“So?”
“So that's not on your meal plan.”
“Are you spying on me?”
“I live down the hall. It's not spying, it's observation.” She holds up the container. “I made too much chicken stir-fry. Thought you might want some actual nutrition.”
“I'm fine.”
“You're eating pizza and garlic bread two weeks into your recovery. That's not fine.” She doesn't wait for an invitation. She ducks under my arm and walks into my apartment. “You have plates, right?”
I stand at the open door, momentarily stunned. “Did I say you could come in?”
“You didn't say I couldn't.” She's already in my kitchen, opening cabinets. “Plates. Where?”
I roll my eyes, surrendering. “Above the stove.”
I should tell her to leave. This is my apartment, my Saturday, and my terrible dietary choices. But she's moving around my kitchen like she belongs there, pulling out plates and utensils, and I find myself closing the door and following her.
“Sit down,” she says. “You shouldn't be standing more than you have to.”
“I'm aware of my own limitations.”
“Then act like it.”
She portions out the stir-fry onto two plates and carries them to my small dining table. The food looks good. Colorful vegetables, sliced chicken, and what smells like ginger and garlic. My stomach growls.
We sit across from each other. It's strange having someone in my space. I don't invite people over. Even my teammates rarely come by.
“You didn't have to do this,” I say.
“I know.” She takes a bite. “Eat. It's getting cold.”
I eat. The food is good. Better than good. I didn't realize how hungry I was until I started.
“So what's the deal with the pizza?” she asks after a few bites. “Does the team not provide meals for players in recovery?”
“They do. I have a chef who comes in once a week and prepares everything. He portions it out and freezes it. All I have to do is defrost and heat.”
She arches a brow. “But you ordered pizza instead.”
I shrug. “Didn't feel like defrosting.”
She gives me a look that says she doesn't believe that's the whole story, but she doesn't push. “Well, now you have stir-fry. No defrosting required.”
We eat in silence for a few minutes. It's not uncomfortable, which surprises me. I expected her to fill the quiet with chatter, the way she does during our sessions. But she seems content to just sit and eat.
My phone rings.
I glance at the screen, and my chest tightens. Mom.
I answer immediately. “Mom. How is he?”
“He's resting, sweetheart. The doctor just came by. They're pleased with how he's responding to the steroids.”
“Bella said he might be discharged tomorrow.”
“That's what they're hoping for. We'll know more in the morning.” She pauses, and her tone sharpens. “I told Bella not to tell you. You don't need to be worrying about this right now. We can handle it.”
