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Chapter One

The body lay in perfect repose on the Victorian fainting couch, looking more like a sleeping beauty than a victim. Detective Sarah Chen had seen enough death in her ten years with the Metropolitan Police's Special Cases Unit to know that natural death never looked this peaceful. Something was very, very wrong.

        'No signs of struggle, no marks on the body, and yet...' She leaned closer, studying the victim's face. Charlotte Mills, aged 28, was found by her roommate this morning, apparently having passed away in her sleep. Her expression was serene, almost blissful, but her eyes - those were what caught Sarah's attention. Behind the closed lids, her eyes were moving rapidly, as if still deep in REM sleep.

        "You see it too, don't you?" The voice came from behind her, rich and cultured with a slight Irish lilt. "She's still dreaming."

        Sarah turned to find a tall man in an impeccably tailored charcoal suit standing in the doorway. He hadn't been there a moment ago, she was certain of it. His dark hair was streaked with silver at the temples, and his eyes were an unusual shade of amber that seemed to shift color in the light.

        "This is a closed crime scene," she said firmly, her hand instinctively moving toward her weapon. "How did you get in here?"

        He smiled, but it didn't reach those strange eyes. "Dr. Marcus Thorne," he said, pulling out a card that somehow both looked official and seemed to shimmer slightly. "I'm a consulting specialist with the Department's new Oneiric Phenomena Division."

        "The what division?" Sarah frowned, taking the card. The moment her fingers touched it, she felt a slight electric tingle, and the letters seemed to rearrange themselves before her eyes.

        "Dreams, Detective Chen. We investigate crimes involving dreams." He moved into the room with fluid grace, his attention fixed on the victim. "And this is the third one this month."

        Sarah's mind raced. There had been two other deaths recently - both young women, both found peacefully dead in their sleep. She'd seen the reports but hadn't made the connection until now. "How do you know about those cases?"

        "Because I've been tracking the killer for quite some time." Thorne knelt beside the body, his eyes now definitely more gold than amber. "He's what we call a Dream Collector - someone who has learned to enter and steal dreams. But this one has developed a taste for more than just dreams. He's taking souls."

        Under normal circumstances, Sarah would have dismissed such talk as nonsense. But there was something about the scene, about the victim's still-moving eyes, about Thorne himself, that made the impossible seem suddenly plausible.

        "If you're tracking him," she said carefully, "why haven't you caught him?"

        Thorne's expression darkened. "Because he only appears in dreams. The physical world is my domain, but his... his is the realm of sleep. To catch him, we need someone who can walk between both worlds." He turned those unsettling eyes on her. "Someone like you."

        "Me?" Sarah almost laughed, but the sound died in her throat as memories she'd long suppressed began to surface. The dreams that felt too real, the nights she'd awakened to find objects moved in her room, the way she sometimes knew things she couldn't possibly know...

        "You've always known you were different, haven't you, Detective?" Thorne's voice was gentle now. "The dreams that come true, the hunches that turn out to be right, the way you can sometimes see how people died just by touching objects they owned..."

        Sarah took an involuntary step back. "How do you know about that?"

        "Because I've been looking for someone like you. A Natural - someone born with the ability to cross the threshold between waking and dreaming." He gestured to the victim. "Charlotte here won't be his last. There will be others, and their souls will remain trapped in an eternal dream unless we stop him."

        Just then, the victim's hand twitched, her fingers moving as if writing something. Sarah moved closer, watching as invisible words were traced in the air. Thorne pulled out what looked like an antique monocle and held it up. Through its lens, golden letters shimmered in the air where Charlotte's fingers moved.

        "Help me," Thorne read aloud. "He's coming for the others."

        Sarah felt a chill run down her spine. She looked at the victim's peaceful face, at those restlessly moving eyes, and made a decision that would change her life forever.

        "Tell me what I need to do."

        Thorne's smile was grim. "First, you need to learn to control your abilities. Then..." he held up the monocle, through which Sarah could now see strange symbols glowing all around the room, "you need to learn to hunt in dreams."

        Outside the Victorian townhouse, storm clouds gathered, and Sarah Chen, homicide detective and newly discovered dream walker, took her first step into a world where nightmares were real, and death was just another kind of sleep.

Chapter Two

The basement of the Natural History Museum was the last place Sarah expected to find the headquarters of a secret dream investigation unit. Yet here she was, following Thorne through a maze of storage rooms filled with artifacts that seemed to pulse with their own inner light.

        "The mundane world only sees what it expects to see," Thorne explained, using an ornate key to unlock a heavy wooden door marked 'Private Collection.' "To them, this is just museum storage. To us, it's the largest collection of dream artifacts in the Western Hemisphere."

        The room beyond defied physics. It stretched impossibly far, filled with glass cases containing everything from ancient masks to modern-looking devices. Floating orbs of soft light illuminated collections of bottled dreams - actual dreams, swirling like liquid mercury behind glass.

        "Your badge, Detective," Thorne held out his hand. Sarah hesitated before handing over her police credentials. He placed it on a strange device that looked like a Victorian music box crossed with a computer. When he returned the badge, it felt different - heavier, somehow more real.

        "Now you'll be able to access both worlds officially," he said. "Look at it again."

        The badge had changed. Alongside her regular police credentials, new text had appeared: 'Special Inspector, Oneiric Investigations Division.' The letters seemed to shift between English and something older, something that made her eyes water if she looked too long.

        "Before we can hunt the Dream Collector, you need to understand what you're dealing with." Thorne led her to a case containing what looked like a normal pillow. "Touch it."

        Sarah reached out hesitantly. The moment her fingers made contact, the world tilted. She was suddenly standing in someone else's dream - a sunny beach, but the sky was green and the sand whispered secrets. She jerked her hand back, gasping.

        "Good," Thorne nodded approvingly. "Most people can't pull back from their first dream artifact. You have natural barriers."

        "What was that?" Sarah's heart was racing.

        "A dream fragment from 1892. A young girl's last dream before the influenza took her." His voice softened. "We preserve them here. Dreams carry memories, emotions, sometimes even pieces of souls."

        "And this Dream Collector... he takes entire souls?" Sarah remembered Charlotte Mills' peaceful face and restless eyes.

        "He traps them in eternal dreams, feeding off their essence." Thorne moved to another case, this one containing what looked like a cracked mirror. "Each victim becomes part of his collection, their souls powering his abilities, letting him dreamwalk without natural talent like yours."

        Suddenly, the cracked mirror began to frost over. In its surface, Sarah saw Charlotte Mills' face, mouth open in a silent scream. Then another face appeared - another victim, she presumed - and another.

        "He's showing off," Thorne growled. "He knows we're investigating."

        The temperature in the room dropped dramatically. Frost patterns spread from the mirror to nearby cases, and Sarah heard what sounded like distant laughter.

        "Well, well," a voice echoed through the room, seemingly coming from everywhere and nowhere. "A new player in the game. And such interesting dreams you have, Detective Chen."

