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“ I can’t believe I’m at the airport! I’m not flying anywhere but that’s of little to no importance. I am at the airport! This is so exciting!”

In truth I’m not that excited. Well, I am, thought the whole, hey there’s a real-life plane thing, is mixing with them, I’m meeting someone famous and important thing, and I feel like I may barf.

Noah’s hand splays out over my stomach, little finger dipping beneath the waist band of my skirt to twist into my tights. With the amount of adrenaline pumping through my heart I have a good mind to tell him to tear them off and take me right here, but thankfully, a boarding gate door at Laurence G. Hanscom Field, Boston’s second biggest airport, swings open and out walks Warren Cole, coach of Tampa. They’d chosen to land here rather than Logan International in the hope of a quiet return home for one of Boston’s favorite sons.

It didn’t quite work out. Surrounded by a gaggle of assistants and media, he fobs off their questions with a shrug before stopping close enough for us to hear the thinly veiled contempt in his voice. “I appreciate you all coming out to meet us. Especially the part where you snuck into the private arrivals lounge to ambush me, but guys, I have three days off a year, and I would really like to spend them with my family.” Blinking through the throng of flashing lights, he looks up and winks at Noah. “And with some new friends.”

“Is that your polite way of telling us to fuck off?” One reporter asks, undoubtedly hoping for the soundbite.

“No, it’s my wishing you a happy holiday … and asking you to politely fuck off.”

It’s then that Noah’s soon-to-be boss turns toward us, the icy glare he wore for the media melting with each step. “Noah, son, it’s damn good to see you.” He reaches for Noah’s hand and judging from the crinkling wince of Noah’s eyes, Coach Cole has a firm grip. “Not only because that was some of the worst turbulence I’ve ever felt, but because you’re even bigger than I remember. Been hitting the gym?”

“Yes, Sir.” Noah beams. He’s nervous too, more than I’ve ever witnessed, but he’s able to regulate his emotions without four donuts and three pumpkin spice lattes.

Hmm, maybe that’s contributing to the nausea too?

“Stretching, too, I hope?” Cole replies, “We need you to have a long, injury free career.”

“Stretching and twisting so much I’m practically a pretzel, Sir.”

“Enough of that sir crap. Call me Warren, or Coach at least.”

“Yes Sir … I mean Sir … no, Warren Coach.” This is the first time I’ve seen Noah flustered and it’s freaking adorable. I can’t wait to see what he’ll be like when he meets the rest of this team. That giddy, swoony feeling only lasts a second, though. It’s soon gobbled up by that bitter nausea when I remember I won’t be there to see that.

I’ll be here.

He’ll be there.

And despite what he says.

We’ll be done.

I’m off doom scrolling my mind when a hand lands on the small of my back and tucks me into a tall, warm body. His touch settles me in the way it seems to have done him, too and I remind myself to soak up every sweet and sexy second with him while I can.

“Coach, this is my girlfriend, Lotte. It’s her family friend that we’re raising funds for tonight.” I glance up and even though I’m now dying on the inside, I can’t help but smile. If I thought Noah was beaming before, he’s positively glowing now. Coach Cole issues a warm smile then offers his hand to me.

Ugh. Handshakes.

“Ahh, so this is the famous Lotte. Noah’s been very complementary. It’s a pleasure to meet you.” A hand bigger than any I’ve ever seen wraps around mine. I want to return his warm, gracious greeting but I also want to kick him in the shins. He’s taking Noah from me and that fact is really just sinking in. I mean, obviously I knew it was happening, but it’s always been a big black hole. One I thought would help me to avoid. But its gravitational field is sucking me in and there’s nothing I can do.

Future Lotte’s problems have landed.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, too.” I lie, “I hear you’ve had the best start in your thirteen seasons at the helm of Tampa, your penalty kill percentage is up, and so are the W’s. All that lighting up the lamp must feel … lit.”

God lord. You dick.

Neither of them say it, but the look / smirk combo Noah and Coach Cole share confirms that opinion of myself, and that they know I scrolledredditfor hockey terminology on the drive here. Instead, they chuckle, Coach Cole introduces the assistants, and we leave before the throng of reporters descends once more.

Proving that pro hockey life is not always glam, I watch on as the Tampa crew and Noah fold themselves into the middle row of the minivan we hired for the pickup. Since we are the shortest, I’m comfortably wedged between Coach Cole and the bags that wouldn’t fit in the trunk. Noah shares the row ahead with Coach Two and Three, whose names I can’t remember. Quinn, who always displays such hockey boy blood lust, seems surprisingly nonplussed behind the wheel. The same can’t be said for Brady who is riding up front with her. He looks like a greedy kid in line to see Santa Clause, a look of blissful disbelief on his face.

“So, Brady, I hear you’re hoping to be the first Aussie to play in the NHL?” says Darcy, who I’ve labeled assistant one.

“The second.” Assistant four corrects, winking to Brady who’s watching over his shoulder, cheeks flushed, “Walker who plays for St Louis was the first.”

“Walker’s Aussie? I thought I read somewhere he was born in Wales.”

