Page 49

If life was a hockey game, Penelope Clark was a puck.

She had realized this at the tender age of five, which was when she’d first been scooted over without being asked so that she wouldn’t block her father’s Banker of the Year trophy in the photos.

Her five-year-old self had absolutely no idea what was so important about a boring block of glass.

So, she’d slipped into her dad’s study that evening to find out, but the award had unfortunately fallen… and broken in two.

Her father had just laughed and said he would get a new one next year, but her mother had immediately sent her to her room.

And it hadn’t stopped there. No, in the years that followed, Penny had been sent to her room so many times that the carpet outside her door had completely worn out.

She dripped red pasta sauce on the white sofa in the living room — off to her room!

Pushed her brother into the pond behind the house because he called her an idiot — off to her room.

Told her mother that there was no way she was making her debut in a tulle dress — off to her room!

When that wasn’t enough, she was shipped off to finishing school. And then another one. Penny slid uncontrollably through puberty, taking on every bump that came her way. Really, it was a miracle she only came away with a few bruises and a few expulsions from private schools.

That first moment – the photo in her father’s study – was now twenty-two years ago.

The finishing schools were only a vague memory.

And Penny believed that she had slowly but surely worked her way up from puck to player.

Yes, she was definitely a substitute, but at least she wasn’t being pushed around anymore.

At least she could decide for herself which direction she wanted to pursue.

At least she had hardly heard the words ice hockey in the last few wonderful years…

“…the New York Predators are simply unstoppable!” rang out from the TV on the wall. “Tonight, the ice belongs to them. The Boston Bisons have no chance…”

Groaning, she tilted her head back, gulped down her whiskey, and pushed the empty glass away. Now that she had American soil under her feet again, there was no escape. The memories pressed in on her like the opposing forwards on the goal.

“Would you like another one, ma’am?” a male voice asked – maybe the bartender? – and she nodded.

“Yes, please.”

Ice hockey analogies and whiskey: Two remnants of her old life, two persistent things she’d been unable to eliminate during her travels over the last few years.

She rubbed her tired eyes as a tinny announcement reminded her not to leave her luggage unattended.

Automatically, she felt for the bag under her bar stool with her foot.

There were some documents in there that might give her a headache but were of burning interest to others.

The jute bag was still where she’d put it, thank God.

Her family was surely expecting her to lose the documents, unleashing chaos and drama of catastrophic proportions before she even reached Los Angeles.

Sighing, she opened her eyes again and looked to the right through the large window. The planes were slowly being towed to their gates or taxiing toward the runway and suddenly, she felt sorry for the metal giants. They too were simply shoved around and had to obey.

I don’t want to hear it, Penny. You’re coming home, you’ve run away long enough – besides, how far can you get without my money?

She made a face and banished the voice from her head. She wouldn’t have to deal with that for another forty-eight hours. There was still more than enough time to get drunk and block it out for the time being.

She slowly rolled her neck, which was tense from sitting so long.

People rushed past her with their rolling suitcases at their feet and their cell phones to their ears.

Airport staff searched for their gates, excited children nibbled on duty-free chocolate, businessmen in suits balanced their laptops on their laps, and seniors wore Hawaiian shirts despite the minus temperatures and ice at the windows, probably on their way to the namesake of their bright tops.

The hustle and bustle around Penelope was both familiar and strange.

She was beginning to feel like she had spent half her life in airports, even though that was not technically true, in terms of numbers.

In the last five years, she had visited thirteen different countries, seen the inside of twenty-six different airports, and spent an average of three hours in each.

That was 156 hours, not even 7 days, and therefore only about 0.

4 percent of the last five years. In the context of her entire life, those layovers were hardly worth mentioning.

Penny knew that hard numbers were the only thing you could rely on.

Her feeling of having been trapped in airports for most of her waking life was groundless.

However, the fatigue in her bones and the cotton wool in her head felt very real.

A stabbing pain started in her temples, and she closed her eyes again.

God, if she was getting a headache from doing the math, her body was truly exhausted.

