Bishop

by Sawyer Bennett

  “You mean like date for real?” I ask him for clarification, because I think that’s what he’s asking. It feels like a grade school “will you go steady with me” kind of thing.

  “Well…not for real,” he begins by explaining, and I’m dropped back down to earth. “I mean, we both know how it will end and that we’re going to break this off without anyone’s feelings getting hurt. But…I’m proposing you and I focus not so much on the pretending aspect but more on the having fun with each other.”

  “You mean sex,” I say dryly. Which is fine. I mean…the sex is off-the-charts hot and better than anything I could have ever imagined.

  “That’s part of the fun,” he replies just as dryly. “But I’m talking about more. We’ll go out together, and you’ll be traveling with the team, right?”

  “That’s the plan,” I tell him. The current director doesn’t like dealing with what he calls “peons” like caterers and hotel staff, so I’m the liaison.

  “Good,” he says, and then lays it all out for me. “We have to act like a couple that’s crazy about each other, so let’s have a good time doing it. We already know that we’re perfect for each other in bed and…”

  He trails off, as if he doesn’t want to continue his train of thought.

  “And?” I prompt.

  There’s no moment of silence. No pause while he collects his thoughts. No hesitation. “And you’re really fucking cool, Brooke. I’m thinking this is going to be a fun adventure for both of us.”

  “An adventure,” I repeat, testing it out on my lips. Before, it had seemed like a chore or a dreaded job such as cleaning the toilet. But Bishop is proposing we look at the fun side of it, and that’s because, well, I’m not sure, but that’s for another time to discuss. I say it once again, letting the words roll off my tongue without any weight or expectation to them. “An adventure. I like the sound of that.”

  Chapter 11

  Bishop

  It’s totally weird riding to the airport with Brooke.

  It shouldn’t be, though, since we agreed that we were going to have fun the next few weeks together. It should be easy and natural, and yet it feels odd. I normally ride to the airport with Dax—via Uber of course—or at least that’s how it’s been for the last three years we’ve been roommates in New York.

  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.

  Flying charter is nice. Big seats and lots of leg room.

  But this?

  I’d never seen such a thing.

  The first section we walk through has a wide aisle straight down the middle that Brooke and I can easily walk through side by side without bumping into each other or passengers. On each side of the aisle there are two rows of seats, looking to be about fifteen deep. The seats are dark charcoal gray with the Vengeance logo—which is the head of a snarling lion done in silver, green, and blue—embroidered on the headrest. Some of the players have already claimed their seats, which are equipped with a dark mahogany retractable table that can flip over your lap. It matches the mahogany wood trim on the seats.

  A few of the players have reclined their seats back, and there’s so much room between the rows that they fully extend so you can lie flat as if it were a bed. The leather cushioning looks plush and I bet comfortable as shit. This is a brilliant design, because there are many nights we get done with a game and are flying out at night to make another game the following day. This will allow the players to get much-needed
rest.

  Brooke and I keep walking down the aisle, which I note is a plush cream-colored carpet with the Vengeance logo woven into it. Bet that cost some serious bank.

  The next section of the plane is ridiculous, and I mean that in a very good way. Same gray leather seating, but the chairs are more captain style and swivel. They are set in clusters of four facing each other, two on each side, with a mahogany table in between. By a quick count, I see six tables in this section. There are also two full-size couches that flank the rear galley walls.

  “Where do you want to sit?” I ask Brooke as she looks around. “At a table, or do you want to grab a few seats up front?”

  “Table,” she replies, still looking around in awe at the sumptuous interior.

  We barely get seated before a different flight attendant approaches us. I immediately think that she is exactly Erik’s type. She’s got the blond hair, but it’s not overly bleached looking, rather a soft gold color that is gathered in a loose ponytail at the back of her neck. Even though Brooke’s sitting next to me, there is no way I can’t notice the fact she’s got an amazing set of breasts that barely seem to be contained in her buttoned-up jacket. The white blouse underneath has been left unbuttoned revealing a deep cleavage. I remember that the flight attendant up front had her blouse scandalously unbuttoned as well, and I wonder by whose order did they do that, or did they get together and decide it for themselves.

