Clusterpuck (Vegas Crush #9)

16. Where No Planes Fly

16 /

where no planes fly

Tripp

After so many years of living on the West Coast, snow is something of a novelty to me now. Growing up in Toronto, snow was just part of life. It snowed when I played for New York, too, but when I moved to Nashville, there was a lot less snow. And I had to get used to a whole new climate when I got to Anaheim.

I’ve gotten spoiled by the sun, I think. I know this since I can’t help frowning at the snow squall swirling outside. After a couple of days off with my family, I was so ready to take off that I left for the airport two hours earlier than necessary. I’ve been sitting here in blessed alone-ness, watching Netflix on my phone with no one to bother me for those last two hours. What I missed was the blizzard happening outside during that time. Now, as I stare out to the tarmac through the wall of windows, I can see several inches of the white stuff threatening to keep me from getting back to Vegas at all, for today at least.

As I look around, I see Lila heading to my gate, a heavy winter coat draped over her arm but no bag in tow. She sees the gate first, then her eyes find me. Her steps stutter just a bit before she stops walking, takes a deep breath, and then forges forward. She takes the empty seat right across from me.

“I have a feeling we’re not getting out of here,” she comments as she organizes her ID back into her wallet.

All I can do is make a noncommittal grunt. I should have suspected she’d be on the same flight as me, but here I am, surprised to see her. She looks amazing—her long hair twisted into a loose bun on top of her head, cheeks rosy from the cold. She has on a black turtleneck sweater that fits every curve in just the right way. It shouldn’t be sexy, but somehow it is. Tall black boots cover her form fitting jeans to the knee. She’s utterly perfect.

Christ, I’m an idiot. I want to talk to her, but a whole pile of nothing comes to mind. I mean, what do you say to the woman of your dreams after she kisses you and then you bail on her? I haven’t stopped thinking about it since it happened. The way she told me she’s not a child. The way her lips searched mine, looking for some spark between us.

And it was there. Every spark of feeling for Lila I’ve ever spent time repressing—for so, so fucking long—it was all there. I felt it with every stroke of my tongue against hers and in the way she fit in my arms when I picked her up.

And then I bailed to keep from doing or saying something I’d never be able to take back.

I fiddle with my phone, just to keep from looking at her. I don’t want to see the question in her eyes. Or the hurt. Or the judgment. I don’t want to answer her questions. I put my earbuds back in and watch one of my subscription channels on YouTube.

When I look back up, there’s a lot more than a couple of inches of snow on the ground. It’s really about a foot now. Pulling out my buds, I hear other gates calling off flights.

“Fuck,” I growl, standing up and shouldering my backpack.

It’s only a moment before our flight gets called too. Folks stand and rush to get in line to find alternative transport or hotels in which to stay. I make my way to the line, noticing that it takes Lila a minute to gather her things. I should offer her a spot with me, but being that close to her? No. I can’t do that. Plus, if I offer to help, she’ll probably spout some shit about being a capable woman who can handle her own affairs. So fine, she can handle her own affairs.

It takes an hour to get to the front of the line. The airline employee tells me my flight will be rescheduled for tomorrow, provided they can get things cleaned up, and that they’ll call me when I have a flight number and time. She then tells me that I’m getting the last of the hotel airport rooms. They book me in and hand me a prepaid credit card to use for food and incidentals.

As I step away with my instructions, an announcement is made that all airport hotels are now full. I look over to find Lila staring at me, an expression of worry on her face.

The asshole in me—which admittedly, is probably the biggest part of me—wants to walk off and not worry about it. But the other part of me—the part that has always tried to protect Lila Marchmont-Terry—cannot stand the idea of her trying to sleep in the airport for the night. I weigh the situation in my head for only a moment, deciding that the room probably has two beds, and I can probably handle sharing a room with an old friend for a single night.

I hope.

Maybe I should just give her my room and stay here instead.

“You got the last room, huh?” Lila asks as I approach.

“Seems like it. But I could let you take it if you want?”

“I couldn’t do that.”

“It’s no big deal. I could literally sleep anywhere. I’ll feel better if you take it, though.”