        Sarah felt something brush against her mind, like cold fingers trying to pry open a door. Instinctively, she slammed her mental barriers shut. The presence withdrew, but not before leaving behind an impression of amusement.

        "He's already caught your scent," Thorne said grimly. He pulled out a small velvet bag and removed what looked like a dreamcatcher made of silver wire and black pearls. "Wear this when you sleep. It won't keep him out entirely, but it'll stop him from stealing your dreams while you're still learning to defend yourself."

        As Sarah took the dreamcatcher, her fingers brushed Thorne's, and suddenly she was hit with a flash of his dreams - centuries of memories, battles fought in realms of sleep, and a profound sense of loss that made her gasp.

        Thorne withdrew his hand quickly. "Your abilities are stronger than I thought. We'll need to work on your control."

        "What are you?" Sarah asked directly. "You're not just some government consultant, are you?"

        Before he could answer, an alarm began to sound throughout the facility. One of the dream bottles had turned black, its contents writhing like smoke.

        "He's hunting again," Thorne said, already moving toward the exit. "Someone in the city has just entered their last dream. Are you ready for your first real case, Detective?"

        Sarah touched her new badge, feeling its power hum under her fingers. "Do we have time to save them?"

        "If we're lucky, we might catch him in the act. But remember - in dreams, he's incredibly powerful. One wrong move and you could lose your soul."

        As they rushed from the dream archive, Sarah caught one last glimpse of the cracked mirror. In its surface, she saw her own reflection smile back at her with eyes that weren't quite her own.

        The hunt was about to begin.

Chapter Two

The basement of the Natural History Museum was the last place Sarah expected to find the headquarters of a secret dream investigation unit. Yet here she was, following Thorne through a maze of storage rooms filled with artifacts that seemed to pulse with their own inner light.

        "The mundane world only sees what it expects to see," Thorne explained, using an ornate key to unlock a heavy wooden door marked 'Private Collection.' "To them, this is just museum storage. To us, it's the largest collection of dream artifacts in the Western Hemisphere."

        The room beyond defied physics. It stretched impossibly far, filled with glass cases containing everything from ancient masks to modern-looking devices. Floating orbs of soft light illuminated collections of bottled dreams - actual dreams, swirling like liquid mercury behind glass.

        "Your badge, Detective," Thorne held out his hand. Sarah hesitated before handing over her police credentials. He placed it on a strange device that looked like a Victorian music box crossed with a computer. When he returned the badge, it felt different - heavier, somehow more real.

        "Now you'll be able to access both worlds officially," he said. "Look at it again."

        The badge had changed. Alongside her regular police credentials, new text had appeared: 'Special Inspector, Oneiric Investigations Division.' The letters seemed to shift between English and something older, something that made her eyes water if she looked too long.

        "Before we can hunt the Dream Collector, you need to understand what you're dealing with." Thorne led her to a case containing what looked like a normal pillow. "Touch it."

        Sarah reached out hesitantly. The moment her fingers made contact, the world tilted. She was suddenly standing in someone else's dream - a sunny beach, but the sky was green and the sand whispered secrets. She jerked her hand back, gasping.

        "Good," Thorne nodded approvingly. "Most people can't pull back from their first dream artifact. You have natural barriers."

        "What was that?" Sarah's heart was racing.

        "A dream fragment from 1892. A young girl's last dream before the influenza took her." His voice softened. "We preserve them here. Dreams carry memories, emotions, sometimes even pieces of souls."

        "And this Dream Collector... he takes entire souls?" Sarah remembered Charlotte Mills' peaceful face and restless eyes.

        "He traps them in eternal dreams, feeding off their essence." Thorne moved to another case, this one containing what looked like a cracked mirror. "Each victim becomes part of his collection, their souls powering his abilities, letting him dreamwalk without natural talent like yours."

        Suddenly, the cracked mirror began to frost over. In its surface, Sarah saw Charlotte Mills' face, mouth open in a silent scream. Then another face appeared - another victim, she presumed - and another.

        "He's showing off," Thorne growled. "He knows we're investigating."

        The temperature in the room dropped dramatically. Frost patterns spread from the mirror to nearby cases, and Sarah heard what sounded like distant laughter.

        "Well, well," a voice echoed through the room, seemingly coming from everywhere and nowhere. "A new player in the game. And such interesting dreams you have, Detective Chen."

        Sarah felt something brush against her mind, like cold fingers trying to pry open a door. Instinctively, she slammed her mental barriers shut. The presence withdrew, but not before leaving behind an impression of amusement.

        "He's already caught your scent," Thorne said grimly. He pulled out a small velvet bag and removed what looked like a dreamcatcher made of silver wire and black pearls. "Wear this when you sleep. It won't keep him out entirely, but it'll stop him from stealing your dreams while you're still learning to defend yourself."

        As Sarah took the dreamcatcher, her fingers brushed Thorne's, and suddenly she was hit with a flash of his dreams - centuries of memories, battles fought in realms of sleep, and a profound sense of loss that made her gasp.

        Thorne withdrew his hand quickly. "Your abilities are stronger than I thought. We'll need to work on your control."

        "What are you?" Sarah asked directly. "You're not just some government consultant, are you?"

        Before he could answer, an alarm began to sound throughout the facility. One of the dream bottles had turned black, its contents writhing like smoke.

        "He's hunting again," Thorne said, already moving toward the exit. "Someone in the city has just entered their last dream. Are you ready for your first real case, Detective?"

        Sarah touched her new badge, feeling its power hum under her fingers. "Do we have time to save them?"

        "If we're lucky, we might catch him in the act. But remember - in dreams, he's incredibly powerful. One wrong move and you could lose your soul."

        As they rushed from the dream archive, Sarah caught one last glimpse of the cracked mirror. In its surface, she saw her own reflection smile back at her with eyes that weren't quite her own.

        The hunt was about to begin.

Chapter Three

They arrived at St. Bartholomew's Hospital just as the emergency lights began to flash. Sarah followed Thorne through corridors that seemed to blur at the edges of her vision, her new badge somehow clearing their path without ever being shown.

        "Room 307," Thorne said, his voice tight with urgency. "Young male, admitted for minor surgery, slipped into an unusual coma during recovery."

        The patient, David Parker, age 23, lay perfectly still on his hospital bed, his eyes moving rapidly beneath closed lids. Just like Charlotte Mills. But this time, something was different - the air around him rippled like heat waves over hot asphalt.

        "He's still in the process of taking him," Thorne said, pulling out what looked like an antique pocket watch. "We can follow if we're quick. Are you ready for your first dream dive?"

        Sarah's heart pounded. "What do I need to do?"

        "Take my hand. Focus on the patient. Let your consciousness slip between the moments of reality." Thorne's eyes began to glow that strange amber color. "And whatever you see in there, remember - dream logic is real logic in that world."

