Carry Your Heart Read Online Free PDF Page B

you just want to reach out and touch, six foot whatever—the works.
    You know what I’m talking about. Annoyingly attractive.
    Downgraded for having an awful personality. The worst of them always look the best-looking. Court would die to see this kid. I’m not impressed because he’s an asshole.
    Okay. I’m kind of impressed, but that’s just because I’m never going to have to talk to him.
    He smirks at me as he walks towards where I’m sitting.
    Obviously, this one has an ego so inflated that he assumes I’m checking him out for his looks, not because he just threw a temper tantrum over getting his snowboard on an airplane, because TSA wouldn’t amend federal legislation on his behalf. What an animal.
    After I’m patted down and the authorities have determined that I’m not actually a threat to national security, I have to sprint to my gate, where handsome douchebag, is sitting on the ground by the gate his arms wrapped around his knees with a look of apprehension on his face. He actually looks sort of adorable now, like the kind of person you’d like to hug. Don’t fucking hug the stranger, Pippa.
    “Last call for flight 82 with service to Salt Lake City. Now paging customers Philippa Baker and Hunter Dawson.”
    That’s a damn good name for a snowboarder, I think . Hunter Dawson.
    I glance at the snowboarder who gets up reluctantly and walks to the gate.
    “I guess you made it,” he says, in a low rumble.
    I nod. “Just barely.”
    “Mm.” He looks pissed off and nervous, as they scan our tickets. We’re sitting together—first row, extra legroom. I have the window seat and he has the aisle.
    “You’re with USSA?” he asks.
    I raise my eyebrow. “Um, yeah. You?” Mike had told me that there was another athlete flying with me. I didn’t register that this might be the person he meant. This gorgeous, strange person. Douchebag, Pippa. Not person. Douchebag.
    “Yep.” He nods. “One of Mike’s, huh?”
    I swallow thickly. “Mike’s what?”
    “Lost causes.”
    “I’m sorry?”
    He rolls his eyes. “Chill out. I’m the other one.”
    “The other lost cause?”
    “Yah,” he nods, closing his eyes, which flutter. He grips the arms of the seat tightly as the plane lurches from the gate and starts taxiing to the runway. Taking a deep breath, he releases the arms, pulls a prescription bottle from his sweatshirt pocket, and chokes down a small pill.
    He coughs and breathes and leans back in the chair. “Sorry. I don’t usually take Xanax. I’m not that crazy. I just fucking hate planes.”
    He passes out before we take off, before I can ask him what kind of lost cause he is and, more importantly, what kind of lost cause I am.
    And why Mike would want lost causes anyway? He’s the only person I know who hates losing more than me—and what would he want with a snowboarder?
    ***
    Hunter sleeps through the rocky landing into Salt Lake City. And the arrival announcement, and the engines turning off, and the rustle of everyone unbuckling their seatbelts and exiting the aircraft.
    When the plane’s half empty, I touch his shoulder tentatively. It’s warm, solid and he wakes with a start.
    “What? Are we okay?”
    “We’re here,” I say quickly. “Time to go. Salt Lake City.”
    He yawns and sits up. He looks at me. “Shit.”
    “What?”
    He stands up quickly to his full height. He opens the overhead compartment with an easy flick of his wrist and pulls down my backpack and then his. He tosses his onto the seat, hands me mine, then shoulders his on and gives me an impatient look, like I was the one who just slept through the landing.
    “Are you ready?” he demands.
    I take my backpack and follow him to baggage claim, listening to him mutter: “If these people lost my fucking snowboard…”
    “I’m sure it’s fine.”
    He smirks again. “What did they say your name was? Phillippo?”
    I laugh aloud at the pronunciation.
    “Philippines?”
    “Philippa and you can call me