Page 8 of O Goalie Night
When we arrive at Foster’s house, which for the record is beautiful and not even remotely seedy, all I want to do was go to bed and pretend the day had never happened.
Foster sets my suitcase down in the guest room he’s just led me to. It’s bigger than my room back home. The walls are painted a soft blue, enhancing the airy feel of the space. The only furniture is a queen-size bed and a simple white dresser.
“Are you hungry?” He asks, green eyes scanning me with concern.
I don’t want to be but I am. My appetite disappeared with my three-thousand-dollar deposit, but my stomach doesn’t know that. All it knows is that I haven’t fed it since lunch.
“Not really,” I lie. “I think I’ll just go to bed.”
“Here’s the thing.” He points at the bed. “The sheets should be washed. No one has ever stayed here and I certainly wasn’t expecting anyone. But the sheets have been on the bed for years. Why don’t you take a shower while I throw them in the laundry and make us something to eat?”
I bite my lip. A shower does sound amazing. I know I won’t be able to scrub away what’s happened and wash my disappointment down the drain, but I can try.
“That sounds great,” I admit gratefully.
As I help him strip the sheets from the queen-size bed I’m struck by the intimacy of it all. On any other day, being alone in a room with Foster James would probably have sent my imagination into overdrive. But here we are,leaning over a bed and I feel nothing but my own sense of self-pity.
I’m broken.
The shower is incredible. I’ve never felt water pressure this powerful; it’s practically massaging the balls of tension in my shoulders and neck. There is nothing on any of the shelves; not a bar or soap or a bottle of shampoo to be found. I have my own toiletries, so I don’t mind at all, but I find myself wondering if it’s ever been used. The tile is gleaming and I’m sure Foster has a cleaner come regularly to keep it that way.
I’m not sure how long I stand there, basking in the hot water, but eventually my growling stomach becomes more insistent and I get out. Once I’m dried and dressed in my oversized University of Prince Edward Island t-shirt and a pair of leggings, I make my way to the kitchen Foster pointed out on the initial tour of the house on the way to my room.
My host is standing at the stove with his back to me, his sculpted muscles visible through his thin t-shirt as he works. He must hear me approach because he glances back over his shoulder and gives me a smile that makes the lower half of my body tingle.
Maybe I’m not so broken after all.
“How was your shower?” His entire body stiffens and he immediately starts to shake his head. “Nope. Let’s try that again. How are you now?”
A burst of giggles escapes me as a blush stains his cheeks. It's not like I thought he was asking for a detailed report, but his reaction is priceless.
“Better, thank you.” I watch him plate our supperbefore joining me at the island. He sets down identical plates of chicken, rice, and broccoli in front of us.
“It’s not the most exciting meal,” he says with an apologetic shrug as he grabs forks and knives from a nearby drawer. “The team dietician gives us plans and I try to follow mine pretty closely. Would you like a glass of wi–”
“Yes, please.”
He chuckles as he moves to the cupboard and removes a bottle of red wine and a stemless glass. “Yes, Ma’am.”
I watch him search through three kitchen drawers before he retrieves a bottle opener. He removes the cork swiftly, his impressive bicep flexing as he pulls it from the bottle’s neck.
Accepting the glass gratefully, I raise it to my mouth and take a large mouthful of the maroon liquid. My eyes close as the full-bodied wine hits my taste buds and I swallow, sighing contentedly.
When I open my eyes, Foster is looking at me expectantly.
“Is it okay?”
“It’s wonderful. You’re not having a glass?”
He relaxes, shaking his head. “Nah, I don’t drink much. I’ll have a beer with the guys when we’re playing poker sometimes, but that’s it.”
I press my lips together, fighting a smile. “So you just keep a bottle of wine stocked for when you rescue your friends’ sisters from sleeping on a park bench?”
“I guess so. For the record, I would have left you at a seedy motel before I let you sleep outdoors.” The man has perfected deadpan and I laugh as I pick up my fork.
We eat in comfortable silence. The meal is simple, butsimple suits my anxiety-riddled stomach just fine. Though there is no way I can possibly eat all of it. Two chicken breasts, at least two cups of brown rice, and a mountain of broccoli. He probably doubled what he would normally make for himself.
As I sip my wine, I make a mental list of everything I need to do.
