The Friend Zone (Game On 2)

“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 fucking year away from home?” Okay, I’m shouting, but fucking hell, Ivy deserves a better homecoming that that. And what the fuck? 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 fuck. 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.

“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.