The Romantic Pact (Kings of Football)(6)

She chuckles and I can hear her tone grow lighter. “Not my Crewy Bear, freshest breath in the country.”

“And I shit gold, too. Right, Mom?”

“Twenty-four karats.”

I laugh this time and then sigh into the phone. “Okay, well, I should get going. I love you, Mom.”

“I love you, baby boy. Enjoy yourself, you hear me?”

“I will.”

“Good. Call me when you land.”

“Okay. And, hey, Mom?”

“Yeah?”

I swallow hard and stare at the black sign, Munich digitally written in red. An adventure standing right in front of me, the unknown just over the threshold into an airplane. “Thank you, you and Dad, for pushing me to do this.”

There’s silence on the other end of the phone. The seconds stretch, and I’m about to ask if she’s there when I hear Dad clear his throat. “Your mom is an emotional basket case.”

“Porter,” I hear my mom chastise, making me laugh.

“But you’re welcome, kid. Have fun and remember to text us, okay?”

“Okay. Love you, Dad.”

“Love you, my son.”

I hang up and take a deep breath, staring at the picture on my lock screen. It’s a picture of me and Pops from a visit during Christmas when I was fifteen. I’m the definition of gangly with braces, Justin Bieber-flipped hair across the forehead, and a flannel button-up over a graphic T-shirt. I was all kinds of cocky, but in this picture, I’m showing nothing but innocence as I hold up a fish I caught ice fishing with Pops at the lake near the farm. Pride beams in his eyes as his hand grips my shoulder and he smiles at the camera, wearing a shirt I made him for Christmas one year.

What the Herbert Hoover are you doing?

I chuckle, distinctly hearing his voice yell out the phrase. He was known to swear by using presidents’ names, and when I gave him the shirt, he rolled over in laughter and put it on right away. It was his favorite shirt of all time. In this picture, it still looks new, but as time wore on, so did the collar and the hems, but he continued to wear it proudly.

Smiling, I quietly say, “Ready for this, Pops?”

It might sound stupid, and I might be imagining it, but in that moment, as I walk toward the gate with my boarding pass in hand, I can feel the firm grip of his large hand on my shoulder, guiding me.





I stick my phone in the console next to my head and adjust the headrest of my seat. Since I’m six-foot-four, I need it a little higher than the average person.

And thank God for the legroom, because I don’t know what I’d do for seven and a half hours in the air if I was cramped back in the economy seats.

Soft instrumental music plays overhead, blue lights line the tops of the baggage storage bins, and I hear the shuffle of travelers working their way down the aisle, eyes drifting from their boarding passes to the numbers above, checking for their seats.

The occasional whisper of how nice it would be to fly in first class drifts through the quiet cabin. Children ask their parents if they can have a snack. A father hisses at his kid not to touch people, and flight attendants welcome boarding passengers in German.

Guten Tag.

Hallo.

Servus.

“Oh, ma’am, you dropped this,” a familiar voice says. I glance over to see a woman with warm red hair cascading over her face handing the woman in front of her a pair of headphones.

“Thank you,” the stranger says. “I would be bored without these.”

“I totally get it. So would I.” The woman pushes a wave of red hair behind her ear as she looks up at the seat numbers overhead.

“Hazel?” I ask, my heart tripping at the sight of an old friend.

Her warm, caramel-colored eyes snap to mine, her face registering shock. “Crew?” A small smile pulls at her lips. She checks her seat number and then her ticket again and smiles even larger. “Would you look at that? Seems as though we’re seatmates.”

“Holy shit,” I say as she takes a seat and beams at me.

“How are you, Hollywood?”

“Better now.” I wrap my arms around her and pull her into a hug.

Hazel Allen.

Born and raised in the neighboring house to Pops’ farm, this outgoing ball of sugar and spice was a staple of my childhood ever since I can remember. Her grandpa, Thomas, was best friends with Pops, and she worked on the farm from a very young age. Whenever I visited, she always made fun of me and my latest West Coast style as she strutted around in overalls, a tank top, and rubber boots. Her hair was always tied up on the top of her head, with a rolled-up bandanna around the crown to hold back any stray hairs.

Down to earth, fun, and a jokester, Hazel was one of my best friends growing up.

Pen pals.

Long-distance friends.

And of course, each other’s first kiss.

When we pull away, Hazel lifts her hand to my face and presses her palm to my cheek. “God, you just keep getting more and more handsome.”

I chuckle.

“And this scruff. Now you’re really looking like your DILF of a dad.”

“Can you not refer to my dad as a DILF? It really creeps me the fuck out.”

“Ahh, but he is a hot piece of dad ass. Sorry.” She shrugs, sets her backpack on the floor, then turns in her seat to face me. “When my Grandpa told me about this trip, I had an inkling you might be my traveling partner, but I wasn’t sure.” She takes my hand in hers. “God, I’m so glad it’s you.”