Page 4 of Spring Break With A Gold Medalist

“You’ve expended a lot of energy. You need a snack. Cheese and grapes. Perfect.” There isn’t much in her refrigerator but those few grapes and a couple hunks of cheese from Landon Dairy Cheeses next door. A new plan forms in my brain. I put the snack on a small plate then set it and a large bottle of water on a side table next to her. After double checking the wrap on her knee, I cross toward the door.

“You don’t have anything here for supper.”

She shrugs. “If I get hungry I’ll order delivery.”

“What’s your favorite take out?”

She eyes me with suspicion. “Chinese. Why?”

“I’ll be back later with supper. Happy Family okay? Egg drop soup?”

“You don’t need to bring me food. You don’t need to do anything else for me. I appreciate your help, but I can take care of myself.”

I suppose she can, but she doesn’t need to. Not when that’s my job now. The realization and truth of that feeling settles like a warm blanket around my heart. I smile and her determined expression softens to questions. She can argue all she likes. She’s not winning this one. “I know you can, baby doll. You just don’t have to.”

three

Maya

That’s what, the third or fourth time he’s called me baby doll? Why does it do funny things to me when I should be upset at his audacity? Oh, those idiotic butterflies in my belly. The tingling in my lady bits. It’s been such a long time since I’ve felt anything like this. Even then I don’t remember the effects being as strong.

I don’t have enough energy to fight him on this, and Chinese food sounds really good. “Okay, you win. Happy Family is fine, as long as you get an extra order of crab rangoons.”

His satisfied smirk is almost enough for me to take back my agreement. The opportunity to get to know him better wins. I already like him. His kindness and willingness to help a stranger is a huge checkmark in his favor. The way he looks doesn’t hurt either. I’ve always appreciated a broad chest and muscular arms. Evidenced by his firm muscles when he picked me up and carried me without any difficulty, he works out a lot.

I wonder what he looks like without his shirt. Does he have a six pack? An adonis belt? He’s got a tribal band just above the elbow on one arm. Any more tats? I can go either way with those.

With a wave he turns to exit the apartment. Nice butt, too.

If I was wise, I’d get up, lock the door, and ignore him if he really does return. Instead, I munch on the grapes and sip my water as I relax. Closing my eyes, I tell myself I’ll work on my manuscript once my cold therapy time is up. Instead, I doze off until a knock at the door jerks me awake.

Blinking to clear the sleep from my eyes and focus I call, “It’s open.”

The door opens slowly and a hand holding a large paper bag appears easing around the edge. The savory aroma of ginger, garlic, and soy makes my mouth water. A quick glance at my watch shows I’ve slept for over two hours.

“Is it safe to come in?”

I chuckle at Phil’s question. “Yes, as long as you’re going to share that food. Smells wonderful.”

He enters and sets the bag on the counter then puts a smaller bag into the freezer. “Want me to bring you a plate, or are you up to eating over here?”

Lowering the leg rest, I scoot forward in the chair. “I’ve got to… umm… I’ll be there in a few minutes.”

“Take your time,” he says as he turns toward the dish cupboard.

Thankful he doesn’t think he needs to help me to the bathroom, I use the cane for support—which I don’t always do when I’m alone. I’m in the mood for supper, not a lecture. It is easier to get around using the metal stick I’ve named Erika. I shouldn’t be so stubborn.

Wanting to be done with the healing process and therapy while at the same time not following the doctor’s and physical therapists’ advice is a human thing to do, but stupid. I know that. In fact, I’ve been outlining a chapter for my book on balancing life and sports covering just this topic. So why don’t I do what I’m supposed to?

Full plates are waiting on the island when I return and once I’ve settled awkwardly onto the bar height chair, I turn my attention to Phil. His face is calm and exposes none of his thoughts. He lifts a glass of iced tea in salute. “I’m not a fan of hot tea. I hope this is acceptable.”

“It is. I like cold tea better, too.” Clinking the rims of our glasses in salute, we share an interesting, soft stare I don’t really understand. So I pay more attention to my plate. Besides the main dish, there’s fried rice and a thick egg roll. A pile of rangoons fill a plate between us.

He slides a large plastic cup of the red, sticky, American version of sweet and sour sauce next to the plate. “For dipping.”

“Perfect.”

I’ve nearly cleaned my plate and am reaching for another crispy Rangoon before realizing how much I’m eating. Shit, this isn’t my normal having a meal with a guy behavior. What’s he going to think?

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