Page 40 of Writing Mr. Wrong

He went straight to the local airport and started asking around, and he’d managed to snag seats on a private charter to Los Angeles just before the planners called to say they could get him one leaving two hours later…

paired with a late-night flight to Vancouver.

Yeah, that wouldn’t work. He still let them arrange it, as a backup.

The charter flight he’d gotten them spots on would arrive in LA just past one. That seemed like plenty of time, but the only flight with available seats would get them into Vancouver just before six. Cutting it extremely close, but he would make the game, and that was all that mattered.

The other passengers on the LA flight were a bunch of guys who reminded Mason of his teammates when they went on vacation…

well, if his teammates were rich tech bros instead of pro hockey players.

The vibe was the same, a bunch of loud guys who’d already been drinking and had offered the seats to Mason when one of them—a former Calgarian and longtime hockey fan—recognized Mason.

So it was more about having a sports celebrity on their plane than helping two stranded passengers, but whatever. Beggars couldn’t be choosers.

The problem with catching a flight with guys like him and his buddies?

They were exactly like him and his buddies.

Entitled assholes with zero respect for the charter company’s schedule.

Two of their party were delayed, apparently by a late breakfast and a goodbye to some “local senoritas” as their friends winked and guffawed.

Okay, Mason stood corrected. These guys were worse than him and his teammates.

By the time the others arrived, they were thirty minutes behind schedule. Still time to catch their flight to Vancouver… until the late departure meant they missed their takeoff window and they were delayed another thirty minutes.

Mason and Gemma arrived in LA over an hour late, which gave them…

Fuck, he didn’t want to calculate how much time they had.

Luckily they had only carry-ons and they had downloaded their boarding passes.

They went straight into the security queue, where he may have made the rich-asshole move of handing out twenties to shift them up the line.

Eventually, of course, someone decided they were not taking that twenty bucks, but by then they were close enough.

While in line, Gemma mapped out the fastest route to the gate. Once through, they were off and running—literally. They made it to the gate as people were still boarding.

Gemma flung herself into his arms, and he caught her up, laughing.

“We did it,” she whispered, smiling at him.

“ You did it. You swam after that boat.”

“But you figured out the rest.” She hugged him. “We make a pretty good team.”

He hugged her back. “We do.”

They joined the line. Being a Vancouver-bound flight meant people turned and looked at him and whispered.

Back to being recognized, which was fine.

Oh hell, who was he kidding. He liked being recognized.

It sometimes made life tougher but—as with those tech bros letting them on their flight—it usually made things easier.

Hands clenched together, they waited their turn to the podium. Then they handed the attendant their tickets.

“Oh,” she said. “You don’t have seats.”

“What?” Gemma looked at her ticket and at the board overhead. “No, we have tickets for this flight.”

“But you don’t have seats . We’re overbooked.”

“Hold on,” Mason said. “No one told me that when I booked.”

“See where there’s no assigned seat on your boarding pass?

” The woman’s voice dripped with the faux patience of someone dealing with not-too-clever customers.

“That means you don’t have seats. We offered vouchers to try getting people to switch to later flights, and some took them, but you were the last two left.

You’ve already been rebooked on the six p.m. flight. ”

“I need to get back by—”

“Please step aside so I can help these other guests. If you’d like to look for alternate routes, speak to customer service.”

Gemma turned to him. “Ask around. See if someone recognizes you. Tell them you have a game and you’ll pay for their seat.”

He hesitated. “Isn’t that an asshole move?”

“Only if you hoped someone would give up their seat for free, so you could get home for a poker game.”

“No,” the gate attendant said, clearly listening in. “I do not care who you are, you are not getting on this flight. We don’t do that.”

“You just did,” Gemma said. “You tried to find volunteers to switch tickets. If we can find them—”

“That’s different.”

Gemma turned to the waiting passengers. “Sorry, folks, I know everyone really wants to get home—or wherever you’re going—and you can say no, obviously, but this is—”

“Mason Moretti,” a voice said, and they pulled apart and turned as an elderly woman walked over with her companion following behind. “Aren’t you supposed to be playing hockey tonight?”

Gemma gave the woman a rueful smile. “He is, but we’re stuck on standby and there aren’t any seats. He really needs to get back, and the universe seems to be conspiring against him. If anyone— anyone —could help, I swear we’ll pay double whatever the airline offered—”

“No one is giving up their ticket,” the attendant cut in, having left her post to advance on them.

“Hush now,” the woman said. “You’re coming between me and Growler box seats.”

“It is not permitted—”

“If you can switch seats, we can switch seats,” Gemma said. “And it’ll just be him. I’ll stay behind to minimize disruption.”

Mason opened his mouth, but she cut him off with a look.

“Minimize disruption,” she repeated. Then, to the attendant: “If you have a problem, get your manager, but I suspect no one’s going to want the flight held up for that, so if it’s all the same to you, we’d like to get through this negotiation and get him on that plane.”

A few people clapped. Gemma looked up at him with the fiery determination that had bewitched him thirty years ago, and when his knees wobbled, it wasn’t his bad one misbehaving. She looked at him that way, and he wanted to blurt, Marry me, Gemma .

I’m about three years from being a has-been hockey player, and I have no idea what’s in my future after that, but I know one thing I want there. You. Marry me.

These days, he felt like he was walking on shifting sand where it’d always been solid concrete.

He could see what lurked on his horizon: the day when he wouldn’t be Mason Moretti anymore.

Yes, fine, that’d still be his name, but being “Mason Moretti” was a whole different thing.

He’d spent his life chasing a goal, and now it was slipping from his grasp and he wasn’t even forty yet. Half a lifetime to go and…

And fuck it. He’d figure it out. He’d hold on to this job until they ripped it from his fists, but when it went, he’d have a plan, and part of it stood right there in front of him. Because he hadn’t just been chasing one goal all his life. He’d been chasing two. Hockey and Gemma Stanton.

“Box seats,” the old woman said. “I’ll also want a photo op. And a team jersey—signed.”

“I can do that,” Mason said.

“All right then.” She held out her boarding pass to the attendant. “Switch us.”