Page 35 of Mile High Coach

So I took a long, hot shower. Shaved, exfoliated, moisturized. Pulled on a pair of snug jeans, pulled my hair down from its top-knot on my head, and straightened it until it was shiny, naturalwaves gone. Then, right before I walked out, I spritzed on some perfume, then immediately regretted it.

Now, the elevator dings, and I step out onto the small landing. Unlike my floor, which is a long, wide hallway with several doors on either side, this is just a little landing with two doors, one facing east and the other facing west.

I find Harrison’s apartment, swallow, and knock on the door.

“Lovie,” he says, opening it a second later, his eyes dropping instantly to the package in my hand. “What is that?”

“Sourdough,” I say, raising it up, feeling silly for it the second I do. I couldn’t exactly bring a bottle of wine—it’s not like I can drink it, and I know him drinking it could lower his sperm count—so I’d thought bread might be a suitable house gift.

As it always does, a flicker of guilt rolls through me, like headlights through a window at night. It’s hard to acknowledge the realization that I’m compelled to bring a gift to a house party because my mom bred that into me. Even when I was going for sleepovers as a kid, she’d send me with a plate of brownies or some flowers for the parents.

“Perfect,” Harrison says, reaching out and taking the bread from me, pulling me from my thoughts. When his eyes flick to mine, there’s something there that tells me he caught the grief, saw something on my face and wanted to pull me away from it. Maybe that comes from coaching—a heightened awareness of others. “I have artisanal butter in the fridge and nothing to put it on.”

At first, I think he’s lying about that, but ten minutes later, I’m seated at the breakfast bar while he stands in the kitchen, cooking, a little plate of bread and butter in front of me. I watch him move, transfixed, as he shifts around his kitchen, cutting and sliding ingredients into a bowl.

His apartment might be in the same building as mine, but it’s something different entirely. Because it takes up half the topfloor and it’s all windows on the sides, letting in the light from the setting sun and offering a stunning view of the city. The Patapsco River and west channel are glittering brilliantly in the soft orange glow.

“What are you making?” I ask, leaning forward to watch as he tosses red seasoning into a bowl of cubed chicken. It already smells amazing, and my stomach growls loudly, so I pick up a piece of the bread.

It’s very, very good.

“Cajun pasta,” he says. Then, meeting my eyes, he amends, “No shrimp—not too spicy. Oh, and I got you this.”

He turns around and reaches into the fridge, unearthing a bottle of red liquid. I watch as he sets it down, then picks it up.

“You got this for me?”

“The woman at the grocery store said it was good for fertility.”

A blush rises to my cheeks when I think about Harrison talking to someone at the grocery store about me. What did he say? Did she think of me as his wife? His daughter? Did she think it was weird that a man his age was with a woman worried about fertility?

“Thank you,” I manage to croak, and when I meet his gaze, there’s some amusement there. He nods and turns back to his cooking, and I sit quietly chewing on my bread, willing myself to relax.

But this entire thing feels too weird—too domestic.

“You didn’t have to cook me dinner,” I say, eyeing the ingredients spread out over the counter. “This is just sperm, remember?”

“I remember,” he laughs, not stopping the movement of his knife in a way that’s impressive. “You need to be nourished to make a baby, right? So this is all in the spirit of the goal.”

For some reason, that makes something relax inside me, and I look down at the plate of bread, only to realize I’ve had the last piece.

“Here,” he says, pushing a new plate under me.

“When did you even do that?” I ask, laughing, swearing he was cutting bell peppers the entire time.

For the next hour, I watch him as he puts the chicken into the pan, as he sautes peppers and onions, as he pinches up salt and pepper from little pots like an actual chef.

And we talk. We talk about how he enjoys cooking, how he’s lived in this apartment since his divorce, how he grew up down the street from the property manager.

“I didn’t know you grew up in Baltimore,” I say, taking another sip of the tea—which is surprisingly good.

“Yep,” he says, straining the pasta and tossing it into the pan with the sauce and chicken. His sleeves are rolled to the elbow, and I can’t stop focusing on the little spot on his forearms where the muscles flex. “Grew up in West Baltimore. Not on the most dangerous streets, but close enough. He and I were in a low-income afterschool program together.”

“I didn’t realize it was like that for you, growing up.”

“Yeah, well, we didn’t have a lot of money. And the schools back then were hurting for funding. That’s why I want to do the program. There’s just…something different about hockey.”

I wait for him to say more, and he does, something almost shy in his expression. “Hockey is more physical than other sports. It gives you a chance to let out your aggression in a safe, legal way. It’s an outlet for kids who have nowhere else to put that energy. But gear is expensive, and it’s a hell of a lot more money to maintain an ice rink than a basketball court. Not like you’re going to find a rink just anywhere to practice. So offering up those opportunities for free? It’s a little opportunity for kids who don’t have it so easy.”

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