Page 116 of Goalkeeper
“Seriously. Your day wasn’t perfect, either, and here I was, bitching and yelling just because—”
“Pizza delivery!” Meysy and JD walk into my room, carrying two pizza boxes.
“Thanks, I didn’t see the notification,” I tell them.
“No big,” says JD. “Hey, Paige, how’s it going?”
“Not too bad. I’m dealing with Spence’s grumpy ass, but he’s feeding me pizza, so I can’t complain.”
“That’s bullshit. I deal with his grumpy ass all the time. Where’s my pizza?” Meysy lifts the lid and gasps in horror. “Jesus, Briggsy. You gotta go full-on health nut even with pizza?”
“It’s pretty good,” I defend, lifting the box onto the bed. “Not as good as the stuff your sister makes, but decent.”
“I can’t handle your acceptance of fake cheese,” he says solemnly, and leaves. JD trails after, laughing.
“So, maybe I’ve got this whole athlete thing wrong, but don’t you burn all the calories? I mean, you’ve got to eat to keep up energy, right? So, why the vegan delight? No shade on vegans, I’m just curious.”
“You’re fine,” I say, grabbing paper plates and paper towels. I toss her a water and return to the floor for our impromptu picnic. “I’m used to getting flak for my diet. And yeah, I burn a shit-ton of calories, so a cheeseburger won’t kill my game. And if you don’t finish that pizza, I probably will at midnight, full disclosure.” I pull a slice from the box and take a few bites. “But, as a goalie, I’m not moving all the time. My patterns are different. And I have to be ready for anything, at any time. So, if eating lean and following a strict diet give me what I need to be the best, count me the fuck in.”
“But like, when you guys go to the Biscuit, what do you even eat?”
It occurs to me that even though we haven’t been dating very long, I’ve never taken Paige on a proper date. No dinners or movies. Not even a picnic. I need to remedy that. But to answer her question, I say, “You’d be surprised how many places you can get a grilled chicken salad, no seasoning, no croutons, oil and vinegar on the side.”
“Wow. But doesn’t that get boring?”
I shrug. “A little, I guess.”
“Do you have cheat days? Or like, are there foods you never touch?”
“In-season, I’m pretty strict. But late spring, I’ll eat a real ice cream cone or french fries or whatever. Honestly, those foods have never really been a part of my regular diet, so it’s not like I miss them.”
“Food is fuel, and all that?”
“Pretty much.” I shrug. “Although…”
Her eyes light up, and she sets her slice down. “Oh my god, guilty pleasure confessional. What is it, Spence? What’s your weakness? Tell me what you crave.”
And, suddenly, I don’t want to talk about junk food anymore.
But she looks so happy at the prospect of my indulging in empty calories, that I crack. “You’re gonna laugh.”
She considers this. “Probably.” And there’s that laugh I’m so addicted to.
“Come on, Spence. What’s your guilty pleasure? Brownies? Chili cheese fries? Buffalo wings? Cheese sticks? Cheesecake?”
I shake my head. “Nope.”
“Tell me,” she pleads.
“Swedish fish.”
“Swedish fish? What the actual fuck is wrong with you?”
I laugh, because even though those same words have been said in the same context a million times over the past ten years, this shit’s funny, and she’s right.
“You would take a Swedish fish over a Dorito? Or a caramel frappe? Or a cheesesteak?”
“I would. Also, most of the foods you’re mentioning include cheese. Is that your guilty pleasure?”