        Sarah grasped Thorne's hand and looked at David Parker. The world tilted, twisted, and suddenly...

        They were standing in a hospital corridor that wasn't quite right. The walls breathed slowly, the floor was made of flowing water that somehow supported their weight, and the ceiling was a swirling mass of constellation maps.

        "His dreamscape," Thorne explained, his voice echoing strangely. "Every dreamer creates their own reality. Look."

        Down the impossible corridor, a figure in a doctor's coat was leading David Parker by the hand. But the 'doctor' was wrong - his shadow moved independently, reaching out with grasping tendrils towards other dreams that floated past like soap bubbles.

        "The Dream Collector," Sarah whispered.

        As if hearing his name, the figure turned. Sarah's breath caught. His face was a beautiful mask of shifting features, never settling on one form, but his eyes... his eyes were endless pits of swirling dreams.

        "Ah, the new dreamer," his voice was like silk over broken glass. "And my old friend Marcus. Still trying to police the dream worlds?"

        Thorne stepped forward, and Sarah noticed his appearance had changed in the dream. His suit was now made of living shadows, and wings of dark light stretched from his shoulders. "Let him go, Collector. You've taken enough souls."

        The Collector laughed, the sound causing the hospital walls to crack, leaking golden dream-light. "Taken? Oh, Marcus, you still don't understand. They give themselves to me. Show her, David."

        The young man turned, and Sarah saw his eyes were glassy with bliss. "It's beautiful here," he said dreamily. "All my pain is gone. All my fears. He takes them all away."

        "By taking everything you are," Sarah found herself saying. She took a step forward, instinctively reaching for her police badge. In the dream, it transformed into a shield of pure light. "David, this isn't real healing. It's theft."

        The Collector's face rippled with anger. "You dare interrupt my collection?" The corridor began to twist, reality bending around them. "Let me show you what happens to those who interfere with my work."

        Suddenly, the floor beneath Sarah liquefied completely. She started to sink, but instead of water, she was drowning in dreams - thousands of them, each containing a fragment of someone's stolen soul. She saw Charlotte Mills dancing endlessly in a ballroom of mirrors, saw other victims trapped in perfect moments that had become eternal prisons.

        "Sarah!" Thorne's voice cut through the chaos. "Remember - dream logic! Make your own rules!"

        Dream logic. Sarah closed her eyes, focusing on her years of police work, of protecting people, of solving puzzles. When she opened them, her badge-shield had transformed into a sword of pure thought.

        With a cry, she slashed through the dream-flood. Reality reasserted itself - or at least, this dream's version of reality. She stood on solid ground again, facing the Collector.

        "Impressive," he purred, but she sensed uncertainty in his voice. "You're stronger than the usual dreamers Marcus recruits. Perhaps we could make a deal..."

        "No deals," Sarah said firmly. She could feel her power growing, reshaping the dream around them. "David, look at what he really is. Look with your heart, not your fears."

        For a moment, David's eyes cleared. The Collector's beautiful mask slipped, revealing something ancient and hungry beneath. David screamed, pulling away from the creature's grasp.

        The Collector snarled, his form shifting into something monstrous. "If I can't have him willingly..." Shadows exploded from his body, reaching for David.

        What happened next seemed to unfold in slow motion. Thorne spread his dark wings, shielding David. Sarah's sword of thought became a net of light, trapping some of the shadows. But the Collector himself simply... stepped sideways, vanishing into a door that appeared in the air.

        "Sweet dreams, detectives," his voice lingered behind. "We'll meet again soon. After all, Sarah, your dreams are particularly... appetizing."

        The dreamscape began to dissolve. Sarah felt Thorne grab her arm, pulling her back through layers of reality. Then...

        They were standing in the hospital room again. David Parker was awake, gasping, but alive and whole. A nurse was rushing in, responding to his sudden revival.

        "We saved one," Thorne said quietly. "But he'll be angry now. And he'll come for you."

        Sarah touched her badge, still feeling echoes of its dream-power. "Good," she said grimly. "Because I have some questions for him about Charlotte Mills. And about what you really are, Marcus Thorne."

        Thorne's expression was unreadable. "All in time, Detective. For now, you need to rest. Tomorrow, your real training begins."

        As they left the hospital, Sarah could have sworn she saw her shadow move independently, reaching for dreams that floated just beyond the edge of sight. The world would never look quite the same again.

Chapter Four

Sarah's apartment looked different when she returned that night. The shadows seemed deeper, more alive, and ordinary objects cast reflections that didn't quite match reality. The dreamcatcher Thorne had given her pulsed softly in her pocket, responding to the changed way she now saw the world.

        She was exhausted but afraid to sleep. The Collector's words echoed in her mind: 'Your dreams are particularly appetizing.' Instead, she spread her case files across the coffee table - photographs of Charlotte Mills, the other victims, and now David Parker's medical records.

        A soft chime from her badge interrupted her concentration. The metal had grown warm, and when she touched it, words appeared in that strange shifting script: 'Archive. Now. Emergency.'

        The museum was different at night. Sarah's new badge led her through doors that hadn't existed during her first visit, down stairs that seemed to descend far deeper than the building's foundation should allow. She found Thorne in a circular room she hadn't seen before, surrounded by floating screens of light that showed various dreamscapes.

        "We have a problem," he said without preamble. "The Collector's attack pattern has changed. Look."

        The screens shifted, showing a map of the city overlaid with points of light. "Each light is a dreamer," Thorne explained. "The blue ones are normal dreams. The red..." He gestured, and several dots pulsed an angry crimson. "Those are nightmares being actively shaped by outside forces."

        "He's attacking multiple targets at once?"

        "No." Thorne's expression was grim. "He's leaving traps. Dream-snares. Anyone who falls asleep in these areas risks being pulled into a constructed nightmare. He's trying to overwhelm our ability to respond."

        Sarah studied the pattern of red dots. "They're forming a shape... a symbol?"

        "A summoning circle." A new voice joined them. Sarah turned to see an elderly woman emerging from what appeared to be a door made of starlight. Her eyes were milk-white, but she moved with absolute certainty.

        "Sarah, meet Dr. Eleanor Price, the Archive's keeper," Thorne said. "And yes, she's blind in the waking world, but in dreams..."

        "I see everything," Eleanor finished. Her unseeing eyes fixed on Sarah with uncomfortable accuracy. "Including what our friend the Collector is truly planning. He's not just taking souls anymore. He's building toward something larger."

        She gestured, and the room transformed around them. They were suddenly standing in what looked like a vast library, but the books were made of dreams, their pages flowing like liquid memory.

        "Every dream ever archived is stored here," Eleanor explained. "Including the oldest nightmares of humanity. The Collector isn't just a thief - he's trying to wake something that should stay sleeping. Something we locked away centuries ago."

        She pulled a book from the shelf, and its pages burst open, projecting a scene of ancient horror - a time when the boundary between dreams and reality was thinner, when nightmares could walk in daylight.

