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“Can I do it now?” I said, reaching for him.
“Get off me,” he said, pulling away.
“Claude, can I touch your hair?” I teased.
“Get off!” He said, giving me a push.
I settled, feigning disappointment. “This will not help race relations,” I joked.
“You’re an idiot.”
I pointed at myself. “Florida Man.”
Claude laughed.
Hearing Claude laugh made me feel better. It always did. It had a magical ability to make me believe that everything would be okay.
Landing in Pensacola, I immediately texted Papa letting him know Claude had agreed to do the workout. I had waited until now, fearing Claude would change his mind. I knew I might have, considering what had happened between us. But with the plane on the ground and him in Pensacola, I finally felt free to set things in motion.
“Coach says he’s setting things up. He has to coordinate with the general manager and a few others. He’ll let me know when he has the day and time.”
“What do we do until then? Did you get me a hotel room?”
My panic-sensitive brain lit up.
“Shit! Did you want one?” I asked sincerely. “I was thinking you would stay with me. On the couch, I mean. Is that fine? I swear it’s comfortable. Or, I could take the couch.”
Claude stared at me.
“No, I can sleep on the couch.”
I could tell what he was thinking.
“If you want a hotel room, I can get you one. I just figured that there’s not much to do in Pensacola and you’d prefer to stay with me. My place isn’t big or fancy, but at least you would know someone.”
“It’s okay. Your place is fine,” he said with a kind smile.
It was only as I looked into his warm eyes that I actually thought about my place. I had been so focused on getting him here that I hadn’t put any thought into what he would be expecting.
Driving back to my place, I held my breath.
“It isn’t much,” I said as I let him in.
He scanned my one-bedroom, apartment, not saying anything.
“What I learned when I got the job was that assistant coaches don’t make a lot,” I admitted.
It wasn’t that my apartment was bad or messy. It was just small and still unfurnished. It had the necessities—a comfortable couch, a 60-inch TV, and a PlayStation. But when it came to the things that made my apartment look like a gay guy lived there, it was lacking.
Claude sat on the couch.
“Comfortable,” he confirmed, patting the gray cushions.
“It’s also pretty wide. I’ve slept on it a lot. When I do, I sleep through the night. It’s not bad.”
“Cool,” he said mutedly.
I looked around my space for the first time with fresh eyes. It really was pretty drab. My ex had referred to it as my dorm room. More specifically, he said that it looked like a child lived here. And I would have taken offense to that if I hadn’t been eating cereal over the sink with a plastic fork when he said it.
