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Sloane

“Hello?”

“Hey, babe,” I say, the phone slippery against my face. The sun is shining in through the airport windows, but nobody inside looks cheery. Instead, all the travelers are nearly dead, tired and draped over chairs and benches, some of them desperately trying to find an outlet to charge their devices.

I’ve been watching too many travel influencer vlogs, which is why I thought it would be a good idea for me to do a facemask on the plane on the way over. Not only did it scare the toddler next to me into a six-hour long screamfest, but it also made my hands and face somehow sticky and slick at the same time. This inconveniently made it impossible to touch anything.

“I take it you’ve landed?” Drew asks, his voice that familiar mixture of total apathy and slight intrigue.

“Yes,” I say, “well, I actually landed like two hours ago, but they kept us on the tarmac forever. I’m not sure what was going on with that.”

“You didn’t ask someone? You should be able to get a refund, or a voucher or something.”

“Well, I’m already late to meet up with Luca—”

“Surely your brother will understand the principle.”

I close my eyes, telling myself to take a deep breath. Drew is all about his principles—even if that means standing in line at the airport for hours for a voucher you might not even get.

“Sure,” I relented, letting out the deep breath. There’s no way I’m going to ask a soul about the possibility of financial compensation—the only thing I want to do is get the hell out of here and into a comfy hotel bed. “I’ll do that.”

“Great,” Drew says, “gotta go, I have a meeting in ten.”

The beep beep beep on the line lets me know that he’s ended the call. He’s just like that—he doesn’t believe in goodbye and thinks it’s a waste of time. He also thinks that saying ten instead of ten minutes is a productivity hack.

Drew’s productivity is all that matters, but he’d send me to the airport line from Hell if it meant a $100 voucher for airline merch. Never mind the fact that his annual salary could probably get him a whole airplane, or that his trust fund would buy the airport. It’s the principle.

My phone rings again, and I think it might be Drew calling me back when I see Astrid’s name on the screen.

“Hey!” she says, “I was tracking your flight! You just landed.”

“Yes,” I say, laughing. “Actually, I landed like an hour ago, but we were stuck on the tarmac forever.”

“Oh, that sucks,” Astrid says. “Let me guess—Drew said something about getting a voucher.”

“Yes, he did. And also, I don’t want to talk about Drew.”

“What a strange thing to say about the boyfriend you just moved in with,” Astrid says, that familiar sarcastic lilt in her voice. “The one you’re getting awfully serious with, awfully fast.”

“Oh, shit,” I laugh, holding the phone away from my mouth. “You’re breaking up!”

“Wish I could say the same about you!” she shouts, voice muffled and tinny from the speaker. “Let’s talk about it!”

I hang up on her, still laughing and shaking my head. Astrid is in the process of getting certified as a therapist. I’m so proud of her for earning her degree and making it through med school, but that also means I get psychoanalyzed in every aspect of my life.

If I had known that on the first day of freshman year, the girl with the frizzy mop of black hair was going to be my best friend, I would have been very surprised.

Especially because when she found out I was on the hockey team, she was surprised. Not that I could play hockey—but that the school had a hockey team, period. Astrid knew nothing about my favorite sport in the whole world—my entire life—and I knew nothing about the pop-punk bands she was obsessed with. But somehow, we overcame our differences and quickly became friends.

“Sloane!” someone says, pulling me out of my Astrid-related thoughts, and I turn, my entire body lighting up with joy and floods of memories when I see my brother standing on the other side of the concourse.

Same golden hair as me, same brown eyes. Of course, he’s fucking massive, but that comes with the job title. I’ve yet to meet an NHL player who wasn’t the size of a refrigerator. Or bigger.

I wish that size ran in the family. If it had, I wouldn’t have been such a punching bag on the ice. I started in grade school, like Luca, but he grew much faster than me, gaining inches of height on me every year. I kept waiting on my growth spurt. The girls on other teams delighted that every time I took the ice, I was no bigger than last year. There’s only so much you can make up for with skill.

Luca raises his hand at me, grinning.

