Page 48 of Overtime
Yes. Except for when I’m on the ice. And lately it’s getting worse.
As for her answer, I grunt.
“Lettuce backtrack.” She clears her throat.
“Did you just saylettuce?”
“I, too, am hungry,” Strawberry says solemnly. “Next question. Can I help you with anything? I feel bad just watching.”
“No, your job is to stay alert.”
Strawberry gives me a little salute. “Yes, sir.”
Once I’m done forming the three arepas, I rinse my hands and change gears to find her the pain reliever. I slide the bottle over to her and grab a clean cup from the cabinet to fill with water from the fridge dispenser. And then another one for me.
I quench my thirst—at least this one—watching over her as she takes a couple of pills and chugs water like it’s beer. She even sighs hard at the end.
“Last non-hockey question for tonight.” She squirms, and that worries me. Doesn’t look like it’ll be an easy one. “Or maybe I shouldn’t ask. I mean, if you didn’t comment on it when I talked about it, it shouldn’t be a big deal.”
What, among the verbal diarrhea she subjected me to in the past ten minutes, could she possibly want to revisit? The thing with her mom? The romance part of the hockey romance? And who the hell decided writing a romance book about hockey was a good idea? Hockey is the least romantic sport I could possibly imagine. It’s a bunch of sweaty, stinky dudes slamming against each other or across boards, and a thousand ways to bleed.The cutesy shit that belongs in romance books should be figure skating or something.
Strawberry sucks in her lips and starts pulling away.
“Just spit it out, woman.”
“Well.” She tucks a strand of her messy—and, yeah, slightly gross—hair behind her ear. “How come you didn’t blow a fuse about the period stuff? Like, most guys immediately want to fling themselves out the window at the mention of it.”
“I’m not most guys,” I say with the shake of my head. “Also, I have two sisters.”
“Oh.”
“Now you answer this. Cilantro, yes or no?”
“Oh, yes.”
I try, I really do, to not find an innuendo behind that. But it’s not my fault her voice came out all throaty and sigh-y, or that my blood was already pumping. I turn around and pull open the fridge with more force than necessary, just so I can stick my face in it ASAP. I know exactly where every single thing is, but I pretend like I can’t find it just so I can cool down.
Finally, I grab the bag with the handful of greens and rinse the tomatoes I left soaking in a bowl in the sink.
“I love everything green,” she continues saying, as though we hadn’t just suffered a dangerous lull in the conversation.
It’s just because you’re out of the game, I remind myself. Nothing more, nothing less. Strawberry’s not doing anything special. She’s literally just sitting there, bundled up in a thick dress that fits her like a sack of potatoes. There’s no cleavage, no hint of her curves, no flirty glances. She’s not even wearing makeup. Her hair has mud in it. There’s a whole kitchen island between us.
And yet…
For the first time in my life, I find the need to keep talking. If I’m the one filling in the silence, then my head won’t have any choice but to stop this hormonal loop I’m trapped in.
“I’m not a fan of green stuff or fruits,” I say in a rasp, as if it’s the first time I’ve used my vocal cords all day.
“No way. When we met, you were drinking some green gunk I probably wouldn’t even want to smell.”
I dry the tomatoes with a paper towel and keep my eyes on them at all costs. Which is a good idea, since I’m about to use a knife anyway.
“If you like green shit, you’d like it more than I do.”
“What’s in it?”
I wrinkle my nose. “Kale, celery, apple, orange juice, and some green protein powder just so I’m not hitting up dairy all the time.”
