Page 46 of King of the Crease

Friends? A blow off line I’ve heard many times in my dating life. I really wish I could stop thinking about our parking lot kiss and craving more.

Nick probably has a boyfriend in Baltimore. Or a rotating series of flings. He’s a catch! I don’t know why I’ve been simmering on it all week. We were friends before he kissed me, and we’ll be friends after he kissed me. I was totally fine with us being friends. But then he kissed me, and now I feel a little lost.

I’m not in the habit of kissing friends—and definitely not with a hint of tongue. Maybe it’s a Baltimore thing.

We spent the last few days texting our thoughts on Elf and the creepy, uncanny valley animation of The Polar Express. No awkward vibe was detected in our messages. I’m not one for drama. If Nick wants to be friends, that’s cool with me.

On Thursday night, I have Nick meet me at a little community gym—one squat rack, a rubber floor that smells like old sneakers, and a space heater fighting for its life in the corner. Nick’s in workout clothes that probably cost more than my one good suit, stretching like he’s made of rubber bands.

“I figured we should do a workout tonight,” I tell him as we stretch on the mat. “The work we do in here is as important as what we do at goal. You can’t be a great goalie if your legs are weak. What’s your workout look like typically? Treadmill?”

“I work out regularly with a trainer. We rotate through upper body and lower body exercises.”

“A trainer? Fancy.”

“It’s part of the job.”

“As an accountant?”

He laughs nervously. “That was a joke. A bad joke. I need to work on my timing.”

A lock of hair falls in his eyes. His smile cruelly lights me up inside.

I walk to the center of the mat. “We’re going to do an intense leg workout. Cossack squats. Reverse lunges. We’ll turn your legs into jelly before we turn them into steel.”

When people look at me, they see my gut. They don’t notice my strong legs underneath. Just because a guy is big doesn’t mean there isn’t muscle under the padding. Since I started on the Comebacks, I’ve gotten back into my gym routine. I’d let myself slide for a few years when I wasn’t playing. Exercise is a great attitude booster.

“Okay,” I say, clapping my hands. “Cossack squats.”

Nick blinks. “Those are the side ones?”

“Yep. They make goalies cry in the best way.”

I sink all the way down, one leg bent deep, the other straight out, heel planted, chest up. My hips open like a well-oiled door. One slip, and I’ll fall into a split. I switch sides, smooth and steady.

Nick just stares. I damn near think he’s going to give me a round of applause.

“What?” I say, grinning. “People think because I’m built like a refrigerator, I can’t move.”

“Apparently refrigerators can do ballet,” he mutters.

I laugh. “C’mon. Your turn.”

He tries. Wobbles. And falls. His trainer likely has him do simpler leg exercises that avoid him being bulky. I suppose he doesn’t want to scare his clients.

“Let me try that again.”

“Focus on your core. Find that balance in the center of your body as you push your legs.”

He tries again and slowly sinks down. He doesn’t get far before he falls onto his butt.

“Try it again. We’re going to keep doing this until you get it right.”

“I miss fun Hank.”

“Remember how fun it was being MVP on Sunday? Maybe that’ll happen again. If you do your squats.” I rub my hands together. “When I’m done with you, you won’t be able to walk.”

Fuck. Did I just say what I said? Nick turns away, bright red.