Every time I see Luca, it’s like seeing every version of him at once. I see him in his sweats on a Sunday, wearing his best for family holidays, in his swim trunks out on the dock, shoulders bright red. And I see him the day he left for college, wearing too-new clothes, fresh white socks, his car packed full of boxes.

He’d insisted on going by himself, that there was no reason for us to disrupt our lives with him leaving. We’d watched him pull out of the driveway, and I’d bitten the inside of my lip the entire time, desperately trying not to cry. I’d be embarrassed if I cried. Luca would be embarrassed if I cried.

Five minutes later, our dad walked into the living room, looking agitated. My mom and I were sitting on the couch, joined by Callum, one of Luca’s best friends. We hadn’t moved for ten minutes, sitting like zombies and staring blankly at a commercial for a local furniture store on the TV.

“What the hell are we doing?” Dad asked, crossing his arms in the doorway.

“Gerald,” Mom said, looking sharply at him. “ Language .”

“Sorry, dear.” Dad shook his head. “But I’m not about to watch my only son drive himself across the country and move himself into his freshman dorm. We should be there for this! It’s his last first day of school!”

“Yeah!” I’d said, jumping to my feet. I looked back at Callum—arguably the person hurting most at his departure—and held my hand out to him to help him up off the couch. “Let’s go!”

What followed was a joyful, frenzied twenty minutes in which Callum biked home to pack a bag, I sprinted to my room to organize my toiletries, and Mom ran through the house, trying to make sure everything was in order—watering the plants and dumping out the rest of the milk.

“Yes, thank you, Beverly. Last minute, cross-country road trip. I’m sure you understand,” she’d said, asking the neighbor to keep an eye on the house, the phone sandwiched between her shoulder and her ear. “Yes, Luca was very pleased to receive your card. Very thoughtful.”

We locked the door to the house and came tumbling down the front steps, all buried under bags and bubbling with excitement, then came to a stop when we saw what was in the driveway.

“Hey guys,” Luca said, pulling out of a hug with Callum, whose bike and duffel bag were strewn on the lawn. Luca’s white Toyota was parked slightly askew, which was very un-Luca-like. “I almost got to the highway, but realized I forgot something.”

Dad cried silently for the whole drive, clearing his throat and insisting he was fine when anyone asked about it.

Now, the bustle of the airport comes rushing back to me as a lady pushes past me rudely, clearly unhappy that I’ve stopped in the middle of the concourse.

“Luca!” I scream back, not caring about the people watching. Sprinting at full speed, I ignore my suitcase banging around on the ground, the wheels unable to find purchase, and come to a stop in front of my brother, launching into a game of rock-paper-scissors that’s actually the introduction to our handshake.

Two-and-a-half minutes, three snaps, two fist bumps, one high-five, and two low-fives later, we’re breathing hard and grinning stupidly at one another.

“Missed you,” Luca says, pulling me in for a hug and ruffling my hair. He still wears the same cologne now that he did in high school. It was a gift from our grandfather for Christmas, and when Luca’s favorite teacher complimented it, he kept buying it.

“I missed you, too,” I say, trying to keep myself from breaking out into sobs. I can’t help it—I’m an emotional person. I get that from my parents, and it’s just something I’ve learned to live with.

When Drew and I were apartment hunting, I couldn’t stop crying.

We saw the cutest little studio apartment downtown. It was housed in an old furniture store and had exposed wood and brick. I loved it. Drew called it too kitsch .

He stood, bored, in the entryway, texting while the property manager tried to make polite conversation. But I looked around. There was a litterbox and food bowls, as well as a little basket of toys in the hallway. And when I saw a tiny, square urn on the mantle, with a plaque that read: Chloe, you are missed, I burst into tears.

The property manager thought I hated the apartment. Drew was annoyed with me for taking forever and making a scene. To this day, if I think about that little urn, I start to tear up.

“You’re getting married!” I say to Luca, pushing thoughts of strangers’ pets from my mind before I start bawling in the middle of the airport. “This is so exciting!”

“Right,” Luca says, grabbing my suitcase and slinging an arm around my shoulder. “This isn’t a Hallmark movie, Sloane. You don’t have to follow a script.”

