“I did, actually.”
“I swore to my parents that if I skipped college to go pro out of high school that I would be smart with money.”
“And you kept your word.”
“I did. So, when I’m flying, I mostly fly coach, business class if it’s a long flight.” He gestures to his long legs. “When I’m looking for a place in a new city, I stay with friends instead of a hotel.”
“And when you retire, you come back a year later as a manager.”
“That isn’t so much about the money.”
“Then what?”
But before he can answer, an absolutely wretched noise comes from the end of our row as the Montana bro vomits all over himself.
The flight attendants are sympathetic and bring wipes and some air freshener, but there isn’t much to be done except wait it out and try not to breathe too deeply.
The first burst of fresh air when we deplane in the spacious Bozeman airport, with its vaulted ceilings lined with wooden beams, is more than welcome. The views of the mountains in the distance as soon as we make it outside is such a stark contrast to being outside arrivals atJFKthat I can’t help but laugh.
Gregory, as usual, can be counted on. There’s a driver waiting for us near baggage claim and he already knows to take us straight to the Kimpton Armory Hotel.
“Best hotel in Bozeman,” the driver says, not seeming to recognize either of us. “You two in town for the game?”
“Of course,” Charlie says. “Go Cats Go!”
I blink at him, wondering what the hell he’s talking about when the driver laughs.
“I’d say what I usually say about the Grizz, but there’s a lady present.”
Charlie laughs with him. “Oh, she’s heard worse.”
“Just about fifteen minutes out. Any stops along the way?”
“No, straight to the hotel, thanks,” I chime in, a little more annoyed than I probably should be at being left out of the conversation.
The ride is as quick as the driver promised and the hotel driveway is bustling. I see several of the people from our flight, though thankfully not a particular row mate. I turn back to tip our driver, but Charlie’s already sliding the man a hundred-dollar bill.
“I thought you promised your parents you’d be smart with money?” I ask, but he just grins and shrugs as we take our bags and head inside the hotel. It sits large and majestic on what is otherwise a pretty nondescript street in the middle of an unremarkable neighborhood.
The air might be fresh, but the city itself doesn’t do much for me.
There’s a short line to check in and, when we get to the desk,a woman about my height with a bright white smile usually seen on the streets of Los Angeles greets us.
“Welcome to the Kimpton Armory Hotel, Bozeman,” she says, through the grin, and though I’m the one standing in front of her, she directs the words to Charlie.
“Thank you,” I say, leaning into her line of sight. “We’re checking in. Two rooms, and should be under Sullivan, Francesca.”
She clicks at her computer for a moment and then another. “There’s just one room under Sullivan, ma’am. Could the other room be under a different name?”
Her voice is hopeful and I have to contain a snort. “Charles Avery?” I say, failing to keep her attention on me as Charlie steps up and shows me his phone.
It’s a text from Gregory.
—Was only able to secure one room. The hotel is booked solid. Sorry!
“It’s just the one room,” Charlie says, as I let out a heavy sigh.
“Can you check and see if there are any other rooms that have become available? I’d really appreciate it.”
