Page 66 of Relationship Goals

“You don’t want to put a label on this?” he asks carefully, unlocking his front door. More metal and glass, a sort of smoked-out finish that blocks the view of the interior. Not that any neighbors are around to see in.

“I didn’t say that, I was just, uh, explaining.” I narrow my eyes at his back, then stop and simply stare around when the lights turn on. “Your house is…wow.”

“It’s not as comfortable as yours,” he says, brushing off my sad attempt at a compliment.

“I love it,” I tell him, and I mean it. “It’s open and warm and modern all at once.” I might be gushing, but damn, I love a well-decorated space. Especially one slightly spare in conventions, probably a holdover from my mom’s rooster-cluttered kitchen growing up.

How many roosters can you put in a kitchen? As many as possible.

“I bet you only have one cock in the kitchen.” Oh god. Why did I say that out loud? I’m going to die.

“What does that mean?” he asks, looking over his shoulder.

“My mom collected roosters in the kitchen growing up,” I blab. “Sorry. I’m being ridiculous. Shutting up.”

“I like when you’re ridiculous. I like to know what’s going on in that mind of yours.” He doesn’t turn over his shoulder again, still headed for what looks to be a modern-style kitchen, done in light wood and a warm, soothing beige. I never would have picked it, but it’s just so him.

“I love this house,” I say simply. “It’s so nice.”

“Yeah, it will be hard to sell it,” he agrees.

“Are you selling it?” I ask, incredulous. “Why?”

“No, not at the moment.” He clears his throat as he ushers me into a smaller room, this one equipped with a stainless steel sink and all kinds of cupboards. “Athletes move a lot, is all.”

It’s a more utilitarian space than the gorgeous kitchen, with brick-paved floors covered in thick, vibrant rugs.

My head practically swivels as I look around. A mudroom?

He pulls out a large stock pot, and I watch in curious silence as he takes out item after item: a heating pad, Dawn dish soap, several fluffy towels, and an entire box of what looks like ice pops, but upon further inspection appear to be tubes of…meat.

“Treats?” I ask, jerking my head at one.

“Yeah. Not sure how old he is yet, but I thought I’d get them out.” A can of kitten formula follows, along with a bottle and a warmer.

“You really do this a lot, huh?” I’m staggered by the level of preparation. Staggered, impressed, and slightly in love with him. “Do you have cats of your own?”

“Nah, I travel too much. When it’s offseason I like to help the local rescues out with fostering, but it wouldn’t be fair to have a pet and then be gone as often as I am for away games.”

“That’s…so freaking sweet,” I finally say, unable to resist the adorableness quotient.

“Is it?” He seems genuinely surprised by my reaction, his dark eyebrows furrowing in confusion. “Might as well help if you can, you know?”

“It’s just at odds with—” I sigh in exasperation. “I don’t know. It’s just not what I expected. Most…celebrities,” I say the word delicately, “would want that plastered across the front pages, would be the go-to mouthpiece for the organizations they are trying to help, you know? I think it’s cool you’re hands-on.”

“No one in their right fucking minds would want me as a mouthpiece,” he says, the confusion turning to flat-out consternation. “It’s not like it’s Nobel Peace Prize–worthy, either. I’m literally wiping shit off cats’ butts.”

A surprised laugh erupts out of me, and the kitten growls in protest, suddenly all knives and spitting hisses again.

“He’s definitely cussing us out right now,” I tell Luke.

“They’re all angry until they eat. Know what, though?” He frowns. “Let’s go ahead and get him bathed.” His gaze is stuck on my wrist, and I swallow, already knowing what I’m going to see there.

“There’s fleas on me, huh?”

“I don’t want you to be uncomfortable. We’ll get him cleaned up and then feed him.” The wrinkles around his mouth deepen as he frowns more. “Or she. Either way, the food usually works. Especially with one this young. You’ll see.”

With that, he turns to the sink, humming under his breath something that sounds suspiciously like a sea shanty until he gets the water temperature just right. When he’s happy with the warmth of the water, he fills the stock pot up and adds soap. A light layer of bubbles forms on top.

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