The Friend Zone (Game On, #2)(5)
“Fuck,” I mumble, blinking hard before running a hand over my face. I want to wonder why my dad or sister isn’t here, but if I do, I might cry. And I’m not crying here.
I shouldn’t be surprised. Being Sean Mackenzie’s daughter means waiting until clients are appeased, crises are averted, and deals are hammered out in ironclad contracts. Given that my dad is one of the top sports agents in the country, there’s almost never an empty moment left for me. But you’d think the infamous Big Mac, as the sports world dubs him, would remember to pick me up. Or, at the very least, ask my sister, Fiona, to get me.
They’re just late. They were tied up in traffic. You’ve been gone for a year. They wouldn’t miss your homecoming.
In a minute, I’ll get up and search for an outlet to charge the phone and then call Dad. Right now, I don’t want to move. I’ve sat for hours, and I’m suddenly too weak to do anything but slump in a chair. Worse, without the phone, I cannot appear busy, as if I’m intentionally sitting on my own. I can’t scroll through my screen and check Facebook while pretending it’s important business. I can’t text Gray, which is ironic since I’ve purposely not texted to tell him I’m here, wanting to surprise him instead. I can only sit in perfect silence as the world moves past me.
Travelers walk in several distinct paces: brisk, trudging, and harried—the last usually reserved for families. Viewed as a whole, these paces set a rhythm that’s almost hypnotic. Maybe that’s why I notice the lone person bobbing along at top speed from far down the massive corridor. A guy. And he’s running.
Idly, I watch him. He’s easily a head taller than anyone in the airport, which is something in and of itself. Even from this distance, his face hovers above the moving sea of people. Though I can’t distinguish his features, it’s clear that he’s anxious. And he’s fast, weaving around slower-moving passengers with an ease that’s impressive for someone so tall.
He’s closer now, close enough that I can see his broad shoulders and wide chest. Close enough to see the gold glints in his dark blond hair as he runs past a thick block of sunlight shafting in through the plate-glass windows.
All at once, my breath grows fast and my heart rate kicks up. A smile pulls at my face as I rise to my feet. I want to hope, want to believe. But he isn’t looking at me. His gaze, hard and determined, is on the arrivals gate.
God, but the way he moves—fast water over smooth stones. People stop and stare as he goes by. How could they not? Massive, muscled yet perfectly proportioned and at ease within his skin, he’s clearly an athlete. And he’s gorgeous. Strong jaw, chiseled features, golden skin, and sun-kissed hair.
He blows right past me, only to stop on a dime at the edge of the cordoned-off area of the arrivals gate. For a minute, he scans left and right, his gaze never going far enough to meet mine. Then he bends over, bracing his hands on his knees, and curses under his breath. He isn’t winded, but upset. It’s clear. And when he curses again, he pushes himself straight and starts to pace, as if standing still is too much for him.
Muttering and scowling, he stalks a wide circle, bringing his hands behind his neck in aggravation. The move does crazy things to his biceps, bunching them up, making them even bigger. I doubt I could get my hands around them. Though I imagine trying.
And all the while, I grin like a fool. I can’t help myself. I’m grinning still when his gaze finally collides with mine.
Distracted as he is, his eyes almost scan past me, but he sort of stutters and then freezes. For a moment we stare at each other. His soft mouth parts and his arms slowly lower. Recognition clears the haziness from his blue eyes, and a flush of color rises up his neck.
A current crackles between us, lifting the tiny hairs along my arms. My breath catches then turns swift. It’s joy, unfiltered and pure. And so heady I almost don’t know how to handle it.
As if he feels some strong emotion too, his cheek twitches. He takes one step toward me, pauses, tilting his head to peer at me as though trying to make sure. And I smile wider. Seeing me smile has his lips curling, a slow, tentative move.
“Mac?” Although he’s at least twenty feet away, I read my name on his lips with ease. And then I’m laughing, a total goofball snort.
“Gray.”
Even from a distance, he hears me. And then he’s moving, so quick he’s almost a blur. On the next breath, I’m enveloped by a wall of hot skin and hard muscles. He gathers me in his arms and swings me around like it’s effortless. For the first time in a year, I feel delicate and small. He smells of sunlight and sweat and, strangely, of home. I press my nose into the warm crook of his neck as he laughs and squeezes me tight.
We’ve never touched before now, never even seen each other in person. Yet there is nothing awkward about wrapping myself around him. It feels perfect, makes my heart melt and my entire body strain toward his.
Gray’s hand engulfs the back of my head as he holds me close. “Holy shit,” he says in a voice that’s resonant and yet light with happiness. We’ve been texting back and forth so much I’d had to pay extra on my phone plan, and I’ve never heard his voice until now. “It’s you, Mac. It’s really you.”
And it’s really Gray. The person I’ve communicated with almost non-stop since that first text. So quickly, he became a friend, a necessary part of my day. My strange addiction. The thought leaves me shy. Yet I don’t want to let go.