But hey, celibacy works for me. And evidently, so does pizza. We take the pies back down the street to The Hive Mind, where the line has grown impossibly longer in our absence. Why all of these people are out clubbing on a Sunday night, I have no idea, but it's not my place to judge.
We’re not allowed to take the food inside, but that’s fine because we have just enough pizza to feed everyone out here, anyway. Handing out slices feels kind of like what I imagine being the birthday kid whose mom sent cupcakes for the class felt like in elementary school. My mom never sent me to school with cupcakes on my birthday—I was lucky if she even remembered my birthday at all—but passing out pizza gives me the thrill I missed out on as a kid.
Everyone is super nice, even when they’re asking for selfies. Elliot gets way more recognition than I do, which makes sense. Both me and my sport are new in town, but a couple people recognize me as well, and the markers I carry in my bag come in handy when they start asking us to sign napkins and foreheads. By the time the pizza is gone and the club-goers havegotten over the thrill of hanging out with the guy who just scored the winning field goal for San Francisco a few short hours ago, I am fully people-ed out.
I guess Elliot must be too, because when I say I’m going to head home, he offers to walk the few blocks with me.
“Dude, if I knew you lived at the top of one of these massive hills, I would have let you walk yourself home,” he huffs as we scale the sidewalk steps of Filbert Street. My house is up at the top of Telegraph Hill near Coit Tower, at the very top of one of the steepest streets in the city. I love the views from up there, as well as the songs of the wild parrots that live in the trees, but scaling the hill is a fucking hike.
Great for the glutes, though.
I only chuckle, not wanting to talk too much and let Elliot know just how out of breath I am. This street is so steep, it's practically vertical, and it kicks my ass every damn time.
“I thought downtown San Francisco was flat,” Elliot grumbles as we reach the stop of the street. He plants his hands on his knees, panting dramatically. It's nice to know I’m not the only one struggling up this mountain, even if he is obviously hamming it up for dramatic effect.
“Downtown San Francisco is flatter than other parts of the city, yes. But this isn’t downtown. This isNorth Beach, and my place is up there,” I say, pointing to another set of concrete steps built into another sidewalk.
Sometimes I wonder what the hell the Ohlone people were thinking when they settled here a million years ago, or what the Spanish missionaries who stole their land were thinking when they decided to build a city that requires stairs on their roads so you don’t fall backwards while trying to walk up them, but whatever.
I watch as Elliot looks at me, to the stairs, then back to me with a disgruntled look on his face. His frowniness causes a little crinkle to form at the corner of his lips, and I’m not sure why, but the sight of it is very distracting. Maybe it's because it makes him look…distinguished. Like a wise owl holding the secrets to the universe, ready to take my hand in his…hand?
Wing?
His wing hand?
Whatever. He looks like he’s ready to take me in whatever appendage it is that owls have and let me in on some of his knowledge.
I realize I’ve been staring at Elliot’s mouth—his very human, very pink, mouth—for a beat too long, and I clear my throat.
“You can say good night here. I can make itupstairs alone. I’ve done it before,” I say. Elliot’s lip twitches—because I guess I’m still stuck staring at that spot—and his frown tips up into the tiniest of smirks.
“You’re lucky you’re cute,” he says with a shake of his head, then heaves up the first set of steps with a sigh. I follow behind him, taking in the muscles of his legs as he walks. His calves are crazy toned, which makes sense in a logical sort of way. He’s a football player, he’s a kicker, his legs are his money makers. But I’m sort of mesmerized by them, by the way they flex as he moves. It’s as if I’ve never seen a muscular set of calves before.
Hmph. I’ll have to make a note to ask him about his lower leg day routine sometime. I can stretch and flex like nobody’s business, but my calves aren’t nearly as hot and tight as Elliot’s.
When we finally reach the top of the sidewalk steps and I point to the black and white stoop that leads up to my bright red front door, Elliot flops down dramatically on the bottom step, laying back and flinging an arm over his forehead.
“More stairs? Jesus man, no wonder your ass looks like you crack walnuts between your cheeks for fun. You live at the top of a fucking Stairmaster.”
I glance over my shoulder, my cheeks flushing as I look back at my ass. I know it's a good ass—thereare social media accounts dedicated to the backsides of NHL players, particularly in our game day travel suits, and mine always garners a good amount of attention. I also get compliments on my magnificent posterior chain from the lady companions I take to my bed during the offseason, but something aboutElliotnoticing my butt feels different.
I don’t hate it, not one bit.
I rub a hand over the back of my neck as Elliot lays back on my stoop, his chest rising and falling as he works to catch his breath, and I find myself honing in on that damn happy trail again and at a loss of what to do next. I’ve never actually been walked home by someone before. Am I supposed to invite him inside? I don’t have any alcohol to offer him, but I do have some leftover dim sum in the fridge. Maybe he’ll want to watch some Real Housewives with me? It’d be nice to have some company…
I plop down on the step next to Elliot, laying back and tucking my hands behind my head to soften the impact of the concrete stairs while I try to think of what to say next.
Tell him you had fun and want to hang out more, idiot.
“I had a great time with you tonight, Alex. You’re a super cool guy,” Elliot says, beating me to the punch.
“Yeah, so are you, El.”
“We should exchange numbers. The Redwoods are on the road this week, but maybe we can hang out again when we’re both in the city?”
“Definitely, yeah. Let’s do that,” I say, sounding just as eager as I feel to have made a new friend tonight. I pull my phone out of my bag and hand unlock it and Elliot does the same with his. We trade, and I tap my number in.
“Here,” I say, holding the phone up and leaning in until my shoulder brushes against Elliot’s. “Let’s take a picture so I can set it as my contact photo.”
