Page 26 of Pucking One Night Stand

One of the players’ bags flies open on the pavement with an almighty crack, and its contents, underwear, protein powder, a rogue banana, explode all over the asphalt.

“Oh, for fuck sake,” Thumper yells at the coach driver. “Watch it, man! That was packed by science!”

“Yeah, science fiction,” Bishy calls out, grinning like a ten-year-old. Brody’s bent over laughing, holding up what looks suspiciously like a sock with a hole in it.

“Shut up,” Thumper growls, swiping it from him.

“Nice!” Brody yells, dodging the other flying sock.

I keep walking toward my dad, just as I open my mouth to say, “Safe trip, okay?”

He glares over at me. “You and I are going to have a serious chat when I get back, okay?”

Then I feel it. That weird static.

Blake.

I glance sideways and there he is, appearing like a damn Greek tragedy in joggers. My heart gives one of those annoying, traitorous thumps, like it forgot we hate him.

Heading straight for us, he’s got that really fucked look. Hot. But rough.

Please say something. Please just say hi, even.

He opens his mouth. “Hey, Riley. Looking good.”

Oh. Wow. Okay. Cool. My ego didn’t need that.

Riley grins and flips him off. “Well, you're not, sunshine.”

He grunts a “Hi” at me without looking, like I’m the receptionist at a dentist’s office, then turns back to Riley to keep talking.

I just stand still. Staring at him. Trying to decide whether to break the silence or launch myself into a volcano.

I open my mouth. “Bla—”

“Well, come on, girls! We’re leaving now!” Dad’s voice barrels out from inside the bus like he’s announcing the apocalypse.

And just like that, Blake’s gone before I can even finish his name.

Chapter five

Blake

The bus is quiet in that weird way where some guys are too tired to talk, and others are just loud enough to make you wish they were.

Bishy’s yelling something crude to Thumper across the aisle. Brody’s beside me, one leg stretched halfway into the walkway, texting on his phone to my sister, his wife, Mariana. The rest of the team’s either passed out or shoving earbuds in like that’s going to drown out the noise.

We landed at YVR about an hour ago. Customs was slow. Immigration was even slower. Thumper got flagged for bringing a tub of pre-workout protein that looked suspiciously like powdered explosives. I told him not to pack it in his carry-on, but what do I know? I'm just the guy who reads signs.

Now we’re crawling through Robson Street traffic. Neon signs flash past. People are everywhere, walking, talking, pretending they don’t care that we’re on this bus like it’s not full of the Vegas Aces. Some look up. Most don’t. Vancouver is used to athletes.

Up ahead, the Hilton sign glows faint blue against the evening sky.

“I don’t understand you sometimes,” Brody mutters without looking up.

“What now?”

He turns slightly, resting his elbow on the back of his seat like this is going to be a deep, philosophical conversation. “That stewardess on the flight. Not only did she ask for your autograph, but she also asked for your number. And if you’d meet her tonight. What did you say? ‘Thanks but no thanks.’ That’s it. What the hell’s wrong with you?”