent I never knew about him.
For a moment, I just stare at it. The tape gleams pale against my skin, like it
actually belongs there.
I didn’t even feel him do it. Somewhere between the bus and the walk here,
he must’ve slipped it on. It’s so perfectly him—equal parts ridiculous and
thoughtful. The smallest gesture that somehow manages to crack something
open inside my chest.
When I step back out, he’s sitting on the edge of his bed, forearms braced
on his knees, still in his team sweats. His eyes flick immediately to my hand.
“Not bad, right?” he says, like he’s asking about a stick-tape job instead of
a fake wedding ring.
“You made me a ring out of hockey tape.”
He shrugs. “Technically, it’s athletic tape. High-end. Breathable.”
“And the design?” I ask, glancing back down at it.
“Old Finnish folk art,” he says easily. “There’s a carving just like it in
downtown Helsinki. Thought it’d look good on you.”
My lips twitch before I can stop them. “It’s beautiful.”
“Then it matches its new owner,” he murmurs quietly, almost as if just to
himself. But I hear it.
I clear my throat, scrambling for a deflection. “And where’s yours?”
He casually holds up his left hand. A matching ring. He used the same tape,
creating a thicker band, but the same precise pattern.
The air leaves the room for a second. I never thought he’d make one for
himself. I was teasing to cut through the tension, not expecting this. But
seeing it… fake or not, it’s a symbol. A marker that says he belongs to me.
“You’re insane,” I say finally, because it’s the only thing that keeps me
from saying something far more dangerous.
Maybe it’s the infection scare, or the fear we might not make it home.
Maybe it’s exhaustion. But somehow, Aleksi’s over here drawing Finnish folk
art rings and making sure I’m not alone.
“Maybe,” he says, eyes crinkling. “But now it’s official. Married couples
need proof.”
I cross my arms, but the smile sneaks through anyway. “This is absurd.”
“Absurd works for me,” he says simply.
It’s infuriating, the way he says it like a fact instead of a flirt. Like he
knows I need the distraction.
I sit on the far bed, exhausted to the bone. “You realize I could be
contagious, right? You shouldn’t be in this room with me. I touched that
passenger.”
He leans back on his hands, completely unfazed. “If you are, then I am too.
We were on the same plane. You treated him. I carried your bag. Too late to
worry now.”
“Aleksi—”
“No.” His tone softens, but it’s firm. “You’re not doing this alone. We make
it out of this together, or neither of us do.”
I blink, caught somewhere between wanting to strangle him and wanting to
cry.
He meets my eyes, quiet and steady. “Doesn’t matter what it is. I don’t
walk away when things get bad.”
And that—God help me—does something to me.
I look away, staring down at my hand again. The strip of tape gleams pale
under the overhead light, and though I shouldn’t encourage this, it’s the only
thing solid in all this chaos.
“Fine,” I mutter, because fighting him takes too much energy. “But if I start
showing symptoms, I’m calling the CDC myself to get you pulled out as soon
as possible.”
He grins. “So romantic. You’d kick your husband out of our honeymoon
suite on our first night of wedded bliss?”
“You’re not my husband.”
He shrugs one shoulder. “Tell that to the rings.”
I press my palms to my face, groaning. “You’re impossible.”
“Yeah,” he says, voice low now, that soft, teasing rumble that sneaks under
my defenses. “But you’re smiling again.”
I lower my hands and glare at him–He’s right. The corner of my mouth has
betrayed me.
He picks up one of the paper dinner bags. “You hungry?”
I shake my head, though my stomach growls anyway.
He grins wider. “I’m going to need something more than this to eat tonight
since we skipped team dinner to get to the airport. I’m starving.”
“Where are you going?” I ask as he stands.
“I saw a vending machine by the lobby. I’ll get us some drinks and snacks
for tonight.”
“The vending machine? You have no idea how old that stuff is.”
“It’s American food. It’s loaded with preservatives. Should be good for
years and a zombie apocalypse,” he says, peeking through the blinds at the
courtyard below. The pool and hot tub sit still and empty, reflecting the
overhead lights. “Any requests?”
“We’re supposed to quarantine,” I remind him. “I don’t think that includes
the vending machine.”