“And I’ll feel better not leaving you to sleep in the airport,” she snaps back. “There might be two beds, right? We can probably share for one night, can’t we?”

We stare at each other, mirroring each other’s trepidation. There’s no way to not think about the kiss we shared. I open my mouth, but no words come out.

“We can be adults,” she says. “It’s decided.”

We make the long trek back through the airport, down through baggage claim, where they tell us our bags are already loaded and will be ready for us on tomorrow’s flight. Lila groans unhappily and says, “So I have nothing. No toiletries, nothing to sleep in…”

“That’s not a big deal. Don’t worry, we’ll figure it out.”

She shoots me a look but doesn’t argue, leading the way toward the hotel shuttle stop. Ten minutes later, we’re at the hotel and the desk clerk is saying, “All I have left is one single king room.”

Of course, there’s only one bed.

Just my luck.

Neither of us says a word as we enter the elevator, nor as we walk the long hallway to the room. Inside, we find a modest space with a king-sized bed, a small table with two chairs, and a media console. We both sort of stand around, awkward, looking around the room. There isn’t really room for me to even sleep on the floor. My stomach flips a little at the thought of lying in a bed with Lila. I won’t sleep a wink.

“I thought I might sleep on the floor…” My voice trailing off. I am at a total loss here.

“We’ll be fine,” Lila says. “It’s a big bed. It’s one night. My main concern is not having anything to sleep in.”

“I’m sure they have stuff in the hotel gift shop.” I don’t know what compels me to offer the suggestion, but my mouth spits out the words anyway. “Why don’t I run down and see?”

She looks at me oddly for a moment but then nods her head. “Thanks, that’s very kind of you.”

I beat feet to the door and leave, taking a full breath as soon as I get into the hallway to recalibrate. The tension between us is so thick and heavy. Almost like a chemical burn. At least it is for me. Perhaps she’s unaffected. Perhaps my pushing her away after we kissed dissolved whatever spark of interest Lila ever had for me.

Or perhaps…I should get my shit together and act like a grown-ass man and go find the stuff she needs to get through the night.

It will shock no one to find out that my knowledge about shopping for women’s clothing and toiletries is next to zero. That said, I bungle around the gift shop, grabbing a couple of pairs of sweatpants, a T-shirt, and a sweatshirt, all emblazoned with Toronto branding. I grab toothbrushes, toothpaste, deodorant, a razor, ChapStick. So much random. My head starts to pound a little. I add a small bottle of Advil to my pile.

“Some storm,” the cashier says. “Looks like I’ll be sleeping in the employee break room for the night.”

“That sucks,” I answer, slipping my credit card in the slot and gathering up the random pile of shit that just cost me two hundred bucks.

I look at the cashier, a woman maybe slightly older than Lila, and she’s biting her lip in a way that makes me uncomfortable. She looks…hopeful?

Oh.

“I’m, uh, here with my girlfriend,” I lie. “I hope this stuff fits her. We couldn’t get our luggage back from the airline.”

The hopeful expression fades quickly as she bags my items and I can’t get out of there fast enough.

The restaurant is a mob scene, but that doesn’t stop my stomach from rumbling as I make my way back up to the room.

I hand the shopping bag over to Lila as soon as I’m through the door. “I hope you can do something with this lot.”

“Let’s see what you’ve brought me,” she says as she takes the bag over to the bed and dumps it out. She goes through everything quickly, picking up some items to check the size, a slight smirk on her face. When she turns to me, she’s holding up the T-shirt that looks easily three sizes too big.

“I know I’m curvy, but…”

I can’t help but laugh. “Sorry. I didn’t know your size. Also, I just realized I’m famished, but the restaurant is a monster crowd scene right now. Should we just order room service?”

She nods her head, still staring at the giant T-shirt. “I suppose we should.”

After placing our order, Lila slips into the bathroom to change. I hear the shower come on and try not to imagine her naked in it.

This is going to be a very long night.

Thirty minutes later, when she emerges, it’s a struggle for me to keep myself from going completely hard. I’ve switched into a pair of joggers and a T-shirt myself, but I’m certain I don’t look nearly as sexy as she does, with her beautiful hair loose around her shoulders, the giant blue Toronto T-shirt hanging off one shoulder.