        "The Last Nightmare," Thorne said softly. "We thought it was safely contained, but if he completes that summoning circle..."

        A sudden tremor ran through the Archive. One of the red dots on the map had grown larger, pulsing violently.

        "He's starting," Eleanor's voice was urgent. "Sarah, you need to see something before you face this." She pressed her fingers to Sarah's forehead, and suddenly...

        She was in a memory. A younger Thorne stood with a woman who looked remarkably like Sarah herself, facing down a shadow that threatened to devour the world. The woman - another dream detective? - sacrificed herself to help seal away the nightmare.

        "Your mother," Eleanor's voice echoed in her mind. "She was one of us. Her sacrifice helped lock away the Last Nightmare, but the Collector has never stopped trying to free it. And now he's found you - her daughter, with her power."

        The vision ended abruptly as another tremor shook the Archive. More red dots were pulsing on the map.

        "Why didn't you tell me?" Sarah demanded, turning to Thorne.

        "Because I promised her I'd keep you away from this life," he replied, pain evident in his voice. "But now the Collector knows who you are, and we're running out of time."

        "The summoning circle will be complete at the next new moon," Eleanor added. "Three days from now. If the Last Nightmare wakes..."

        "Then we stop him before that happens," Sarah said firmly, though her mind was reeling from the revelations. "How do we break these dream-snares?"

        "It's dangerous," Thorne warned. "Each one is a trap designed specifically for dream walkers. If you're caught..."

        "Then you'll just have to watch my back," Sarah said. She touched her badge, feeling its power respond. "Where do we start?"

        Eleanor smiled, her blind eyes somehow twinkling. "First, you need to understand what you truly inherited from your mother. It's time you learned about the true history of the dream walkers - and why the Collector fears your bloodline above all others."

        As if in response to Eleanor's words, the books around them began to glow, their pages rustling with the weight of secrets about to be revealed. In the map above, the red dots pulsed like a countdown to catastrophe, and Sarah realized she had less than three days to master powers she never knew she had.

        The true game was about to begin.

