Page 11 of Pucking My Grumpy Roommate
What wasn’t calibrated was finding someone already in my kitchen.
Kate Ellis, microbiologist and apparent early riser, was perched on one of my bar stools, surrounded by a hurricane of papers. She wore pajamas covered in what looked like cartoon germs, her auburn hair piled in a messy bun that defied gravity. She was petite—the top of her head would barely reach my shoulder—with bright green eyes that sparkled with intelligence. The pajamas hugged curves I was trying very hard not to notice. “Morning!” she chirped, far too enthusiastically for five a.m. “I hope you don’t mind. I couldn’t sleep because of the time zone difference. My circadian rhythm is completely disrupted.”
“Coffee,” I grunted, limping toward the kitchen.
“Oh! I made some already.” She gestured toward my precision coffee maker. “I hope that’s okay. I figured out your machine.”
I stared at her, then at my coffee maker.
She slid a mug toward me. “Black, right? You don’t seem like a cream and sugar guy. Too many empty calories for an athlete.”
I took the mug, silencing her with a look that had made rookie players tremble. Kate merely blinked at me, those bright green eyes unnervingly direct.
“Right. Minimal talking before coffee. Rule six. I remember.” She pantomimed zipping her lips, then immediately unzipped them.
“Got it. Silent as a bacterium.”
I bit back a sarcastic comment, knowing it would only encourage more conversation from her. I moved to the refrigerator, hyperaware of her presence as I gathered ingredients for my protein shake. The routine felt off, performing it while being watched by someone wearing microbe pajamas.
“What are you working on?” I asked despite myself, the coffee finally kickstarting my social functions.
“Basically,” she continued, misinterpreting my nod as encouragement, “I’m tracking how superbugs share their resistance abilities with other bacteria. Think of it like a dangerous skill that gets passed around. It’s like if Thor could give Captain America his lightning powers just by standing next to him.”
“You’re comparing deadly bacteria to the Avengers?”
Her smile was disarmingly genuine. “Makes it more accessible, right? My best friend Angel says I need to work on translating ‘science speak’ into ‘human speak.’”
The microbe pajamas suddenly made a lot more sense.
“Look,” I said, pouring my shake into a travel container, “I have PT in an hour. The guest bathroom is yours, but?—”
“Don’t touch anything in the main bathroom. Rule four. I remember all the rules, promise.” She held up her hand in what looked like a Scout’s honor. “And today I’ll probably head over to campus to check out the lab, get my bearings—you know, nerd stuff. Either way, you’ll barely know I’m here.”
The chaos of papers, the coffee mug with lipstick on the rim, and the cartoon microbes dancing across her pajamas suggested otherwise. I had a feeling my carefully ordered life had just been infected with something I couldn’t control.
“Also,” she added as I turned to leave, “you might want to ice that knee after your PT. The way you’re favoring it suggests inflammation beyond normal recovery progression.”
“I have professionals managing my recovery,” I said stiffly.
“Of course! I just—” She bit her lip. “I’ve been reading up on knee injuries. Since I’m staying here. With you. Who has a knee injury.” She winced at her own awkwardness. “Not because I’m stalking you or anything. That would be weird. And possibly illegal.”
Despite everything, I felt the corner of my mouth twitch. There was something almost endearing about her complete inability to filter herself.
Almost.
“I’ll see you later,” I said, heading for the door.
“Have a productive physical therapy session!” she called after me.
I closed the door, wondering what the hell I’d gotten myself into.
“Your focus is off today,” Jen said, adjusting the resistance on my leg press. “Five more reps. And this time, actually pay attention to your form.”
I gritted my teeth, pushing through the burning sensation in my knee. That brutal collision with Thompson from Dallas as I turned to block his shot. The sickening pop, the immediate agony, the world going silent as I crumpled to the ice. Just like that, my season was over.
Three months since the surgery to reconstruct my ACL, and I was still nowhere near ready to return.
My mind drifted back to my apartment, wondering what Hurricane Kate was doing to my carefully ordered space.