“Oh, fuck you,” I mutter, punching him in the arm. Mocking our mother, Luca raises a hand to his mouth and gasps.

“ Language ,” we gasp together, before bursting into laughter.

***

“This is the place,” Luca says, pulling up smoothly outside a massive hotel, which towers into the bright blue Las Vegas sky. It’s all glass and steel, and somehow manages to be the perfect mix of classic and modern. When I step out, I can’t help it—my mouth drops open.

Like a movie star, Luca gets out of the car and hands his keys to the valet, exchanging a nod with the man while walking toward the front door. Always on the move.

As we head up the stairs, they light up. There’s gold plating on the exterior doors, and they open automatically.

Feeling like I might be left behind, I hurry to keep up with him. Luca always forgets his legs are longer than mine, then he’ll stand there, holding the door open and frowning back at me as I try to catch up.

But this time, a tall man in an impeccable suit steps forward, opening the door for both of us, a polite smile on his face as we pass.

“Holy shit , Luc,” I say, when we step into the lobby.

The building is gorgeous , all washed in whites and golds, the ceiling vaulted high above our heads. Light pours in from the street, glinting off the chandeliers hanging from the ceiling. Thousands of tiny crystals dangle from each one, sending little rainbows throughout the room. There are vintage couches I’m sure cost more than my car, and every ten feet there’s a man standing in a full tuxedo. I can only assume their purpose is to quickly pick something up if a guest might ever drop an item, or to sweep the floor right behind every visitor as they walk along.

Our family was firmly upper-middle class, with both of our parents working in stable careers. By the time we were graduating from high school, they’d paid off their house. We took two family vacations every year—one in the summer, and another over winter break. I’ve never wanted for anything, but every time I’m reminded of Luca’s new tax bracket, it takes my breath away.

My parents might be able to afford to pay for a nice wedding in a countryside venue, for a triple-layer cake and a decent hotel. Without Luca’s help, I’d get a pretty decent wedding from them, something a little too expensive, but memorable. Something that made sense.

But Luca can afford to pay for this.

For over-the-top, almost mindless luxury. This is the kind of hotel that tacks on a fee for everything you do—from using the fitness room to drinking something from the mini bar—but Luca probably doesn’t even bat an eye at the bill when it comes his way. Our family is used to choosing all-inclusive resorts. Mom and dad would drag us around to every restaurant on a resort, ensuring we got our money’s worth. But when you’re this rich—famous athlete rich— everything is all-inclusive.

“Good morning, Mr. McKenzie,” a concierge says, a barely contained smile on her face. With a sleek blonde bun, she’s the picture of professionalism, but I can see in her eyes that she knows who my brother is, and she’s fangirling a little inside.

“Good morning, Shelly,” Luca says, giving her a grin, and I watch as this middle-aged woman’s knees get weak. I roll my eyes, but I’m used to this, too. Women like my brother. He remembers names. He’s charming, organized, and now—rich.

As we continue down the hallway, my phone buzzes with a text.

Sidney: Hey, article is ready to publish when you give the green light.

When Luca turns to me, I quickly shove the phone back into my pocket, heart hammering. When our gazes lock, he gives me a look, eyes narrowing. He can always tell when I’m up to something, but I’ve managed to keep this particular secret from him for long enough that he can’t pick it out at least right away.

“So, we’re planning to have the ceremony up in the Sky Chapel,” Luca says, eyes relaxing. Maybe at this point, I’ve just adopted a perpetually guilty expression. We exit the lobby and walk into the hallway.

“ Sky Chapel ?” I ask, eyebrows shooting into my hairline. “That sounds like an old rock song.”

“It’s an elevated chapel at the top of the building. Views of the city, indoor and outdoor ballroom.”

“Oh, of course it is,” I laugh. “ Of course it is. Are you ever going to be normal again?”

He rolls his eyes. “Don’t act like you don’t love it.” He’s right—it may be endlessly shocking and ridiculous, but it’s also impressive. And fun. And I can’t wait to take a thousand pictures in the Sky Chapel.

Most people wouldn’t assume a famous NHL player would be this involved in planning his own wedding, but my brother is meticulous. In high school, he told me again and again that his success would come from being diligent, from making a plan, and following it.

