Rushed(7)

I grew up in California, and while San Diego and Los Angeles are no San Fran, I've run into this scene before. "Well, we wouldn't want that. You serve well, you should be proud."

She blushes a little, her smile growing a fraction past professional and into personal. "Thank you Sir. Now, please keep your seatbelt fastened."

The plane starts to descend, and I hate as my stomach rises into my chest with the speed. I hate this part of air travel. Goes with being a football player I guess, but I've never liked takeoffs or landings. I always feel like my guts are about two seconds behind the rest of my body in any big change of direction.

Thankfully, the flight gets down quickly and we taxi to the gate. My seat was business class, which sucks, but I guess it's better than the poor schmucks in economy. I get off the plane and go to the immigration line, where the customs officer looks over my passport. "Work visa, huh?"

"Yep."

He eyes me for a second. “Wrestler?"

I laugh and shake my head. "Sorry, that I leave to you guys. Football. For the Fighters."

The customs officer nods, and stamps my passport. "Good luck. Hope you enjoy Toronto."

"Thanks. Uh, which way to the baggage terminal?”

I'm surprised when the guy actually turns around and points instead of mumbling or just dismissing me. Maybe there is something to this reputation of Canadians being nicer than Americans. "Turn right at the end of the hall, that'll get you there. The signs are overhead."

"Thanks," I reply, tucking my passport back into my bag and heading off. Looking around, I'm feeling good. I'm a bit rushed on my schedule, I've only got two days to settle in before practice starts on Monday, but I’m excited. Friday afternoon, Saturday, and Sunday. Not a bad time to get the hang of a party town.

I turn right like the customs official told me and head downstairs to the baggage carousels. I look for my flight number on the screen, noting that they've already got bags moving according to the display, and head down to carousel fourteen. I packed light, figuring I'd pick up most of what I needed in Toronto. A little bit of clothes for going out, some personal items, and I'm good to go.

I find my two bags quickly and look around, wondering what to do next when I see a girl holding a white sign that says "T. Paulson" on it, looking my way. She's wearing a pair of slacks and a polo shirt from the Fighters, and while she's cute, the outfit does nothing for her. Her face and hair are cute, with high cheekbones and shiny black hair that makes me think she could at least be partially Indian . . . or First Nations. Someone, somewhere used to prefer that term.

"Tyler Paulson?" she asks, and I smile. She's shy, which is a shame, because she's prettier than she lets on. She just wears her shyness like a cloak, hiding behind it. "I'm April Gray . . ."

She says her name like I'm supposed to know who that is, but when I give her a blank look, she continues. "Anyway, I'm with the Fighters. I'm your personal assistant."

"Thanks, I remember Mr. Larroquette said he was going to assign someone to help me out. Tyler Paulson, but I guess you already knew that."

“Of course,” April says quietly, and I wonder how long she's been doing this — she doesn’t seem too confident in her job. Football players tend to be outgoing, and a shy pretty girl like her could get run over easily, especially by a quarterback. Thankfully, I'm not as much of an * as I let on. "I'll be working with you throughout the season, to help you off the field. Most of it will be during the first couple of weeks, but I’ll be here the whole season if you need me.”

"That sounds great, I can use the help. Let's get going, shall we?"

April nods and reaches for my wheeled bag, but I take the handle before she can. "It's okay, I think I can haul my own bags. I need an assistant, not a maid."

She nods again, her eyes barely coming off the floor, and we go out to the parking lot, where she hands me the keys. I barely notice, grinning at what I see. "A 'stang? How'd you know? You guys even picked out the right color. Or was that luck?"

"No, not luck," April says as I open the trunk and put my bags inside. "I asked for electric blue."

I slam the trunk closed and give April a smile. "Who told you my favorite color?"

She shrugs and goes around to the passenger seat. "I figured you'd like to drive. I can give you directions to the hotel. It's not too hard."

"Okay," I say, getting behind the wheel. They rented me an eco-engine? This thing must go zero to sixty in about five minutes. "Wow, worried I'd wrap this around a pole or something? I think my grandmother's car has a stronger engine."

"The team wants us to be as careful as possible," April says, "so the team tries to balance it with what players want. I . . . I tried."

I look over, and see that she’s actually nervous. I start up the Mustang and rev the engine once, humming. "Well, the interior's nice — I can dig it. Thank you,” I say, trying to ease her worry.

I pull out, and look over to see April giving me a strange look. "What?"

"Nothing," she says after a moment, even though I can tell there is. It's like she keeps expecting me to say something. "If you turn right, you can get over to the Gardiner Expressway that takes you downtown. I chose a hotel close to the stadium to help you out, but you’re free to change if you want.”