Page 41 of A Million Times, Yes
“Coffee for me,” Maya said.
“Cream and sugar?”
“On the side,” Maya replied.
“And for you?” she asked me.
“Black coffee.”
“Black coffee,” Maya repeated once we were alone. “You like it that bitter?”
“I try not to consume a lot of dairy. It’s horrible for my body, and I don’t like things sweet.” I chuckled. “You’re my exception.” A response I’d semi-stolen from her, but it was fitting. “Along with the pancakes, I suppose.” Which I would regret in a couple of hours, when the gluten would fill me with inflammation and my joints started to ache even worse than my fucking jaw. As a professional athlete, I’d learned how food can work with you and against you, and even though my career had ended, I’d kept up many of the practices.
“With a body like yours, you must watch everything you eat.”
“For the most part, I do—but because it makes me feel better, not because I’m this vain motherfucker who insists on being this shredded.”
A grin slowly spread over her face as she looked at me through her eyelashes. “You’re not?”
“I know this is hard for you to believe, but no. As I’ve gotten older, the way I feel is far more important than how I look. I focus so hard on the first, the latter ends up benefiting.”
Her teeth flicked over her lower lip. “And that body is unreal. I assume you played sports growing up.” She nodded toward me. “Unless you just have an obsession with hockey.”
She was referring to my tattoos.
I’d tried to keep us in the dark the nights we’d spent at the hotel, but many moments were just unavoidable.
“I played a lot of hockey, Maya.”
“I know what that does to one’s body. I’ve taken care of a lot of ex–hockey players. Those injuries can last a lifetime, and the longer you played, the more damage is done.”
I thought I should define whata lot of hockeywas, but the conversation I’d had with Gavin was fresh in my mind. I worried that if I really opened that topic, I’d have to take it deeper.
And what would deeper lead to?
Shit, things were starting to feel so fucking good.
I didn’t want to mess with that, even if it was wrong.
So I nodded and just said, “I played for a long, long time.”
“Then everything you’re saying makes sense.” She pulled her fingers back and crossed her arms over the table, leaning her chest into the edge of it. “I don’t really know anything about hockey. I don’t know if I’ve ever even watched a game, but I suddenly really appreciate the sport.”
“Why is that?”
“Because I’ve never had a man pick me up before, or hold me against a wall during sex, or slam me on the bed—all things I’ve loved and haven’t been able to stop thinking about.”
“You think that has to do with hockey?”
“I imagine there’s so much body contact and moving and blocking—whatever you guys do to get that thing in the net—that positions like the ones we’ve done come natural to you.”
That was her diagnosis.
Which was fair, given that she was in the medical field.
Before I could respond, the waitress appeared with our food and drinks. After setting down our coffees, she placed a steaming stack of pancakes in front of me with a large scoop of butter in its center, melting and dripping down the sides.
“Let me know if you need anything,” the waitress said before she left us again.
