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HOT STOVE

JAXON

The offseason, when speculation and rumors figuratively keep fans warm in the winter months.

I f 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’m manifesting 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.

Fork Guy doesn’t stop there—why would he?

He offers “relationship advice” to every couple within two rows (“Never split a cheese plate at altitude, it’s bad luck”), and reads tarot for a honeymooning couple who don’t speak English but nod politely while he insists their “chakras are extremely compatible.”

Around hour six, he tries to trade his seat for first class by offering a “rare, vintage safety card from Spirit Airlines” and a slightly melted Toblerone. The flight attendant laughs—until she realizes he’s serious.

About halfway over the Atlantic, security comes down the aisle.

Not for Jameson and Callie, still fighting about armrests, but for Fork Guy, who’s now reading tarot for the flight crew in the galley.

“Sir, please return to your seat and put the cards away,” the lead attendant says, but Fork Guy grins and asks if she wants to know her moon sign.

Jameson and Callie’s fight hits new levels somewhere over Greenland.

“You’re making too much noise,” Callie hisses.

Jameson groans, eyeing the emergency exit. “Yeah, well, your mere existence pisses me off.”

“Same, boy. Same!” Callie huffs, shoving in her earbuds and staking her claim to the window—her window, apparently.

King spends half the flight asleep, drooling on his tray table, and the other half trying to talk Brynn into a second bathroom rendezvous.

My mom? She’s up near the front, blissfully unaware that her son’s friends have turned Emirates Economy into a flying frat house.

By the time we land, Fork Guy’s charmed three attendants, invented and won a trivia contest, and been politely threatened with “official documentation” if he tries to swap seats again. He’s still clutching that neck pillow and tarot deck like a man who’s found his calling.

We haven’t even set foot in the UAE and this trip is already group chat legend.

We land in Dubai at sunrise, the skyline looking like someone hacked reality and cranked up the graphics.

Skyscrapers everywhere, glass shining like it’s been polished by angels.

The airport is a marble-and-gold palace, and I immediately lose all sense of direction.

Fork Guy tries to barter for a camel ride at customs. Brynn almost gets arrested for accidentally calling the officer “bro.” Callie declares she’s moving here because the airport bathrooms “smell like a spa.”

It’s a blur of signs in five languages, endless walkways, and a fountain that probably costs more than my tuition.

Mom’s striding ahead like she’s running for office, waving passports and barking our itinerary into her phone.

Camdyn and I trail after, dragging suitcases and trying not to look like lost tourists—which is tough, because that’s exactly what we are.

Fork Guy, undeterred by his failed camel negotiation, is now reading the energy of the customs line with his tarot deck. “I sense a journey of great importance for you,” he tells a businessman who looks like he hasn’t slept in years.

The customs officer gives Fork Guy a look that says: try me. He slides the deck away with the smoothness of someone who’s been forcibly ejected from airports before.

Jameson grumbles about the exchange rate and the fact his suitcase apparently took a separate vacation to Istanbul. King’s still half-asleep, sunglasses on, dragging Brynn by the hand. Brynn’s apologizing to the officer, swearing she meant “sir” not “bro,” and trying not to burst out laughing.

Callie spends an hour in the bathroom and emerges with a review: “Ten out of ten. Heated seats. Mood lighting. I’m never leaving.” She snaps a selfie with a gold-plated hand dryer and declares herself an influencer now.

Miraculously, we all make it through without anyone getting deported or recruited into a cult (though Fork Guy says he “felt a calling”).

The baggage claim is a mess of designer luggage and lost tourists.

Our group huddles around the carousel, and Fork Guy starts dealing tarot cards on top of a Louis Vuitton suitcase—much to the horror of its actual owner, who shooes him off with a hissed, “This is vintage!”

We finally tumble outside into Dubai’s heat, like inhaling air from a hair dryer set to “desert inferno.” There’s a driver holding our name, looking both bored and slightly terrified as we approach like caffeinated wolves.

“Welcome to Dubai,” he says, sounding like he’s said it a thousand times. “First time?”

Fork Guy grins, neck pillow askew, tarot deck in hand. “We’re here for enlightenment,” he announces. The driver nods like he’s heard weirder—which, in Dubai, he probably has.