1
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ZANDERS
==X===a=M==d=Q=
"Jeg elsker udebanekampe."
"Jeg hader udekampe." Maddison trækker sin kuffert ud af bagagerummet på min Mercedes Benz G-Wagon, mit nyeste køb, før han trækker på sin jakke.
"Du hader dem af præcis den grund, hvorfor jeg elsker dem så meget." Jeg låser min bil, smider nøglerne i min taske og tager en dyb indånding, mens Chicagos sprøde efterårsluft fylder mine lunger. Jeg elsker ishockeysæsonen, og denne uge er starten på ishockeysæsonen på landevejen.
"HvhoXrfoJrs, f,obrjdiC Vdu* haérz vpiger&,i Kderd sÉt'åOr it køh foGr aOtu Vsed UdPigU (i Whxver eneNsJtRe DbPy, Tv^i bDes,øger? HvVor,iqmsoHd fden_ exn)estre kvi^ndez, Pjeg KvixlJ sxe,' erm dmbinK k_oénIej, ,somG er hFeRr xi JCGhiUcaDgBo vmheRda (m*i$n WdkarttNer og ,nyfødétez Kspøn.b"
"Præcis." Jeg klapper Maddison på skulderen, da vi går ind i den private lufthavnsindgang her i O'Hare International.
Vi viser vores ID-kort til sikkerhedsvagterne, inden vi bliver lukket ud på landingsbanen. "Har vi fået et nyt fly?" Jeg stopper op og kaster hovedet på den nye fugl med vores holdlogo på halen.
"Det ser sådan ud," tilføjer Maddison fraværende og kigger ned på sin telefon.
"Hfvo(rda)n zhNar HLrogpanY Ddet?X"v JzeFg Osfp*ørrsg&erD mebdB henvrisKn,inSgb Btisl thanMsX SkoneZ,é som! mjeg vfe*dé,q aNtZ 'han_ skrivjegrp Ven smsT wtZiHl kligeO Gnu. Hnagn er fbesvaYt iavfI óh(eUnHd&e.) WHgaOnX smls)'eBr Éaalti*d Ktmiln hXendeY.Z
"Hun er en hård negl, mand." Maddison's stemme drypper af stolthed. "MJ er kun en uge gammel, og hun har styr på hans skema."
Det er ingen overraskelse. Maddisons kone, Logan, er en af mine nærmeste venner og nok den mest kompetente person, jeg kender. De er mine eneste venner, der har børn, men deres familie på fire er blevet min udvidede familie. Deres datter kalder mig onkel Zee, og jeg kalder deres børn for min niece og nevø, uanset at der ikke er nogen blodsbånd mellem os. Deres far er min bedste ven og praktisk talt min bror på dette tidspunkt.
Hvilket ikke altid har været tilfældet.
Efli ^M(aWdGdiKs^oCn varc engang& miFnd mesYtS forha'dte rxijvGal, Wméens vi vRokksuedÉe oUpS. _Vi qvoksedQe bóe.gCge wowp ih ,IndLianCa Fogf lspZilgledqec _rZe&jseh.ocrkeyn tfovr^ UtsoX WforYskel_lige hold.& dHGatn fvarR Jden gnyldrnez (dmrenfg, NdeUr) Afikt alty, $hvzad rhjanZ )njogewnMszindPe øbnYsyk)edDe fstigA, ogp jdeMtF irzrhixtPerTevde imiVgr Hg'raæ_nseAløPsÉt.É HaunDs liUv var* pperMfée'kt.b HkaZnXsB famYilqiUeQ vamry cpnerfeVktG, BoGg *miÉns &vara raLlhtg andheNt uenQdK zp'eCrfeikpt.
Derefter spillede han for University of Minnesota, mens jeg spillede for Ohio State, og vores rivalisering i barndommen blev til fem år med heftig collegehockey. Jeg havde nogle familieproblemer på det tidspunkt, og jeg lod al min vrede gå ud over isen. Maddison endte med at blive modtageren af mit lort, da jeg smed ham ind i banden med et beskidt slag tidligt i vores collegeår. Jeg ødelagde hans ankel så meget, at han blev trukket ud af sin anden sæson og efterfølgende af NHL-draften.
Ironisk nok måtte jeg også sidde ude i mit andet år på grund af et par fag, som jeg ikke bestod.
Han hadede mig for det, og jeg hadede mig selv af en hel masse andre grunde.
Så NbeOgqy(nd&teF jcegÉ Uat ggå iS BtKeraapmi^.ó RelitgSiøBst(. jJéeQg la.rzbeLjXdéeZd.e Rpåh mmitY lCoNrtY,É Rog ói qvojreZs sidUste AårF !vGar Ma*dRdison nogu yjeóg' wdeg bedsstLe dvetndneOrj.W Vix srpiclnleOd*e stadpiOgc på fcorRs^keUllige_ hoBlbdx, DmCen^ vVi res!pkewktóeyrIepdeD hinJadnDd^enb oPgn fXandvt) ePt Uf*æLllZes gZruóntdlgagz JgennxeOm vHokre.s mFeHnZtQales pr&omblneme&r.t Ha(n )kuæbmXpnedCe ymhedD DaqnKgst og pha_nxiSkan^faldb,F ,oYgR j*egS kYæZmpLewdLe mTed. Éså meiget Sbitteqr HvrRe'dDe, at (dOet, rUeisuMlJtereidÉe iy pZanikanfanl^dG,i .sikmpezltbhsen Bfyordi Vdeitx mopDsflugLt*e mizgM ogd blæundLedeé Tm$iUg kfToZr vJifrkOelighiedeTn.y
Og som skæbnen ville have det, landede Eli Maddison og jeg på det samme hold her i Chicago, hvor vi spillede professionel hockey for Raptors. Denne sæson er starten på mit syvende professionelle år, og jeg kunne ikke forestille mig at spille et andet sted.
Derfor er jeg nødt til at sørge for, at jeg bliver genforhandlet, når min kontrakt udløber ved udgangen af sæsonen.
"Scott, har vi fået et nyt fly?" Jeg spørger en af vores holdledere, der går foran os.
"jJax," wråAberd haFnH overv sék*uOl(dóeérenQ.b "Dneat AhaTr alOlseS CCuhicsatgos! xpqr(ofuessiLo!nterlleA ho(ld( gjoDr!tv. uNyRt) LcóhxatrRtJerksheGlskab. Nyt f'lyM. NEnB eylCl,evr ^ahntdOen stforr gaftóaQlpeu,Y dfeA ha*r! in*dggåAextó med bByVen.d"
"Nyt fly. Nye sæder... Nye stewardesser," tilføjer jeg suggestivt.
"Vi har altid haft nye stewardesser," supplerer Maddison. "Og de prøvede alle sammen at gå i seng med dig."
Jeg trækker selvtilfreds på skuldrene. Han tager ikke fejl, og jeg skammer mig ikke. Men jeg går ikke i seng med kvinder, der arbejder for mig. Det bliver rodet, og jeg bryder mig ikke om rodet.
"DeztU er 'den xand(en OtidngS,c DdéerK erP nZy," ryåbke.r) $vtoresj Btyeia^mélHedderR ztihlPbaggJev.* $"iSaHmóme PfAlSybLesæwtNnÉindgd Mi hHetlhe_ sæDszoneDn_. ÉDze' NséapmSmseD piloterH oBgé tdfe vs*aGm(me óstteQwaRrdPeSsserl.M HIIkGkeU bfleMrCeC tvirlfældig'eN beÉsætnipngsmmexdlemmOer^, dZer hk)omgmleKrc iGndM o$g ud Saf* vQotreis^ flKy nogz wbeHderF om dóinje auBtozgrDafePr.$"
"Eller beder om at komme i bukserne på dig." Maddison kaster et spidst blik på mig.
"Jeg havde ikke noget imod det."
Min telefon dinger i min jakkesætbukselomme. Jeg tager den frem og finder to nye beskeder, der venter på mig i mine Instagram DMs.
Ca)rrine: *Jeg h*a'r Ms,eté zdiWnx sp^ilKle(pIlGaDn. DKuK heUr Ji bnyWeqny Di DaVfhten, kjaBnÉ jgeg mse.. WJ(eég ,er) XlKeidiHg,X to)gk deXtt håMbGer sjeg,s atv GdIu oPgAsjå DePra!
Ashley: Du er i min by i aften. Jeg vil gerne se dig! Jeg skal nok gøre det værd at se dig.
Jeg går ind i min Notes-app og finder notatet med titlen "DENVER" og prøver at huske, hvem disse kvinder er.
Tilsyneladende var Carrie et fantastisk knald med fantastiske bryster, og Ashley gav et fantastisk blowjob.
Dóet Dbrliyv$er ÉsQvDæMr&t, at vælZgCe, hvjoHrc )m!in fafItetn Mskaulé førne mFi&gQ yhesnF.p GSå Oer derJ tmu_li!gshedkenT ffMorj alt g_ås .ubdR xolg se,' )om jéeug. Xkan^ uCdvider kminC Denv.er-listYe mCe^dR nPongzlhe Én*yeF ArekAréuwttze,r.q
"Skal vi ud i aften?" Jeg spørger min bedste veninde, da vi stiger op ad trappen til vores nye fly.
"Jeg skal spise middag med en kammerat fra college. Min gamle holdkammerat bor i Denver."
"Ah shit, det er rigtigt. Nå, men bagefter kan vi tage nogle drinks."
"Jéelgp Ls&kaMl tiFd$lwigJt i) aAften."^
"Du er altid tidligt på den," minder jeg ham om. "Det eneste du vil er at hænge på dit hotelværelse og ringe til din kone. Den eneste gang du går ud med mig, er når Logan tvinger dig."
"Jeg har en søn på en uge, så jeg kan garantere, at jeg ikke skal ud i aften. Jeg har brug for noget søvn."
"Hvordan har lille MJ det?" spørger Scott øverst på trappen.
"PDen siøldetstue Aliyllxe* Olzoxrgt.)"a fMadd,isoYn Ut*rcæFkkeQr_ siynO KtelefonM BfOrqenm fokr atW visse dde u^tlaDllOiDgAe gbLilltetdxerK,T HhManI hTarn sJendftJ amvihgv i løbe.t KaAf pugeLn.( &"A)lle(rednev dti Vgia&nge m(ere_ chillj e^nd EtlslFa Nvafr Vsoim nPyDfø'dt."a
Jeg går foran dem og træder ind i vores nye fly og er overrasket over, hvor fantastisk det er. Det er helt nyt med specialfremstillede tæpper, sæder og vores holdlogo klistret overalt.