Turns out, he was right.

“And where’s Amanda?” I ask, trying to keep the forced politeness from my tone. It bleeds through anyway.

“ Mandy ,” Luca corrects, something in his face becoming serious. “She’s rebranding to Mandy.”

“Oh,” I say, desperately trying to keep the disdain from my face. Even he can’t talk about her without using a word like rebranding . And they’re getting married in a week. “ Right .”

It’s not that I don’t like Mandy, it’s just that she feels like a La Croix in sea of rich mocktails and fancy drinks. I don’t understand why Luca would choose her—her personality reminds me of a faint breeze. The last time I saw her, I asked her about her interests, and she seemed hard-pressed to provide any. When I asked if she liked to read, she said, “I’m not sure.”

The only thing I could see that she enjoyed doing was being annoying, constantly whining to my brother about stuff he couldn’t fix. When we were having dinner in the garden, she asked if he could do something about the bugs. This was after a fly buzzed past her arm.

“She’s just hanging out in the spa,” Luca says, glancing back at me. “It’ll be better for her to relax, and besides, I like doing this stuff. We’ve also hired wedding planners to help.”

“Of course,” I say, following him onto an elevator. A man in a suit presses the button for us, and I have to keep from laughing. God forbid a rich person press a button for themselves.

“This is the floor for the bridal party,” Luca says. “All the bridesmaids and groomsmen are staying here.”

I swallow and nod, remembering my surprise when Mandy had reached out, half-heartedly asking me to be her maid of honor. Online, I saw other maid of honors receiving heartfelt care packages, invitations that referred to their long friendships.

But I wouldn’t be getting one of those, because I barely even knew Mandy. Everyone coming to the wedding would know that I was a practical choice, if not the only one she had.

“ Maid of hono r?” I’d asked Luca, practically hissing into the phone, when I got the ask. “Doesn’t she have, like, a sister? Or a best friend?”

“No,” Luca said, sounding exasperated. “She doesn’t really get along with women.”

I’d stood quietly for a moment, waiting for that to sink in for him. There was not a bigger red flag than not getting along with women.

What does that even mean?

“So, will you do it, Bug? It would mean a lot to me.” Luca only pulled out that nickname when he really wanted something from me.

It felt ridiculous to be Mandy’s maid of honor, considering the fact that I hardly knew her, and didn’t really like her, but I would do anything for my brother.

So, I was in charge of planning her bachelorette party. Rather than space the events out according to the traditional schedule, they’re going for an all-out wedding weekend. We’ll have the rehearsal dinner, bachelor and bachelorette parties, and ceremony all in the span of a few days.

“Perfect,” I say now, when Luca hands me a hotel key card, gesturing toward room 1004, which is apparently all mine. “Thanks.”

“We’re asking everyone else arriving today to come up to our suite in a while. A little get-together. If you’re interested.”

“We?” I ask, double-checking. “Who else is here? Mom and Dad?”

“No, they’re not coming until tomorrow,” Luca says, but his voice fades out when a door opens at the end of the hall.

A familiar man steps out. He’s tall, with broad shoulders and a mop of dark brown hair that’s always falling into his eyes. When I look at him, I feel it in my throat and chest all at the same time. The smack of seeing someone who was, once, a daily installation in your life.

He’s wearing a pair of dark slacks and a deep brown button-up shirt. A pair of sunglasses is hooked on the front pocket of his shirt, his leather shoes polished. I can almost picture him googling “ casual Las Vegas outfits” and copying his favorite result exactly to make sure he got it right.

Every time I see Callum, it’s like he’s added another ten pounds of muscle. I wonder if he and Luca are in a race to see who the biggest man in the NHL can be.

If Luca brings back memories of our childhood, Callum brings back memories of being a teenager. When he straightens up, his eyes meet mine, and we freeze for a moment, staring at each other. The air between us seems to pulse for a moment, and I think of physical science class and learning about potential energy.

“Sloane Ranger!” Callum says, finally, breaking the spell.

His face splits into a grin as he steps forward, the smell of his cologne washing over me as he holds his hand out for a game of rock-paper-scissors.