Page 22 of A Million Times, Yes

There she was again.

On my goddamn mind.

“I fucked one flight attendant—I wouldn’t call that ‘a thing,’” I barked.

But it had certainly turned into a thing.

Aside from the two corporate jets our company owned, Gavin and I had bought a jet that we shared for personal use, and I’d ended up banging the flight attendant who’d been hired on. That had led to her wanting more, which made me instantly done, and an extremely uncomfortable conversation had to follow.

Flight attendants, going forward, were off-fucking-limits.

“And you’re telling me you don’t want to sleep with that one?” He nodded again toward the galley.

“That’s exactly what I’m telling you.”

He placed his arms on the armrests on either side of him and slid toward the edge of his seat. “Something’s up with you.”

“Nothing is up with me. You’re being dramatic.” My stare returned to my laptop screen.

“But you normally want to fuck anything with two legs and a pussy.”

I rolled my eyes. “You’re exaggerating.”

“I am?” He waited, and when I didn’t respond, he said, “What about the waitress we had last weekend at dinner? Or the executive who came in a few weeks ago and tried to pitch us a whole new line of liquor for our sports venues, or the—”

“I get the point.”

“Then what is it?” His eyes narrowed. “Has your dick fallen off?”

I laughed. “No.”

“Did you get someone pregnant? Is that why you’re not interested?”

“Hell no.”

“I’m not going to stop until you confess. Not when I know there’s something happening with you.”

I let out a long sigh.

“Holy fuck.” A smile crept across his long face. “You met someone. That’s what this is about. You met someone and you like her and—”

“Don’t get ahead of yourself.”

“But I’m on the right track, aren’t I?” I could feel his eyes moving right through me—a talent only my brother had. No one else had ever been able to read me. “Yes, I am ...” He got up from his seat and joined me on the couch. “It’s about time too. Tell me all about her.”

“Fuck,” I grumbled. “You’re single. Isn’t it about timeyousettled down?”

“This isn’t about me.”

“It’s not about me either,” I snapped. “Besides, I told you, don’t get ahead of yourself.”

“But there’s someone. At least admit to that.”

When I exhaled, my nostrils flared.

One of the best parts about hockey was that I could get out my anger on the ice. There was no direct cause of that feeling that constantly pulsed through me; I was just born with impatience andan overall desire for everyone to move faster, work more efficiently, and do a lot less talking.

Without hockey, I relied on running and the gym—two things my brother had taken from me today.