Out of My League

Chapter 5 (Izzy)

When I return to the hotel, taking the elevator up to the third floor and heading to Reagan and I's room, nobody answers the door when I knock.

I knock again, pressing my ear up to the door to listen for any sort of movement, but again, I hear nothing.

Maybe Reagan went for a walk around the city. Or shopping. Or to get something to eat.

The possibilities with her are endless.

I don't know, but what I do know is that I have no key to get into the room; in all the craziness of arriving in the city and needing to get to the field, I'd forgotten to get one and she'd forgotten to give it to me.

My only option now is to call her.

First call: no answer.

Second call: no answer.

"Come on, Reagan," I mumble to myself, "If somebody comes out of their room and sees me standing here, they're going to think I'm a creeper or something."

I call her a third time, but still, I receive no answer.

I guess that means I only have one more choice: go down to the lobby and ask them to let me in.

Sighing, I head back over to the elevator and take it back down.

I half-expect to meet her in the lobby and plan my conversation in my head with her, just in case.

"We're in a big, scary, unknown city, so I think the least you can do to ease my worries that you were kidnapped is answer your phone."

I don't get to use it, though, because the lobby, just like it was when I arrived the first time, is completely empty, save for the man working the front desk.

After explaining the entirety of the story to him, I expect him to tell me that he understands and then hand me a new key card, but instead, he gives me a really bland look and says that he can't do anything for me.

"You can't give me a new card?" I ask, eyes wide, "How else am I supposed to get into my room?"

He shrugs, "How can you prove that you've actually purchased a room here?"

I reach for my phone before remembering that the room wasn't purchased through Reagan or me. The Colonials' are paying the expenses for that, meaning, of course, I have no proof of a purchase.

I'd rather wait for Reagan in the lobby than have the man contact Coach Russell and have me look like a fool.

"I guess I'll just-," I stop, mid-turn, suddenly remembering that Reagan had texted me our room number in case I didn't remember.

Typing in my password and pulling up our messages' thread, I show him the text.

"Does this work?"

He hesitates, "What's the name the room is booked under?"

"Me," I say, "Isabella Caldwell."

"Do you have proof that you're Isabella Caldwell?"

My license is in my wallet, which is in the hotel room. I hadn't needed it to meet the team.

"I have this," I pull up my Instagram page, pointing to my name and my picture, "But that's it."

I hadn't posted on here in so long that the picture is obviously outdated, but it must look a little bit like me because he accepts it.

Granted, he accepts it after mumbling that he could lose his job to do this, but he gives me a key card and that's all I really care about.

"Return this as soon as you get your other card back," he says.