  While I’m getting a quick peek at her breasts, I notice her name tag says Blue.

  “Would either of you care for anything to drink before we take off? The plane has been stocked with the players’ favorites.”

  Brooke smiles and says, “I’d love a glass of wine.”

  “I’ll get you a list,” the flight attendant says.

  Brooke laughs. “I’m not picky. Just a Cab. You choose.”

  “All right,” the woman returns with an incline of her head. “I know just the perfect bottle to open for you.”

  “Thank you, Blue,” Brooke answers, and for some reason it startles me that she called the flight attendant by her name.

  It’s not odd by any means, but there are plenty of people who wouldn’t notice. Not everyone would look for a person’s name tag and use their name, giving validation to that person in a friendly manner.

  Blue turns to look at me. “And you, sir?”

  “Woodford Reserve, on the rocks with a splash of club soda,” I tell her, wanting to test her statement that the plane was stocked with our favorites.

  I’m stunned when she gives me a bright smile and nods her head. “Right away.”

  When the flight attendant leaves, Brooke turns in her chair, crossing one leg over the other. She chose a simple navy blue sleeveless dress with a thin ivory cardigan. Her tan pumps have a thick strap around her ankles that gives a slight air of sexiness to the outfit, but it’s still professional all the same. I’m a dude, but I recognized the Louis Vuitton logo of her dark brown purse she’d handed over to Blue a moment ago. Brooke had told me earlier while we were just chilling on her back patio after breakfast that her job at the magazine in New York paid only enough to barely keep her head above water, but that she got many of the clothes and accessories left over from editorial shoots.

  That definitely explained how she was so fashionably dressed all the time in clothes that I may not be able to tell you what the label says, but I know high end when I see it.

  “This plane is off the hook.” Her expression is still awestruck and she sort of whispers to me like we shouldn’t be marveling over it, but trying to act blasé about the immense luxury we’ll be traveling in.

  “Most teams don’t travel like this.” I lean over my armrest toward her. “I have to say, Mr. Carlson isn’t afraid to spend money.”

  “He’s got billions,” Brooke reminds me.

  “But only like fifteen or so,” I counter. “He’s not even in the top-fifty billionaires on the Forbes list.”

  Brooke snickers and starts to say something, but Erik is dropping down into one of the swivel chairs opposite of us. Dax plops down beside him.

  Erik leans forward, looking between Brooke and me with the same awed expression on his face that she’d had. “Can you believe this fucking plane? The seats up front recline into a bed.”

  “We’ll be able to rest up on the late flights,” Dax says.

  “Too bad they’re not those semiprivate cubbies they have on overseas flights,” Erik muses as he sinks back into his chair. “I wouldn’t mind getting that brunette—”

  “Erik,” I warn in a growl, tilting my head toward Brooke. “Ease up on the locker room talk until we get to the locker room.”

  “Shit, sorry,” he says in apology at Brooke.

  She waves a hand at him. “I’ve heard worse.”

  Just then, the flight attendant named Blue returns with our drinks. She reaches across to give me mine first, setting it down on a thick round coaster with the Vengeance logo on it. She then puts Brooke’s wine in front of her and proceeds to tell her what she chose. Brooke picks up the glass to taste, and my gaze cuts across the table to Dax and Erik.

  Dax is waiting patiently, probably rightly assuming she’d take their drink orders next. But Erik has the most unusual expression on his face. As if he’s been slapped up the side of the head and left witless. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if he started drooling at any moment the way he’s staring at Blue.

  “Would you like anything to drink, sir?” She turns first to Dax.

  “What kind of beer do you have?” he says.