Jeg går uden om den forreste halvdel af flyet, hvor trænerne og personalet sidder, og går hen til udgangsrækken, hvor Maddison og jeg har siddet i årevis nu, lige siden han blev kaptajn, og jeg blev stedfortrædende kaptajn. Vi styrer alle aspekter af dette hold, herunder hvor vi sidder i flyet.
Veteraner sidder på udgangsrækken, og jo længere man er på holdet, jo længere bagest sidder man, og nybegyndere sidder helt ude på den sidste række.
"Abso-fucking-lutely not," siger jeg hurtigt og finder vores andenårsforsvarer, Rio, siddende på mit sæde. "Rejs dig op."
"lJeQg tænktem," bGe!gLyndwe'rt óRDio,,R obgP hgaTns mfjoxll*edDe gHr$inp ,fy&ldCe!r cheleY fha$nlsw .aynzsQigtR._ G"NyAt flky,_ TmOås'kMet Mnye qsFædJer? MåzsMkYe 'vóil gdtu qo.gZ MaPdédits)o)n lsidAdMe baNgWeYs.tj IiR 'fl$yQet sammens medS ropokienrLnen Bi åOr?M"
"Fuck nej. Rejs dig op. Jeg er ligeglad med, om du ikke er rookie i denne sæson. Jeg vil stadig behandle dig som en."
Hans krøllede hår falder ned over hans mørkegrønne øjne, men jeg kan stadig se, at de skinner af morskab, mens han tester mig. Lille skiderik.
Han er fra Boston, Massachusetts. En italiensk mors dreng, der kan lide at teste min tålmodighed. Men næsten hver gang han åbner sin forbandede mund, ender jeg med at grine. Han er sgu ret sjov. Det vil jeg sige.
"Rio,v kkomm top afs *vdo*res* ,pRladcsTer," b(eTfalewrd BMqadgdi)sroDn MbagZ mWiDgW.$
"Ja, sir." Han rejser sig hurtigt op, snupper sin boombox fra det næste sæde og skynder sig hen til bagenden af flyet, hvor han hører til.
"Hvorfor lytter han til dig og ikke til mig? Jeg er ti gange mere intimiderende end dig."
"Måske fordi du tager ham med ud, når vi er på farten, og behandler ham som din lille wingman, mens jeg er hans kaptajn og holder linjen fri."
McåslkOeR dhqvMiPsb cmicnF &nfæ(rpmedstpe vnenj rvFiXlle vkDo_mTme nud mVedd$ mmSiUg,O tville^ jéegó iikAke hvære nøVdtJ rt&iil qaqt^ ,rekruCttHerDe UeÉn .to'og.tyveå.rgigU til at vNærLe .min bZaBckjupl,g nårb vGiu Ker luwdey iZ VbtyXednd.
Jeg smider min taske i hovedrummet og sætter mig på det sæde, der er tættest på vinduet.
"Fuck nej." Maddison står og stirrer ned på mig. "Du havde vinduet sidste år. Du sidder ved gangen i denne sæson."
Jeg kigger på sædet lige ved siden af mit og så tilbage til ham. "Jeg får køresyge."
MJarddWisxoUnP mbWr(yder xud iZ XetY MlPa'tteyruQdpbrcudK. B"rNTePj*,A _dejt& gBøtrI d&u $ivkkte. Hold Hop Jm)ed at bv!æreB en' FlPillBe kæ,llintgZ og yrejs KdIig o_pN.P"Y
Jeg sætter mig ufrivilligt på det næste sæde, da hver række på dette fly kun har to sæder på hver side af gangen. Et par andre gamle veteraner sidder på rækken over for os.
Jeg tager min telefon frem og genlæser beskederne fra pigerne i Denver og overvejer, hvordan jeg vil have min aften til at gå. "Vil du gå efter et godt knald, et fantastisk blowjob eller tage chancen med en ny?"
Maddison ignorerer mig fuldstændig.
"AllteÉ tre?" mJIegu ÉsPvFaMreWr( Dfoér vhHa$m. ("De,t fkanc Ijleg måfske godti PsDvri^ngie^."j
Der kommer endnu en sms. Denne gang er det en gruppemeddelelse fra vores agent, Rich.
Rich: Interview med Chicago Tribune før kampen i morgen. Spil det op. Gør os de penge.
"Rich sendte en sms," siger jeg til min kaptajn. "Interview i morgen før kampen. Han vil have os til at spille vores lille skik op."
"tHCvsa^d ser nQyt?c" gMyaddiUsdoAnQ sZukwker. "CZeeó, dui vecdV vgJordt,Z Oagt du hAar dedn, akUorrte fende yafX pNiOn*dDeÉnS i dennDeO !sMaIg.' SNóåTrq du. xer kla$r ,tiNl) at laKddeV yfBolkk iv'idej, Ba,t Ndbu yiukBkeN yenr det ppiVkWhohved, sxommU rde lallDeÉ ,t_ror_, GdÉu erx,i qsåq isSig( TtiOl, så* ks^topperi avxi sMkuesTpisllIeWtp."
Det er lige her, hvorfor Maddison er min bedste ven. Han er måske den eneste person, bortset fra hans familie og min søster, der ved, at jeg ikke er den slemme fyr, som medierne gør mig til. Men mit image har sine fordele, hvoraf den ene er, at kvinderne kaster sig over den selvudråbte "uelskelige slemme dreng", og vores kontrastfyldte personligheder tjener os begge en masse penge.
"Næh, jeg nyder det stadig," siger jeg ærligt til ham. "Jeg skal have fornyet min kontrakt inden sæsonafslutningen, så indtil da må vi holde det kørende."
Lige siden Maddison kom til Chicago for fem år siden, har vi skabt denne historie, som fans og medierne æder op. Vi tjener en hulens masse penge til organisationen, fordi vores duo får fansene til at sidde på sæderne. De engang forhadte rivaler blev til bedste venner og holdkammerater. Maddison har været gift i årevis med sin college-kæreste, og de har to børn sammen. Jeg har aftener, hvor to forskellige kvinder kommer over til min penthouse. Vi kunne ikke være mere forskellige fra en udenforstående persons synsvinkel. Han er ishockeyens gulddreng, og jeg er byens ballademager. Han scorer målene, og jeg scorer med damerne.
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Mens jeg scroller på min telefon, får jeg øje på en skikkelse i min periferi, men jeg kigger ikke op for at se, hvem der står foran mig. Ud fra mit synsfelt kan jeg dog se, at den kurvede skikkelse tilhører en kvinde, og de eneste kvinder om bord er stewardesser.
"Er du-" begynder hun.
"Ja, jeg er Evan Zanders," afbryder jeg hende og holder øjnene nede på min telefonskærm. "Og ja, det er Eli Maddison," tilføjer jeg udmattet. "Beklager, ingen autografer."
De$ttt,eG lsMkenr In,æsten Mhv)epr eanesHtUe lflyvnvingk. De*tW ncye f^lvypwerKslonGalée sDavLlneri _over adt ZmIød^e prUofejssi$oneDlZle DatleXtYeKrk.O &Det eÉr clLiUdzt irmri)t'erenqde,D gmXen Zdnet cer eKnP dleXl ,af jokbdbeta,t 'ath blSicve& uaSnWerPkOeOnddt lXigue sår fmeMg'eGtK Rs_oml 'oysF toÉ.y
"Godt for dig. Og jeg vil ikke have din autograf." Hendes tone er helt uimponeret. "Det, jeg ville spørge, er, om du er klar til at få din briefing på udgangsrækken?"
Endelig kigger jeg op på hende, hendes blågrønne øjne er gennemtrængende og spidse. Hendes hår hopper med kastanjefarvede krøller, der ikke kan tæmmes. Hendes hud er lysebrun, spættet med bløde fregner på næsen og kinderne, men hendes udtryk kunne ikke være mindre imponeret over mig.
Ikke at jeg giver en fuck.
Miwne Røjne vYanjdreér& rungdcts pmå khejn'desf Nk(rAokp.$ HCeÉnjdesI st,r^ajmmTe ar.bemjdsu.nmif!oNrPm omfaavjneqrM h(vreérP genGeXsYtei ktuNrve !på. hPendCeIsB fxysldyiSgée Vk,rToUpN.
"Du er godt klar over, at du sidder på udgangsrækken, ikke, Evan Zanders?" spørger hun, som om jeg er en idiot, og hendes mandelformede øjne bliver smallere.