And…nothing else.

Just long, bare legs accentuated by the shirt that falls mid-thigh.

“The sweatpants were too tight to be comfortable for sleeping,” she says, pulling down on the bottom of the T-shirt, her cheeks flushing red at my obvious staring.

I’m saved from doing or saying something completely stupid or irresponsible when room service arrives, the loud knock at the door making me jump, a reminder of reality. A reality that doesn’t involve me stepping over a line with Lila.

We sit at the table to eat, both staring out at the snow squall.

“I have a sinking feeling we’re not getting out of here tomorrow morning either.” She looks a little worried, and it’s on the tip of my tongue to tell her not to worry about things you have no control over, like the weather, but I don’t. I have to remember it’s not my job to take care of her. She doesn’t want that from me. “How’s your food?” she asks, interrupting my morose thoughts.

“The burger’s actually pretty tasty for hotel fare.”

“That’s good,” she says, spearing at her macaroni and cheese dish. “Mine’s really rich. Decadent.”

The way she says that last word has me looking at her mouth as she takes a bite. It has me thinking of other things she could do with her mouth. I clear my throat and refocus on my french fries. When I look back up, she’s staring at me, contemplating something. I worry she’s about to ask me why I pushed her away after we kissed. I really fuckin’ worry what my answer will be.

She surprises me with something completely different. “Why are you so against women in sports?”

A huff of a laugh escapes the back of my throat. “I’m not.”

“I’m calling bullshit on that lie, Tripp Blackburn.”

“Why?”

“Because I heard what you said about Laura. You didn’t think the Crush should have hired a female Assistant GM.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You asked Max why he hired a woman for that job. I heard you as I was walking out of his office that first day.”

“Actually, all I said was—and I quote— You hired a woman for that job . He told me she has good experience, and I left it at that.”

“It was the tone. An emphasis on woman , like he’d hired a two-headed dog or something.”

My resulting laugh is more frustration and annoyance than amusement. “Look, I can’t say anything without the feminist police coming to arrest me. I’ve got nothing against Laura Gallant. As long as my paycheck shows up in my bank account, I’m golden. I don’t give a shit who sits in what seat in the back office.”

“I think that’s a cop-out of an answer. Saying you’ve got nothing against someone is almost as bad saying, I’m not sexist, but… Plus, do you only care about money? Don’t you care about the people who make the machine work?”

“I care more about the money than the little cogs in the machine,” I admit. “I’m there to play. I do my job, they do theirs. It all works.”

Lila is quiet for a moment, thinking about what I’ve just said as she eats some of her dinner. I refill my wine and then offer the bottle up to her. She holds out her glass so I can top it off for her and takes a sip. “So, I guess I understand being focused on your own role on the ice. Performance as an elite athlete is obviously top of mind. And the back office stuff probably affects you a lot less than those of us in the back office.”

“Those statements are all true.”

“What do you think about Jenn playing football?”

“Like, do I approve of her playing? Or what do I think of her as a player?”

“Whichever. Both?”

I think for a minute. “Well, I don’t think she gives two shits if I approve of her playing. She’s pretty decent at it, though, always has been. I mean, will it be a long-term career option for her?” I lift a shoulder and make a noncommittal noise.

“Why wouldn’t it be a career option for her? Professional sports has worked out for you.”

“Sure, but I get paid a truckload more than she ever will.”

“And why is that, do you think?” Lila presses.

I stare at her for a long time. She’s baiting me because she already has an answer in mind. “Why don’t you tell me, Liles? It’s obvious you’ve got an opinion on this one.”

She pulls her hair back, then up on her head, then lets it loose again. “I think it’s because women in sports are not as valued as men.”

“Well, I think it’s because people do not look for women’s football on ESPN. They lose their shit if they can’t find their favorite NFL game, but I’ve literally never heard a single person ask where the DC Women’s game is on their cable guide.”

“Does that make the athletic contributions of women less valuable? Their marketability? Their televisability ?”

“Televisability? Is that a word now?” I ask, chuckling.