“The CDC cleared out. They won’t be back until morning to check up on
us.”
“I’m fine. A bottled water would be nice, though, if they have it.”
He nods and grabs his key card. “Water and snacks. Got it.”
Then he’s gone, door clicking softly behind him.
The silence he leaves behind hums in the air, and I stare at the pale ring
around my finger, still feeling the warmth where he must’ve touched my skin
to wrap it there.
It fits perfectly.
The quiet is too loud.
As soon as the door clicks shut behind him, the room changes. It’s like the
air grows heavier—too still, too clean, humming with the white noise of the
wall-mounted AC. I should use the silence productively: inventory the med
kit, double-check the CDC’s guidelines, text Penelope with a status update.
But instead, I just sit there, staring at the strip of tape around my finger.
The longer I look, the more absurd it becomes.
It’s just athletic tape. It’ll fray by morning.
But somehow, I don’t take it off.
I try to distract myself by unpacking the basics—scrubs, travel toiletries,
the medical forms I’ll need when this is over—but it’s impossible not to
imagine the worst. What if the man on the plane did have something viral?
What if the fever starts tonight? What if Aleksi was exposed because of me?
I rub at my temple, forcing my brain to focus on rational probabilities
instead of spiraling into panic. The odds are low. The CDC would’ve seen
symptoms by now. I repeat it like a mantra.
Five minutes stretch into twenty. Then thirty. The clock ticks louder. The
desert wind rattles the thin windowpanes, and I wonder if Aleksi got himself
kicked out of quarantine for raiding the vending machine.
When the lock finally rattles, I jump.
The door swings open, and there he is—hair damp from washing, hoodie
unzipped, mask hanging from one ear—arms overflowing with plastic bags,
bottles, and an alarming number of snack wrappers.
“Delivery for Mrs. Mäkelin,” he announces, dropping everything onto the
dresser in one loud rustle.
“You were gone forever.”
“Had to negotiate,” he says, completely unbothered. “The vending machine
only took quarters, and the front desk guy said he’d trade me for autographs.”
“You bribed someone in the middle of a CDC lockdown?”
“I bartered,” he corrects. “Economy of survival.”
He starts unloading the haul: six bottles of water, an army of candy bars,
trail mix, a pack of gummy worms, two bags of chips, and—because of
course—three tiny hotel bottles of wine that he must’ve charmed off
someone.
“Where did you even get those?” I ask, pointing to the wine.
“Don’t worry about it. We’re celebrating survival. Day One.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose, but I can’t help the small laugh that slips out.
“You realize this is probably how zombie movies start, right? Someone
breaks quarantine for a bag of Doritos.”
“Then I’ll die happy. Want to know a fun fact about Ebola that I just
learned?”
“A fun fact about Ebola?” I ask, and then I realize this is Aleksi and of
course he researched it and has fun facts. “Okay, hit me with them.”
“First thing, you’re not contagious until you start showing symptoms so
you haven’t give me anything. Second, it doesn’t spread through the air so it’s
unlikely that the entire plane caught it. It’s direct contact with bodily fluids so
unless Steve sneezed on you or something, your probably safe. Want to know
the best one though?”
His fun facts are helping… a little. I already knew that contracting it wasn’t
a huge likelihood but the CDC still found it necessary to quarantine us
overnight so if they are taking precautions, that means something to me.
“Okay, what’s the best one?” I ask, because now I am curious that there is a
‘best one’.
“If we contract it and don’t have symptoms we could carry antibodies for
the next ten years that will keep us from getting it again. We’ll be invincible,
with super human abilities.”
“We didn’t get bit by a radioactive spider. We’re not Spiderman.”
He just shrugs and then digs into one of the bags and tosses me a water. I
catch it just in time.
“If you could have a superpower, Doc, what would it be?” he asks.
“I think teleportation would be cool. What’s yours?”
He stares at me for a moment and then says. “I would have given anything
to have read your mind on that bench earlier today when you were taping me
up.”
“Thanks,” I mutter, twisting off the cap.
“Anytime, wife.”
“Stop calling me that.”
“Can’t. You’re wearing my ring.”
I glance down—and then blink.