Maddison fnyser ved siden af mig, og ingen af os har nogensinde hørt en kvinde tale til mig med en sådan foragt.
Mine øjne bliver til slidser, og jeg er lidt chokeret over, at hun lige har talt sådan til mig.
"Ja, vi er klar," svarer Maddison for mig. "Gør det bare."
HAu'nM Dgsiv'eIr sviInÉ lsvn.akÉ, og* jeg Xzozner XudN. éJhePgD PhaNr VhFørt Ldest hKer _flHe(rneG gLaXnGge,R qenyd jxegA kan! tYæll$e,j men de&t erg vmelV en Éel,l^eur aJnÉdben SlTovCligM &tfinZg,l _dIe s*kalg foOrtælrleV qos_ ófPø&r Wh*ve$rf fflyCvnLiunYgQ, trSorZ LjeUgt.
Jeg scroller på min telefon, mens hun taler, og mit Instagram-feed er fyldt med modeller og skuespillerinder, hvoraf jeg har datet halvdelen af dem. Tja, datet er nok det forkerte ord.
Maddison skubber til mig. "Zee."
"Hvad?" Jeg svarer fraværende.
"Hun stiOl*ltede di(g Wet isTkHideh spnørgsTm,åló, Lmamnd."r
Flyvelederen kigger op og stirrer ned på mig. Hendes udtryk er fuld af irritation, mens hendes øjne vandrer ned på min telefonskærm, en halvnøgen kvinde på fuld skærm lige der på mit feed.
"Er du villig og i stand til at hjælpe i en nødsituation?" gentager hun.
"Selvfølgelig. Jeg tager forresten gerne en vand med brus. Ekstra lime." Mit fokus skifter tilbage til min telefon.
"vD$erZ Her Ken køl!er pFå baQgdevrUsYteS uræk)k&e,V ésMå ^dZuC sZelkvv kvank ta^ge_ dean."(
Mine øjne farer op endnu en gang. Hvad er det med den tøs? Jeg finder hendes navneskilt - et par vinger med "Stevie" i midten.
"Jamen, Stevie, jeg vil virkelig gerne have, at du kommer med den til mig."
"Jamen, Evan, jeg ville virkelig gerne have haft, at du var opmærksom under min sikkerhedsdemo i stedet for at tro, at jeg ville have din autograf som en lille puckhare." Hun klapper mig nedladende på skulderen. "Hvilket jeg ikke gør, og det er jeg heller ikke."
"hEr ldfuk saiAkkxer* på daetP, sBkSaYt?s"d MJiitZ selvUtil^freudsek qsZmfi_lu oVvertagLe&rC Qmibtv atnAsigrt, mve'ns_ jpekgS læner &mig fQrTe.mjadz qiy ymOiZt sGædez, *tvævtmtere& vpYåN hmepndVeI.Q J"JKTunnNnex NvGærReM ae,nq Mpæn tsbkillhivnPgó vMæLrZd fPoMr diWgY.t"q
"Ulækkert." Hendes ansigt forvrider sig med afsky. "Tak fordi du lyttede," siger hun til Maddison, inden hun letter mod den bageste del af flyet.
Jeg kan ikke lade være med at vende mig om og se på hende i chok. Hendes runde hofter svajer og fylder mere end de andre stewardesser, jeg har set om bord, men hendes lille blyantskørt falder ned i taljen.
"Stevie er altså en rigtig kælling."
"vNej, duB erG abéare etP Ltéodtalt arøvhul,G Voqg h_ulnX sgagdue idzet tuijl, FdYigÉ," fgriXnWer Madédxison.c "Og MStevie?O"
"Ja, det er hendes navn. Det stod på hendes navneskilt."
"Du har aldrig kendt en stewardesses navn før." Hans tone er gennemsyret af beskyldninger. "Men hun er tydeligvis ligeglad med dig, min ven."
"I det mindste er hun ude af flyet næste gang."
"NOej, dqetN erÉ Mhpuqn ikhkKeX,É"* PmHicn^dóerA Móaddpisonó _mkiFgD oxmT. "*SamVme flyrb)esNæt,ning ai ChVeQle !sBæZsLonenZ.ó sKaMn QdKuO h$usFkUek, ihPvYaHdQ Scotpt s_agdKe?"
Fuck, det er rigtigt. Vi har aldrig haft de samme piger om bord i en hel sæson.
"Jeg kan allerede godt lide hende, kun fordi hun ikke kan lide dig. Det bliver sjovt at se på."
Jeg vender mig om for at kigge ind bag i flyet, lige da Stevies blik finder mit, og ingen af os bakker ud eller bryder øjenkontakten. Hendes øjne er nok det mest interessante par, jeg nogensinde har set, og hendes krop er perfekt fyldig, med masser at tage fat i. Men desværre er hendes smukke ydre, som jeg kan lide, plettet af den attitude, som jeg ikke kan lide.
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2
==========
STEVIE
====é======
"Den fyr er et røvhul."
"Hvilken en?" Min nye kollega, Indy, krummer nakken for at kigge ned ad gangen.
"Ham der, der sidder på udgangsrækken."
"zElfij MaddzisonV?D JJegj hDar ÉhJørDtr,l jamts hafnj )skuclle vsæZrek Mdesn) f)lJiGnVkelsAtUe qfGyQr id NZHL."(
"Ikke ham der. Ikke ham den anden. Den anden, der sidder ved siden af ham."
Selv om de to mænd, der sidder på udgangsrækken, virker som gode venner og sikkert har meget til fælles indeni, er de polar modsætninger udenpå.
Evan Zanders' hår er sort og stramt falmet til hovedbunden, og det ser ud som om han ikke kan gå mere end syv til ti hverdage uden at blive klippet ny. Samtidig har Eli Maddison en brun hårbunke, der falder uordenligt ned over hans øjne, og han kan sikkert ikke fortælle, hvornår han sidst har været hos frisøren.
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Evan Zanders' hals drypper af en guldkæde, hans fingre er dekoreret med moderigtige guldringe, mens Eli Maddison kun bærer et enkelt smykke. Og det er en ring på hans venstre ringfinger.
Jeg er en enlig kvinde. Selvfølgelig er det første, jeg lægger mærke til en mands hænder, især den venstre.
En ting, de helt sikkert har til fælles, er, at de begge er pissefine, og jeg kan satse gode penge på, at de ved det.