We’ve both had several glasses of wine by now, our meals long eaten. I put a chocolate crème br?lée between us to share, and she digs in without a thought. I can’t take my eyes away from watching her enjoy the creamy dessert.

“Why do you have such a hard time with women’s issues?” she asks, licking her spoon in a highly distracting way.

“I don’t. But I did grow up with a mom who didn’t work.”

“See, that’s the thing, though. She did work,” Lila insists.

“How do you figure?”

“She raised five kids, dude. That’s work.”

“We were perfect angels. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Lila rolls her eyes at this as she takes another bite of the dessert. “Do you hate it when women work?”

“I do not hate it; I just grew up with my mom at home. She ran the show at our house. She made sure we got what we needed and where we needed to go. She organized our lives. I thought it was just what women and mothers did.”

“Sure, so do a lot of people, which is why there’s such inequity in the average heterosexual household now. The woman is still expected to make dinner and keep the house up and get the kids to their activities—oh, and also work forty hours a week or more. And the man works and then goes golfing or whatever.”

“Now that’s sexist,” I say. “You’re assuming the men don’t share any of the responsibility in any of that.”

“Fair, but you get the point. Women are undervalued. As athletes. As wage earners. As homemakers. Your mom was undervalued if you think she didn’t work at all.”

I sigh. “Lila. I think you’re trying to bait me and it’s hurting my brain. I think I’m done with this conversation.”

“Do you hate women?”

My jaw drops. “What?”

“Just curious.”

I shake my head, shocked at the question. “I do not. That’s a stupid question.”

She attacks the dessert and shoves another bite in her mouth as I swirl my wine around in its glass. I look out the window and see easily another two inches of snow on the ground since we started this conversation.

“I think you might be right about being stuck here more than just a night,” I say, just to steer the conversation away from whatever corner she’s trying to back me into.

She finishes the dessert as I stand up and go to the other end of the windows, looking out toward the airport, where no cars move, no planes fly. I just watch the quiet darkness, thinking about her bold question. Do I hate women? No. I can’t figure out why she could ever think such a thing of me.

It’s not long before Lila stands and takes a place next to me. Just being near her, barely an inch between us as she looks out at the storm at my side, makes my cock go semi-hard.

No, I don’t hate women. Least of all her.

Maybe I’ve had too much wine.

“You know,” she says quietly, “I had the biggest crush on you for such a long time. I was, like, thirteen and you were this pro player, so strong and good and successful. I swooned a little every time you came around.”

I can’t help my heart from the little stutter it does to hear this admission from her.

“I must have turned out to be a really disappointing crush, since you find me so annoying now,” I manage to say, trying to keep things light. I can’t bear to look at her, to see that disappointment in living color.

“I do find you annoying,” she says. “And infuriating. But also…ridiculously attractive and so, so sexy.”

It’s an involuntary response to turn to her, to search her face for the truth. I mean, she did kiss me, but still. It still feels impossible that she could find a man like me attractive.

“You know I’m too old for you. I’ve always been too old for you.”

“I’m an adult. You’re an adult. I’m not a child. I can make my own decisions about who I’m with.”

“We’re practically family, Lila,” I argue in desperation. “It would be…weird.”

“We are not family, though. Our families are friends. We have known each other a long time, yes. But we are not family.”

“I…” I can’t think of anything other than her eyes, her mouth, her hair.

“Your sister said you had a crush on me when I was a teenager. Was that true?”

I can’t answer her. I won’t, because it feels creepy and wrong to admit I was a grown man who had the hots for a teenager. She was sixteen when I first noticed the young woman she was becoming. Sixteen. I was nearly thirty, and that freaks me out like nobody’s business. So, no, I won’t tell her how I felt, how I wanted her all the way back then. How I want her still.

But I also can’t stop staring at her, so close to me, I’ll bet her mouth tastes like wine and chocolate. I want to see how soft her skin is, her bare legs so tantalizing under that big shirt. I can’t stop looking because she is not sixteen anymore. She is, indeed, grown. An adult woman so gorgeous it makes my heart pound dangerously hard being this close to her. I can only hope it doesn’t stroke out between now and when we leave this room.

Lovely Lila Jayne is no little girl…anymore.