Then went on to make out with him in a parking lot.
Also professionally.
“I’m taking the bathroom on the left,” I say. “No hockey tape on the counter.”
He sets his gear bag down. Looks at the counter. Looks at me.
“Where else would I put it?”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the only answer.”
I gesture at the room. All that surface area available to him. He looks at it. Looks back at me with something in his face that isn’t quite a smile. Then he goes to the couch, opens his tablet, and puts one earbud in.
Done.
I go to the bathroom on the left because apparently we have territories now.
Night one.
He’s on game film. I’m at the desk with my laptop. The suite is big enough that we’re not on top of each other and small enough that I can hear him breathing and I am not going to think about that.
I work. He watches film.
The quiet accumulates. Not the awkward kind. The kind that builds when two people stop performing not-noticing-each-other and just exist in the same space.
I write three paragraphs. Delete one. Keep two. Answer emails. Tag photos.
I tell myself I’m not thinking about the physio room. That lasts about forty seconds.
At eleven he goes for the team ice bath. I hear the door. I work better for twenty minutes.
He comes back in a towel.
Just a towel. Low on his hips. Chest and shoulders still damp. The kind of body that exists at the intersection of genetics and ten years of professional athletics.
I look up because I heard the door and then I look and then my brain delivers the following completely unbidden:
Nine inches. Minimum. At least.
The towel is doing its job. Barely.
He moves to his gear bag. Gets clothes. Goes back to the bathroom.
I look at my laptop. I type something that is not a word. I delete it.
I go to bed and lie in the dark with that information and stare at the ceiling for way longer than necessary.
Morning two.
Coffee on the counter when I wake up. Exactly the right temperature. He’s already back on game film, sweats and a t-shirt, hair doing the morning thing, not managing anything.
I hold the cup. Look at the back of his head.
I have feelings I am not going to write in either notebook.
The coffee is perfect. Neither of us says anything about any of it.
