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CHAPTER 41
HOT STOVE
JAXON
The offseason, when speculation and rumors figuratively keep fans warm in the winter months.
If you’d told me six months ago that I’d be in Dubai in the fall—with my girlfriend, my best friends, and Fork Guy (the weirdest of the bunch)—I’d have checked your forehead for a fever. If you’d said my mom would bankroll the whole trip because “it’s important to explore the world, and also, the Sawyer brothers owe me,” I’d ask which alternate universe you crawled out of.
But here we are: Seattle-Tacoma International Airport, 7 a.m. The place reeks of Starbucks and broken dreams. We’re a flock of sleep-deprived college kids, one mom in a pantsuit who looks like she could broker a peace treaty before breakfast, and Fork Guy, who’s already flagged by TSA for “suspicious silverware activity.” Five minutes in and he’s arguing with security about whether a spork really counts as a fork.
“Dubai, baby!” he yells, spinning a neon neck pillow that honestly might be sentient. I swear it blinked at me. “I’mmanifesting camels, gold, and at least one magic lamp. Two if customs goes easy on me.”
Camdyn nudges me. “Remind me why he’s here?”
“Because he threatened to ride in the luggage hold if we left him,” I whisper. “Plus, my mom claims he’s ‘good for group morale.’ Not sure if she means it or just wants him out of her hotel.”
She snorts and glances at my mom, who’s already three steps ahead. “So you’re to blame, Mama Mila?”
Mom shrugs and knocks back what looks suspiciously like a mini vodka she smuggled in before security. “Could be worse. I could have brought the bellboy, Tom.” She eyes Fork Guy, then Camdyn. “Actually, I think they might be related. Same taste in questionable facial hair.”
I know Tom, too well, and honestly, she’s not wrong.
Once we’re through security (Fork Guy emerges triumphant, but not without a stern warning and a pamphlet on ‘utensil safety’), I’m starving. The only thing between me and a $14 airport bagel is Jameson and Callie, already bickering at Hudson News like it’s a sport.
“I’m hungry,” I announce but the only one paying attention to me is Camdyn.
She shakes her head. “We’re not doing it in an airport.”
I smile, and though sex was definitely on my mind watching Camdyn walk around the airport in leggings, I wasn’t thinking that. Yet. Well, I mean, I am now. “I meant for actual food.”
She pats my shoulder. “Mhm. Sure.”
“I don’t know why you always have to be so mean to me,” Callie huffs, arms crossed, pure sitcom little sister energy. She’s already 100% over it and we haven’t even reached the gate.
Jameson sighs, rubbing his face like maybe he’ll teleport out of this friend group if he presses hard enough. “And I don’t even know why you’re asking.”
It’ll be a literal miracle if they don’t kill each other this trip.
Beside us, Fork Guy whips out a battered tarot deck from his backpack that smells like lavender and regret. He corners a nervous businessman by the charging station and insists on reading his energy. “You’ve got major Emperor vibes, sir, but I’m sensing a blocked throat chakra. Probably from all those emails,” he says solemnly, flipping The Fool. The guy bolts. Fork Guy just shrugs and sets his sights on Callie, who shrieks and hides behind a vending machine.
Mom’s now arguing with an airline employee about ‘seat karma’—she’s insisting it’s a real cosmic force, and the guy’s just nodding, clearly rethinking every life choice that led him here.
Camdyn’s scrolling Instagram, pretending she doesn’t know us. Can’t blame her.
Me? I’m just praying TSA doesn’t change their minds and yank us back for “supplemental screening,” especially since Fork Guy’s still clutching that radioactive neck pillow, shuffling his tarot deck, and announcing that at least three of us are “about to enter a mystical period of cosmic upheaval.” He’s cornered a woman in head-to-toe Lululemon at the gate, explaining what The Hanged Man means for her “travel aura.”
Security eyes him, but honestly, I think they’re too tired to care.
Nobody knows where Brynn and King disappeared to, but my money’s on the family bathroom. Together. For what King loudly declared was “Sloppy Toppy” before the flight. His words, not mine. Some things you can’t unhear.
We finally make it through, minus Fork Guy’s beloved fork—now in a bin labeled “Miscellaneous Threats.” He swears he’s launching a formal protest with the UN. He’s only distracted by a duty-free Toblerone the size of his forearm. “Emergency rations,” he tells the cashier. “Never know when the desert will call.”
Whatever that means.
After hours of airborne chaos, we’re somewhere over Canada. I lean in to kiss Camdyn—one of those “we’re making this trip romantic, damn it” moments. It’s sweet, until Fork Guy appears over the seat like some deranged travel goblin and stage-whispers, “Kiss her again, but with passion. Mercury’s in retrograde.”
He offers Camdyn The Lovers card. She nearly chokes on her ginger ale.