Page 32 of A Little Too Forward

Pulling my suitcase over to the bed, I hoist it up with an exaggerated moan. Unzipping the cute green swirl case, I dig through my clothes, searching for my PJs and toiletries.

“Do you mind if I take a shower? I feel”—I shake my body like the stale air from the airport is still hanging off me—“grimy.”

“Go for it. I’ll be here,” he says distractedly, already pouring his prized sauce over a plate of sweet potato fries.

My mouth waters looking at his dinner, but I’ll worry about food after my shower. That’s the priority of the moment.

Gathering all my things, I head into the adjoining bathroom and close the door. I eye the lock, wondering for a brief moment if I should lock it, but shake that thought away. As crazy as it sounds, I trust Max. It’s not like we’re teenagers anymore, playing pranks or messing with each other’s things.

If he dared come into this bathroom to flush the toilet while I was in the shower, I would murder him. Or, even more diabolical, ask a really embarrassing question during filming that he would have to answer in front of a room full of people.

I giggle to myself, just imagining the look on his face if I brought up the all-boys choir he was in back in elementary school. Priceless.

Taking my time in the shower, I stand under the hot water, washing away the stress of the day and the chill of the Boston weather. I am a Toronto girl through and through, so I’m used to cold weather, but damn, the bracing wind in Boston is something else. It cuts right through you, even on a mild November day.

By the time I get out, dry off, and go through my moisturizing routine, I’ve been in the bathroom for almost an hour. Coming out of the steam-filled room, I grin at Max, feeling so much better.

He grins back at me, and then his smile falls once he sees what I’m wearing.

“Oh my God, you’re obsessed with me.”

I knew he would spot what’s on my PJs within seconds—but I’d also hoped he would remain oblivious.

“Shut up, no I’m not. You know I’ve been a die-hard Toronto Nighthawks fan my whole life.”

“This, though,thisis next-level obsession.” He points to my Nighthawk logo PJ pants.

“Colton got them for me a couple years ago for Christmas. And they’re my comfiest set, so look away, pervert, and don’t make fun of my style.”

A laugh booms out of Max. He throws back his head and falls into his stacked pillows. His amusement gets to me, and I chuckle at how ridiculous we both are. Falling back into friendship with Max, just like old times, has been easy.

I wish that’s all it was. Even with all my protesting that we aren’t friends, I know we are. I also know that something else has changed within me. Something is not the same as it was when we started this documentary.

Needing to change my direction of thought, I grab what I think is the room service menu from the side table and make my way to my bed.

“I got you a burger,” Max interrupts my pursuit of the options. “Figured you’d be hungry once you got settled, and I saw the way you were looking at my burger.”

“Oh” is all I’m able to say, staring at the brown box Max pointed to on the table across the room. I don’t know why, but the gesture has me choked up. “Thank you. I-I appreciate that. I was just thinking that I’m too tired to make a choice about anything right now.”

I hop off the bed, grab the box and the pile of napkins beside it, and bring it back to my original spot. Plumping up the pillows behind me, I wiggle into a comfortable spot and sigh in relief.

“Since you’re not making any decisions tonight, please enjoy the show I’ve selected too.”

My mouth is already full, so I just nod at him, not caring what we watch as I’m sure I’ll be asleep minutes after finishing my dinner.

The opening theme music plays, and within an instant, I know what we’re watching. Max grins over at me, and I give a “mmh” of approval.Only Murders in the Buildingis one of my comfort shows. I put it on in the background all the time when I’m working at home.

“Nice,” I say as I grab a fry. “Love this show.”

“I figured you did. You know, for such a sweet girl, you really do love murder.”

I snort at his description of me. Wiping my fingers on a napkin, I send him an amazed look. “You are probably only one of a handful of people that would call me sweet. I’m usually described as a bitch.”

“Nah, you’re not a bitch. You’re focused. A driven professional. Some people don’t like the fact that they can’t get under your skin, and they deflect by calling you that. I know better.”

Putting the half empty container on the floor beside my bed, I push myself down until I’m lying on my side and looking at Max. I’m shaken by the fact that he can see that in me. That he knows me so well that he can move beyond the gossip and name-calling that being a woman in sport usually comes with.

I don’t want to talk about myself. Not like this. Not now. That feels too exposing, and being this close with Max, both physically and emotionally, is already testing my strength.

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