The Friend Zone (Game On, #2)(4)

As if my thoughts activated it, my phone buzzes against my thigh. I hesitate, weights overhead, my arms quivering. The phone buzzes again. Mac. I let the weights settle into place with a clank and then heave upward, digging in my pocket for the phone. It isn’t a text but an incoming call.

“Yeah?”

“Remind me to work on your social skills, Grayson,” says a gruff voice. “Can’t be answering like that when scouts are actively checking you out.” It’s Sean Mackenzie, Ivy’s dad and the man I’ve decided to sign as my agent as soon as I’m done with my season.

I run a hand through my hair, pushing the sweat-slicked strands off my forehead. “Pretty sure they’ll want me regardless of my phone manners, Big Mac.” I reach for a water and guzzle it down.

“Don’t be too sure of that, kid. Image is everything.”

He’s right, of course. Which is why I know I’m making a good decision in choosing him.

“What’s up?” I ask, wiping my mouth with my forearm. Big mistake—I’m sweaty as f*ck. Grimacing, I reach for a towel. “Or is this part of some random, buff-and-polish-the-client initiative you’re testing out on me?”

Mackenzie chuckles. “Smart ass.” Silence and then, “I have a favor to ask.”

Surprised, I pause in taking another drink of water. “Shoot.”

“It’s about Ivy.”

Instantly, he has my full attention. I sit up, my heart pounding oddly fast. “What about Ivy?”

“I know you two have been corresponding”—the word comes out as a sneer—“and we’ll be discussing that in detail later, Grayson.” He doesn’t hide his irritation.

“Uh…” Yeah, witty reply, but I can’t blame Mackenzie for being pissed. Ordinarily, a father has every right to want his daughter far away from me. “Look, Mackenzie, Ivy and I are friends. She’s like a…” I trail off, the cliché stuck in my throat because what I was about to utter isn’t the truth. But Mackenzie finishes it for me anyway.

“Like a sister to you. Yeah, yeah, I’ve heard the same from Ivy.”

He has? I guess that’s good that she thinks of me as a brother. I dig my fingers into the tense muscles at the back of my neck. “Right, so we’re good? Because I got—”

“I’m stuck in New York. A ball player got arrested for a DUI, damn idiot.” He sighs. “Anyway, Ivy is coming home from London and is due to arrive at the airport in… Hell. She’s probably there already. Her sister has the flu, or I’d send her.”

I jump up, knocking the water bottle down with my knee. “You mean Ivy is sitting at the airport and no one’s there to greet her? After a f*cking year away from home?” Okay, I’m shouting, but f*cking hell, Ivy deserves a better homecoming that that. And what the f*ck? I just texted her last night. She said nothing about leaving London. Why?

Ignoring the weird hurt in my chest, I jog toward the locker room.

“All right, kid,” Mackenzie grumbles, “you don’t have to rub it in. Could you—”

“I’m already on it. What airline and gate? Do you know that much?”

It’s low of me to keep rubbing it in, but f*ck. What was Mackenzie thinking? How could he forget his own daughter? And then I’m not thinking of Mackenzie at all. Ivy is here. Here.

I’m about to meet her, and I’m totally unprepared. My heart is racing like it does before a game, that same adrenaline rushing through my veins. I’m no longer thinking about the future, but of Ivy. Getting to her is all that matters now.





One





Ivy


Most people hate the airport. I get that. You’re in a hurry, hauling around luggage, maybe afraid to fly, definitely annoyed by the heinous TSA lines. And yet, for me, there’s an air of excitement to an airport. At least as a traveler. Because either you’re going somewhere or you’ve arrived. For that alone, I’d love the airport. But my absolute favorite spot? The international arrivals gate.

I love those gates. Love watching the people who wait with an almost nervous anticipation for their loved ones to arrive. Love seeing faces light up, people cry out with joy and laughter or even tears when they spot that special person. Mothers, father, sisters, brothers, friends, lovers… An endless stream of reunions.

In the years after my parents got divorced, I used to go to the airport and simply sit on one of the cracked pleather chairs and soak it all in. Here, at least, I could see the good side of love.

I’m here again, at the arrivals gate. Only this time, I’m the one arriving. And there’s no one here to great me. No sister. No dad.

After being in a plane for nearly eight hours, my eyes are gritty, my knees ache from being crammed into a too-small space, and I probably stink. It’s hard to tell; my fellow travelers kind of stink too, making us one big, moving, bleary-eyed unit of airplane funk. Or we were. Now people are picked off one by one as open arms embrace them. I scan the crowd for a familiar face, trying hard not to be disappointed when I don’t see one.

Too soon it becomes obvious that I’ve been forgotten. The crowd thins, and what remains are the people waiting for the next wave of passengers to be cleared through customs.

Clutching the handles of my massive rolling suitcases, I lumber over to an empty seat and make myself comfortable. My phone is out of juice and is a useless black screen.