Total pages in book: 85
Estimated words: 79850 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 399(@200wpm)___ 319(@250wpm)___ 266(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 79850 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 399(@200wpm)___ 319(@250wpm)___ 266(@300wpm)
But after an incredible night with Brooke, a breakfast out at a local diner that served chicken and waffles, and then a workout together at the arena gym, I found myself asking her if she wanted to ride to the airport together. She readily agreed, and we parted ways just long enough to pack for the two-game road trip to San Francisco and Los Angeles. I picked her up at her house and we made the twenty-minute ride together from there to the private terminal where we were told to meet.
Maybe I’m feeling a bit weird because of the way she greeted me when I knocked on her front door to carry her luggage to my car. She refused my help with a light laugh, saying she could carry it.
My response was tongue in cheek. “As your boyfriend, I’m supposed to be doing these things for you. Or so I think.”
Brooke was in the middle of locking her door when she turned to me with bright eyes and a goofy grin on her face. She reached out grabbing my face in her hands—a spontaneous, carefree gesture for sure—and pulled me to her for a hot, hard kiss.
When she released me, I was blinking back stars and telling my stomach that was flip-flopping all over the place to cut it the fuck out.
So yeah…feeling a little weird.
We park over near the private terminal for private planes and luxury charters, and after I get the luggage out of the trunk, we both roll them behind us to the entrance. We pass through sliding glass doors and the spacious lobby, which is empty, probably due to the fact it’s almost 9 P.M.
Normally we don’t leave this late for an away game. The norm was usually late afternoon for a flight that would last less than a few hours. But I knew some teams started later flights, and I think the reasoning was to cut down on the amount of partying by some of the crazier, often younger players. It would be nothing to fly into a city like San Francisco, grab some dinner, then hit the strip clubs for a few hours. Players didn’t think twice about that, and often would get blind stinking drunk. If we fly in later, there’s no real opportunity to go out and get into trouble, thus you would have fresher players the next day.
Made sense, I guess.
Brooke and I follow the group through the lobby, dropping our luggage and heading right out onto the tarmac to board the plane. Even though it’s dark outside, the plane is lit up like a sparkling jewel by floodlights mounted on the exterior of the terminal.
I come to a dead halt, as do some of the other players, staring at our new ride in awe.
Many hockey teams charter private planes. It might seem pricey at thirty-five thousand dollars per hour, but it can be cheaper than commercial flights when moving fifty to seventy-five people from point A to point B. Then there’s the whole benefit of being able to come and go as you please rather than being subjected to commercial airline delays.
Some teams actually own their own planes, often refurbished jumbo jets.
Mr. Carlson clearly doesn’t mind spending money on his team, because this isn’t a charter plane. I can tell by the silver, blue, and green stripes that run diagonally across the entire body and the team’s logo painted vividly on the tail. Even the wings are done in silver with blue and green trim. It’s flashy and bold and proclaims that Mr. Carlson is proud of his new team.
“Holy shit,” someone mutters from behind me.
Indeed.
I start walking again—actually trot—to catch up with Brooke. My hand goes to her lower back to guide her to the staircase that leads us up into the plane. I keep it there the entire time we walk up together, dismissing how natural it feels and how it doesn’t seem like for show.
When we reach the top, a brunette flight attendant welcomes us. She’s dressed in a sharp uniform of a form-fitting skirt and jacket done in what looks to be custom fabric to match the team colors. The base color is a light gray with a plaid pattern of thin stripes in the neon-green and blue of our logo. The pattern is very subtle, and the lines thin, but they definitely stand out as a whole.
“Welcome aboard,” she says in a soft, cultured voice. I look to the left, seeing the cockpit door open and the pilot and copilot doing whatever it is they do to get ready. I note their uniforms look no different from those of the pilots who fly commercial. They’ve both ditched their jackets and are in white shirts and black pants, sporting pilot caps as well.
The flight attendant gestures with her arm for us to enter the main cabin, and when Brooke and I approach, I come to a startled halt again. There’s simply no way to be prepared for the luxurious interior of the plane.