She was not actually surprised. She had just been on an eleven-hour flight from Buenos Aires and was just finishing a five-hour layover in New York to head on to her hometown of Los Angeles.

Normally, she would have flown directly from Argentina to the City of Angels, but the NYU professor she had been working for the past few years was paranoid and didn’t trust the internet, which was why he wanted her research results delivered in person, on paper.

Penny was overtired, jetlagged, and worried about what lay ahead.

And, as if that wasn't enough, she suffered from a tiny fear of flying. Okay, that was a lie. It was a very present fear of flying. This was absurd, considering how many times she had been tens of thousands of feet above the earth. But, there were some things even whiskey and hockey analogies couldn’t cure. Although the former helped.

Driven by that thought, she took a deep breath, reached for her glass, put it to her lips, and took a long sip…

“That’s my drink.”

Penny winced and coughed the liquid back into the glass in shock.

“What?” She whirled around on the bar stool and found herself peering straight into a pair of green eyes.

Set in a square face, they belonged to a blond man in jeans and a hoodie.

Thankfully, she had already spit out the whiskey, otherwise, she would have choked on it for sure.

Holy shit, he was frighteningly attractive. His face wasn’t traditionally beautiful. Taken separately, his lips were too full, his hair a touch too long, and his eyes were a touch too far apart. But the whole package…

“That’s my drink,” the man repeated, amused, pointing to the glass in her hands.

Perplexed, her gaze slid to the bar in front of her — and he was right. She had grabbed the wrong glass.

“Shit, sorry,” she blurted out, her cheeks catching fire. “Um…here.” She put the drink down and hastily pushed it across the bar in his direction.

The guy stared at her for a few seconds with his mouth open — then started laughing.

“Oh God.” She put her hand over her eyes even though the corners of her own mouth threatened to break into a smile. “I spit in it.”

“Rather enthusiastically, yes.”

“Shit.” She rubbed her face. “I’m sorry. I’m a bit wonky. I don’t normally regurgitate other people’s drinks.”

“I’m certain that makes people all over the world happy.”

Now she laughed. “It should. And I’ll buy you a new one, of course.

No, you know what? Take mine. It tastes better than the stuff you ordered anyway.

You…” and then she faltered. Oh, goodness.

What had just come out of her mouth? She groaned inwardly and bit her tongue.

“Not that this drink is terrible,” she said, trying to save herself, raising the glass in which she had just left her DNA.

“But…” She narrowed her eyes and shook her head.

“Damn it, I’m too tired to lie. It tastes horrible!

You really don’t know anything about whiskey.

Mine is better.” She nodded firmly and handed him the glass that was meant for her.

The man’s grin widened. “Is that your way of apologizing?”

“No, it’s my way of replacing your terrible whiskey with a better one,” she replied sheepishly. “Try it.”

The man facing her sighed but did her the favor and took a sip. He tilted his head, frowning.

“Mm hm,” he said and then added more quietly, “I’d like to say you’re right, but I’ve lost the ability to taste since an accident.”

Shocked, the smile slipped from her face. “Oh God. I’m sorry, I…”

He grinned broadly.

She stopped. “You’re pulling my leg.”

“Yup,” he agreed. “I wanted you to feel as uncomfortable as I did just now when I wasn’t sure if it would be rude to turn down the spit drink.”

Laughing, she rubbed her forehead. “Well, you succeeded. But what about the whiskey?”

“It’s definitely tastier.”

“That’s what I’ve been saying.” She nodded, pleased with herself. “Well then. To good and bad whiskey,” she said, clinking glasses with him and drinking from the stranger’s glass again.

“You’re still going to drink that stuff?” her counterpart asked, surprised.

“Of course, I’ll drink it! It’s my own spit. Shame to waste it, and…oh, wait, did you already drink from it?”

He nodded.

She narrowed her eyes, thought about it for a moment, and then shrugged. “What the heck! The bacteria have already found their way into my mouth. It won’t kill me.”

She had eaten much worse in South America…and she hated wasting food more than the uninvited ice hockey analogies in her head. So, she gulped down the drink.

“You’re a drinker, aren’t you?” the stranger remarked, impressed.