Among the vending machine loot on the dresser are at least a dozen
condoms in bright foil wrappers, gleaming under the lamp.
“You got condoms from the vending machine? What exactly is your plan
here?”
He takes a sip of soda, completely unfazed. “Oh, I ran into some of the
guys from the flight. We’re talking about having a water balloon fight on the
second story.”
“With condoms?”
“Have you ever been hit with a condom water balloon?” he asks, dead
serious. “They don’t break easy and they hurt like hell.”
I stare at him, both horrified and amused. “Do they leave dick-shaped welts
all over your body?”
“Something like that. It should be fun.” His grin is pure mischief. “They
also invited us down to the hot tub in a couple of minutes.”
“Oh God. Do they realize we’re quarantining?”
He shrugs. “I told you, no one’s contagious until first symptoms and we’d
have to share bodily fluids. Besides, chlorine kills the virus… I looked it up.
We’re practically sanitizing while getting a deep tissue water jet massage.
And you need to get out of this room. You look like you’re about to get cabin
fever. And even if this is our last night before the symptoms start, we might as
well make it a good one.”
I hate how reasonable he’s being about this with all his ‘fun facts’ when all
I can think to do is take the CDC’s rules dead serious. He’s the optimistic one,
the guy who finds light in chaos—but the truth beneath his last words hit
deep. If this is the last night, what’s the point of dying alone in a motel room?
And I can’t argue that chlorine kills the virus. He makes a valid point there.
“Want to come down with me?” he asks, turning to dig through his duffel.
He pulls out a pair of dark swim trunks.
I shake my head automatically… then remember the bikini I’ve never
actually used. It’s been shoved in my suitcase through every away game,
every “maybe next time.”
Maybe tonight deserves an outing.
“Okay,” I say. “I’ll get dressed in the bathroom.”
I tug my bag inside with me, close the door, and catch my reflection in the
mirror. For a long moment, I just stare.
I can’t believe this night is happening.
“Want me to wait for you?” he calls through the door.
“No, go ahead,” I answer. “I’ll be down in a bit.”
“Will you grab towels for both of us?”
“Yeah.” I spot the white ones stacked on the shelf and grab two.
A moment later, the door clicks behind him. Silence rushes in—my first
minute alone all day.
It’s almost too much.
I pull out my phone, thumbs flying over the screen.
A group text to the girls:
Alive. Quarantined in the middle of nowhere. Possible Ebola exposure
(long story). Rooming with Aleksi because of a paperwork ‘mistake.’ Will
explain later.
Some of them might still be in the air, others already home. I don’t know
who’ll see it, but at least someone will know where I am.
Then I hesitate, hovering over my contacts.
Is there anyone else I should tell?
Would my mother even remember she has a daughter if I texted her? Would
she care—or just ask if she’s listed on my life insurance policy?
I decide to skip it.
And then I see them.
Unread messages from Tarron.
My stomach turns.
When you’re faced with the possibility of dying, everything looks different.
I hate what he did to me, but he was the first man I ever truly loved. The kind
of love that carves deep even when it ends ugly.
I open the thread.
Tarron: I’ll be in Seattle for a while. Trying out with the
Sentinels.
Tarron: Would be good to catch up. We might be living in the
same city again.
Then two more, from today:
Tarron: Saw you on the Denver game. You’re good at what you
do. You always were.
Tarron: Dinner… just give me an hour. That’s all I’m asking.
For a heartbeat, I just stare at the screen.
Then my gaze drifts to my hand—to Aleksi’s ring.
A strip of tape, carefully drawn with Finnish symbols I don’t understand,
made by a man who has shown me more care in twenty-four hours than
Tarron did in four years of marriage.
If I have one last night on this earth, I’m not spending it reliving a past that
nearly destroyed me.
I lock my phone, toss it on the counter, and let the decision settle.
I pull on my bikini—the one that’s never seen daylight—and grab our
towels. The mirror catches me as I pass: hair messy, eyes tired, athletic tape
glinting faintly on my finger.
I look like a woman who’s finally decided to stop running from what’s right
in front of her.
And with that, I open the bathroom door and step out into the hallway,
determined to make the most of whatever tonight has left to offer.

                                                                                         https://getamazonbooks.com/