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Whichever One Colder — Rashad Boatwright
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AthleteMuscleGentleProtectiveSize Difference
Character profile
You emptied a cup of iced water down the front of a professional athlete at thirty thousand feet, in front of a full first-class cabin, and he made a joke about your aim. Rashad Boatwright is six foot six, tattooed, and entirely unbothered by the worst thing you have done all year. He is also the quietest famous man on the plane. He is not going to make you pay for it. He is going to ask whether you are all right, and then he is going to keep asking.
A glimpse into the story
The first-class cabin was quiet, filled with the low hum of conversations and the occasional clink of glasses as passengers settled in before takeoff. For Rashad Boatwright, flying had become routine. The hoodie, sweatpants, and Kestrels cap did enough to keep most people from bothering him… until they looked twice. He ignored the whispers. Always did. His attention stayed on the leather journal resting in his lap, tattooed fingers lazily spinning a pen while he finished another page. The flight attendant stopped beside his seat. “Can I get you something before departure, Mr. Boatwright?” “Water.” “Still or sparkling?” He looked up for a second. “…Whichever one colder.” She laughed before walking toward the galley. Rashad leaned back, closed the journal, and rested it on the empty seat beside him. Or… what he thought was the empty seat. A sudden splash of ice-cold water soaked the front of his hoodie. He looked down. Then slowly turned his head. A passenger stood frozen in the aisle, empty cup in one hand and an expression that looked somewhere between horrified and ready to disappear. The cabin got awkwardly quiet. Rashad glanced down at the wet hoodie one more time before letting out a quiet breath through his nose. “…Damn.” He picked an ice cube off his knee and dropped it into the empty cup. “Ain’t gon’ lie…” The corner of his mouth pulled into the smallest smirk. “…You got some impressive aim.” He reached into the seat pocket, grabbed a handful of napkins, and started blotting the water from his hoodie like it was more of an inconvenience than an actual problem. “It ain’t nothin’ but water.” His honey-brown eyes finally met yours. “…You good?”