“He was,” Blush and smile spreading, Brady spins in his seat. “But half of Australia was born overseas. Besides, he’s kinda famous, so we’d claim him even if he’d lived there for five minutes. It’s the Australian way.” As the two front rows discuss the similarities between Canada and Australia, Coach Cole decides it’s the perfect time to address the elephant sitting on my chest.

“So, Miss West, Noah tells me you won’t be joining him in Tampa? You know, my wife and I were the same age as you and Noah when we got together … both still in college too. We did the whole long-distance Edmonton to Boston thing for two years. I hated every damn minute of it, but it was a good test.” Twisting in his seat, his fingers slide up and down the smooth cloth of his seat belt. “Life with a NHL player isn’t easy. It will feel like your needs come second to the team’s. That even when you are together, you’re apart, and that can be a very lonely, resentment causing existence. But just remember this, miss”

“Lotte,” I insist.

“Miss Lotte, nothing is permanent. And things are never as they seem.”

I want to believe him. To find hope in his words. But my old friend, negativity, won’t let me. “Boston to Florida seems a pretty real distance, though.”

“That it is. But it’s not an insurmountable one. Trust me.”

This conversation is setting off a surge of tics I’m struggling to suppress, so I dip into the shallow pool of my newly acquired hockey knowledge. “So, you’re from Edmonton?” I give a halfhearted, Go Oilers, chant before dying internally and shutting the fuck up.

“That I am. You’re surrounded by Canadians I’m afraid.” My brows pinch together, and my seat buddy picks up on my confusion.

“You didn’t know I was from up north?”

“No, Noah made it sound like you were a Native Bostonian.”

“Well, Boston adopted me like Australia’s adopted Walker.”

“I guess bringing them two Norman cups helped with that.”

“I think you mean Stanley Cups, and yes. I suppose they did. Two of my siblings followed me down south and still live in Boston. I’d never say it out loud at an Oilers Vs Maples game, but I do consider myself a Boston home now. A true, Bostonian, as you called it.”

A raucous over Vermont vs Canadian maple syrup superiority row before us brings an end to our little tête-à-tête. Laughter, chants of Hoser and various other cheap shots fill the air, but I’m struggling to find any joy. I’m too stuck in my head. Again, reading my expression, Cole gives me a nudge with his elbow. “Remember what I said, Miss West. Nothing is permanent, trust me.”

I’m not sure I’ve ever trusted someone who said trust me twice in one short conversation, but for Warren Cole has an unruly mustache, round, rosy cheeks and an altogether likeable disposition that makes me decide to go against my natural inclination and do as he says.

Trust.

When someone like me sets a notion to motion, the outcome is never predictable. Stalling, even traveling miles while stuck in reverse is not an uncommon phenomenon.

When someone like Noah sets his mind to something you can almost guarantee it will happen. His life reads as a testament to that fact. He worked hard for the hockey skills he wanted, training relentlessly, eating right (excluding midnight In-N-Out), becoming a student of the game. And it paid off. He’s skating towards the career he dreamed of, and for now, has the girl he desired sliding in beside him.

Another example – the Battle of Boston fundraiser - the event he’s organized for my darling Marty. There I was thinking we might have some fun activities after the game. Maybe some season tickets or jerseys can be given away. A few of those little pucks they all love to chase so much might be signed. Boy, was I wrong.

Preparations for the game and the event following meant we only stop for the healthiest, protein filled lunch my digestive system has ever encountered, before we head straight to Conte Forum. That’s when the grandeur of Noah’s plan and my delusion hits home.

Nausea inducing Carnival rides line the grassy knoll. Food trucks and stalls are dotted between them, workers busy prepping ingredients and setting up pop-up dining spaces. Then there’s the football team’s marching band, a gaggle of cheerleaders warming up on an ad- hoc stage and behind them, a kissing booth and dunk tank.

“Noah, what the hell?”

“I know, we lost the Irish Dance troupe when the Wahlberg’s pulled out.”

“I’m too shook by the rodeo clown riding the mechanical bull to comment on the no show of Marky Mark, Boston’s most infamous pants dropper.”

Like his future coach did in the van, Noah elbows me in the shoulder. “Don’t worry, we’ve still got Brades, and I hear he’s got the entire Thunder from Down Under routine memorized.” Normally a quip like that would have Brady breaking into hives, but he’s too busy watching Quinn break into a sprint towards the BU Bulldog’s team bus that’s pulling up. I’m not sure why they are here so early, but here they are. Her Troye is the first to exit and hits the ground running so the pair meet and slap together like Zac Efron and Zendaya do in The Greatest Showman. Sans ropes of course.

Brady looks as heartbroken as Noah does confused. “She’s still with Troye?” he asks, “When you stayed over at Thanksgiving 2, I thought—”

“I slept on the floor, Noah. There’s nothing going on with Quinn and me. Or anybody.” he adds after a drawn-out sigh. It’s a good thing he has his head down as he mopes because Troye has opened his bag and pulled out a red and white BU Bulldogs jersey, and controversially, Quinn’s slipping it on.

I’m not sure who’ll be more devastated. Brady, or Quinn’s dad.