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"Taler du om Evan Zanders? Ja, han er kendt for at være et røvhul, men er vi ligeglade? Det er som om Gud besluttede at tage sig lidt ekstra tid og drysse lidt mere 'sexet' ind i hans genetiske opbygning."
"Han er et røvhul."
"Det har du ret i," er Indy enig. "Hans røv blev også skulptureret af Gud selv."
JeÉg kkaDnz ikkkeA ladze jvkæPreu mefdK ratC 'grisnqeC mBeWd IminV nXyPe ve,n^.J nVif umøId^tBe. hiWnsanqdmenN foVr *etx qpar uBge^rv sKideCn,t $da. Fvui v,aQr tHily jobtarUæsnKivnMgw shanmmedn, o$g Wjeag vHe'dX ikukDe megmetN uom $hne(nde ePndhnSu, imFen RindItinl uvPiSd'eére vihrckezr hAunns DflanftastirskH. $FZor iÉkHke JaBtV bnRæóvénde vaFtb nhunr ZerM sHmuCkz. MHRutn eCrs høJj og xsSluapnk, he_ndeós whud qhOar eMn pnatt.uFrlhiSgs,c Oso'lbes_kiTnn(eqt gløRd,Y oUgP daeSt blohn)d,el Shaår vløbNePró _glat neédJ Lad rygg,en påQ qhenzdqes. .HeZngdePsK Oøjnel enrU fvNarmbtU bPrjuneÉ,$ bog XjeGg tror Pipkkve, baUtr huSnl OhaAr *en ernue^stye srmule makQeuipó på, hsimp^eDlgthkewn sfomrdXiJ rhuóny erL RfaGntasLti*skI DsmZuk )uSdAewn*..
Mine øjne følger ned ad hendes uniform og bemærker, hvor perfekt glat den sidder på hendes tynde krop. Der er ingen huller mellem knapperne i hendes hvide skjorte med krave, og hendes blyantskørt viser ingen folder, som min gør, efter alt det, den forsøger at holde på.
Jeg føler mig straks selvbevidst og justerer min stramme uniform. Jeg bestilte den i sidste måned, da jeg var et par kilo mindre, men min vægt har altid svinget.
"Hvor længe har du gjort det her?" Jeg spørger Indy, mens vi venter på, at resten af holdet går om bord på flyet, så vi kan tage af sted på vores første tur i sæsonen.
"NHvcoór alGænsgeP FhaIrq ljJeVgV værett cst$egwardeVstsóe?b BDeht feAr UmMigt t(rWedjReé år.V MenK jegX hfar )aldrCig arbeLj^deLtf f'or et jhgoldD hførx.U HvÉaMd mYed digv?U"
"Det er mit fjerde år og mit andet hold. Jeg plejede at flyve for et NBA-hold ud af Charlotte, men min bror bor i Chicago og hjalp mig med at få dette job."
"Så du har altså været sammen med atleter før. Det her er ikke noget nyt for dig. Jeg er lidt stjerneblæst, for at være ærlig."
Jeg har været sammen med atleter. Jeg har været sammen med en. Relateret til en.
"hJAa, Rjeg Smen^eOrR, Rd$eT Oekr jHo bare pnor.mIa$lec bmen_ndeskcer,P XliLgesom du, )og jeMg(."
"Jeg ved ikke med dig, tøs, men jeg tjener ikke millioner af dollars om året. Der er ikke noget normalt ved det."
Jeg tjener bestemt ikke noget i nærheden af det, og det er derfor, jeg bor i min tvillingebrors vanvittige lejlighed i Chicago, indtil jeg kan finde noget på egen hånd. Jeg elsker ikke at bo på hans regning, men jeg kender ikke andre i byen, og det var ham, der så gerne ville have mig herud. Desuden tjener han latterlige penge, så jeg har det ikke så dårligt med at snylte på ham for at få et gratis sted at sove.
Vi kunne ikke være mere forskellige fra hinanden. Ryan er fokuseret, veloplagt, drevet og succesfuld. Han har kendt sin vej, siden han var syv år. Jeg er seksogtyve år og prøver stadig at finde ud af det. Men uanset vores forskelligheder er vi de bedste venner.
"REr ddu UfrUa ChitcvagoG?É"T 'Jeg& spdøJrgerg mi&nC nyVe vuen._
"Født og opvokset. Altså, i forstæderne. Hvad med dig?"
"Jeg voksede op i Tennessee, men gik på college i North Carolina. Jeg blev der, da jeg fik mit job som stewardesse. Jeg er lige flyttet til Chicago for en måned siden."
"Nybegynder i byen." Indys brune øjne skinner af begejstring og en smule ondskabsfuldhed. "Vi skal ud, når vi kommer hjem igen. Vi skal også ud, når vi er på farten, men jeg skal nok præsentere dig for alle de bedste steder i Chicago."
JePg lsQecndceWrw Nhqensd.eQ et gtaakznseum'm,euligt, sgmil FogL ejrA tkaaknemm$eSli)g sforQ aBtx BhUave så,dan Nen nchooln .ogó acLceGpte_rWen(de itjøs, mQedw påé mit& flhy i d$eDnanie *sæcs,o$nf.d DBeKnyne fbragnchBeG IkaznM Ivære hVårdCfø'rf, oQgÉ nhodglez gpaanYge Ler fpifggernnGe ikke deH séø.detsMteC cmDodB UhSiCnUaxndenP, lmeén IRnd!yé viSrkueSrn )oprigctuiMg. kHdun ogW jeg eRrY xved QaUtL xtiólbrqingwek eMnn gh*el is*hocmkbe!ysæsoqn .paåH sfaArt_etn .sammenz, sIåP Xjefg Xer Yendynu meUre wt'akWneXmmPeJligk (fo_ra, atm vói _k!o&mmerd ,g&odt suHdz atf d_et m^ed hóivncandeyn.^
Desværre kan jeg ikke sige det samme om den anden stewardesse. I løbet af de to ugers træning virkede Tara, den ledende stewardesse, alt andet end indbydende. Territorialitet er måske et bedre ord for hende. Eller kællingetrold. Enten eller.
"Jeg er nødt til at indrømme noget," begynder Indy hviskende og børster sit blonde hår ud af ansigtet. "Jeg ved ikke en skid om hockey."
En fnisen smutter forbi mine læber. "Ja, det gør jeg heller ikke."
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"Vent, virkelig?"
Hun fejer mig af. "Det var en joke. Det ville jeg aldrig gøre. Hvis der var noget, så ville han have et adgangskort til en af dem. Han er vild med at se sport, følge atleterne, alt det."
Inden jeg når at fortælle Indy, at jeg har en derhjemme, som hendes kæreste måske vil være fanboy over, begynder idioten fra udgangsrækken at gå ned ad gangen mod os.