  “Whatever your favorite is,” she replies coolly, I think very much enjoying the fact she can practically play the part of a magic genie and can grant any drink request.

  “How about a Heineken?” Dax says, and Blue nods with a smile. She turns her eyes to Erik.

  Who just stares back at her dumbly.

  “And you, sir?”

  Utter silence as he just stares at her.

  Awkwardly.

  “Dude,” Dax says with a nudge of his elbow into Erik’s ribs hard enough to shake him out of that zombie gaze he has going on.

  “Uh, yeah…sorry,” he says in an uncharacteristically unsure voice. Erik is usually the epitome of confidence with a dash of ego.

  Completely amused and trying hard not to laugh at the man, I let my eyes travel between Erik and Blue. She gives him a courteous, patient smile.

  Erik just looks dazed.

  To help him along, Blue offers, “We have a very wide variety of all kinds of alcoholic and nonalcoholic beverages. We’ll be serving snacks once we’re up in the air—I believe we have a charcuterie board and an antipasto tray to start out—so perhaps something tailored along those lines?”

  “I’ll just have a Heineken,” he mutters, his eyes still wide and unblinking as he looks back at her.

  Now it’s just kind of creepy.

  Thankfully, Blue excuses herself to go get their beers. I look at Brooke, who is also finding this amusing.

  Leaning forward, I extend my arm and snap my fingers a few times in front of Erik’s face. He actually blinks rapidly, as if coming out of his daze, and shoots me a lopsided, dopey smile.

  “That woman,” is all he says as he settles back into his seat once again.

  “You kind of went stupid on her,” Dax tells him.

  “Did not,” Erik returns, pulling his chin inward as if affronted.

  “You kind of did,” I tell him, and his eyes snap to mine for a moment, then to Brooke.

  She nods at him in agreement and adds kindly to help justify his behavior, “She’s very beautiful.”

  The flush of red that creeps up Erik’s face is ridiculously funny, but I bite my tongue not to give it up. I’m betting Erik’s not come across many women in his life who have knocked him on his ass like that. Poor guy b
etter get it under control or he’s going to be a bumbling idiot on all of these flights.

  The plane continues to fill up. Blue brings Dax and Erik their beers, and Erik seems to have recovered a bit, as he actually thanks her. She leaves a pack of cards behind as well, stating, “In case you want to play a few hands before we serve the food.”

  I don’t see Brooke’s dad and have to assume he took a seat up at the front of the plane. The back where we’re sitting fills up fast, though, mostly with a lot of the younger players who are probably too tired to catch a little shut-eye in the front.

  “Texas hold ’em?” Dax asks as he reaches for the deck of cards.

  “I’m in,” Erik says before taking a pull on his beer.

  Dax starts to shuffle and looks to me. “I’m in.”

  “Brooke?” Dax asks.

  She shakes her head with a laugh. “No way. I’m not good at card games and not about to lose my money. I think I’ll go up to the front of the plane.”

  Brooke starts to stand, but before I can even guess why I do it, my hand shoots out and locks around her wrist. She looks at me curiously.

  “Stay.” My tone doesn’t convey that as an order, but merely as a request.

  I bet if I looked over at Erik, he’d think nothing of a man wanting his woman to stay by his side.

  But I know if I were to look over at Dax, I’d see intense interest on his face as well as a bit of amusement. Yes, we’re putting on a show, but it’s clear I want her here because I simply want her here.

  When Brooke gives me an accommodating smile and sinks back down into her chair, I loosen my hold on her. I give her a return smile, and whether it’s for show or not, and fuck Dax and his knowing gaze, I lean in and give her a soft kiss.

  When I pull back, I turn in my seat and order Dax, “Deal and prepare to lose your money.”

  Chapter 12

  Bishop

  What’s your room number? I text Brooke after I get my bag unpacked. I’m tired, but not so tired that I don’t want to fuck her. I’ve thought about barely anything else on the ride from the airport to the hotel.