The plane collectively heaved, but they quieted while I stalked the cat.
Which was just the opening the toddler needed to challenge the jet engines for loudest noise on the plane.
“I want a cookie!”
The toddler collapsed to the aisle and punched the feet of the nearby passengers.
This scared the cat who had become disturbingly interested in the terrible smell emanating from the sleeping man’s foot. She gave the foot a sniff and nearly took a chunk out of his toe before the tantrum got the better of her. She bolted, and the passengers collectively groaned.
Adrian’s smooth baritone called to me from his seat, crammed in coach.
“Need any help?” he asked.
It might’ve been a little worse than my average, run-of-the-mill flight chaos, but I hoped things hadn’t gotten so bad that I needed to do a line change and call in the captain.
It been a miserable day for us all, but Adrian took his discomfort in stride. He scrunched down in the middle seat, nearly crushed by the reclined woman ahead of him and the rambunctious teenager behind, kicking the back of his chair.
Gentleman that he was, Adrian contorted his arms into his lap, twisted his legs into what little space he had before him, and did his best to ensure his monstrous frame didn’t crowd the two nuns seated next to him.
I’d learned the one in the window seat was Sister Margaretta, and it was her first time flying. However, we had been blessed by Sister Mildred and her quick reflexes. She’d provided the initiate with an airsickness bag when we’d encountered turbulence.
While my relationship with Adrian had become far more complicated than before, the presence of the elderly nuns had shamed me for planning this trip two weeks ago.
We’d counted the days and realize the earliest I could take a pregnancy test was smack dab in the middle of my schedule and the weekend before the opening of the official Ironfield Forge Training Camp. Adrian hadn’t even asked. He’d booked the flight after double-checking my schedule. His plan included traveling with me to my layover in San Francisco. There, we could book a hotel room, order a pizza, and eagerly await the opportunity for me to pee on a stick before my flight the next morning.
It wasn’t romantic.
It wasn’t even sanitary.
But, two weeks ago, it had sounded like the greatest idea in the world.
Now?
I couldn’t handle anymore disasters.
And it wasn’t just the flight or the turbulence or the fact that we had run out of coffee and the senior citizens in rows A through D were becoming ornery enough to warrant an extra glance from the air marshal.
I dreaded sharing the weekend with Adrian because I already knew the results of the test.
Negative.
And for the first time, it almost relieved me. I wanted the baby more than anything, but I could no longer deny that fluttery bluster of confusion that assaulted me when I was so close to Adrian.
Was it possible to slow down relationship that wasn’t actually a relationship?
Was it even fair to have sex with a man when I wasn’t sure if the night spent in his arms meant something more to me than to him?
And how was I supposed to reveal those doubts and uncertainties to him when he was surrounded by two very old, very excitable Catholic nuns, all too eager to regale him with the happenings around the convent between bouts of airsickness and prayers for the darling child screaming in the aisle?
I hadn’t been to confession in years, but I offered them an extra bag of pretzels. That must’ve counted for some sort of atonement, right?
“Just another day at work,” I said.
I nervously laughed and reached to adjust the pin on my blazer. The wings weren’t there, and I prayed the toddler hadn’t found a sharp weapon to aid in his cookie protest.
Adrian didn’t conceal his headache very well. “I’ve never had it this bad at my job, and that includes the game when I got the injury.”
The dad attempting to corral his toddler pointed at Adrian. “I thought I recognized you. Adrian Alaric. From the Marauders. You’re the one who took the puck to—”
I interrupted him before he committed a sin in front of the nuns.
“A very consecrated site,” I said.
The dad rubbed the weariness from his eyes and scratched a scraggly beard. The leash in his hand pulled taut, and his child’s sprint abruptly ended with a face plant.
“I saw that replay.” He whistled. “I’m surprised you can still walk.”
Adrian was used to autographs, not testicular exams. Still, he smiled before the man asked him to turn his head and cough.
“I’m all better,” he said.
“Wouldn’t want to be in your shoes, or skates, I guess. But then again, on days like these with my little guy, a puck doesn’t seem like a bad form of contraceptive.” The dad winced as he realized the nuns had tutted in disapproval. “All part of God’s plan. I’m sure he’s a hockey fan.”
Sister Mildred bristled, insulted. “Of course not.”
Sister Margaretta offered a joyous laugh. “We think he likes football.”
I attempted to be diplomatic. “Most people from Ironfield do too, but we think they will eventually warm up to the Ironfield Forge.”
The father frowned. “The what?”
“The city’s new hockey team.”
The nuns and the man exchanged confused glances and spoke at the same time.
“Ironfield has a hockey team?”
Adrian sighed. The child cried. The calico cat suddenly leapt through the galley, terrifying the flight attendant attempting to make a pot of coffee out of the scattered grounds which had spilled over our counter.
Unfortunately, the commotion awakened the sleeping man with the foot condition in the rear of the plane. He stretched. Yawned. And hoisted his feet further into the aisle. The stench crippled the other passengers. The recirculated air did nothing to alleviate the smell which permeated from his toenails.
Sister Margaretta reached for the airsickness bag again. The toddler tantrumed harder. The flight attendant in the galley abandoned the coffee and escaped to the lavatory, hiding from the parade of senior citizens charging the galley with their canes.
And that was enough for Adrian. He apologized to the nuns as he stood. At least he remembered to duck before he struck his head on the call button. He hunched and offered the nuns the show of a lifetime as he shuffled from the middle seat.
Sister Margaretta ripped off her habit and reached for his tush.
Sister Mildred smacked her with the rosary.
“Temperance, Sister.” She warded away her own impropriety by crossing herself. “And give thanks for the…great works of His creation.”
Adrian worked his magic on the child first, removing his bag from the overhead compartment and fishing in the front pocket until he found a spare puck. He knelt before the kid and flashed a smile that might have snuffed even Satan’s flames.
“Here you go,” he said. “It’s not a cookie, but it’s shaped like one.”
The child quieted. A sigh of peace resonated over the plane, and the blonde haired, blue-eyed cherub seemed satisfied.
But then an evil cackle bubbled from deep within. His eyes darted to the nuns. His eyebrows furrowed.
And with a hardy throw, the toddler morphed from angel to demon, pitching the puck at the sisters.