He side-eyes me, those classic blues almost stopping me in my tracks. Pulling the bag closer, I reach in and pull out the first thing, an envelope with a field pass.
“Hope you can find someone to take your shifts at the gym. Tickets for Sunday’s home game. Pre-game access, all the fun stuff.” His smile iscontagious as I pull out an Upstate Cosmos jersey—Bishop #67 on the back.
I hold it up to me and let out a laugh that might be a little loud for public. Fortunately, I look around and see most people have moved to the bar and a lot of the tables are empty.
“This is very fucking cool. I’m so proud of you!” I scoot my chair back, stand, and meet Tyson with my arms looped around his neck. His arms pull me closer, resting on my lower back. He sways back and forth while letting out his own laugh—it shakes us both.
“You didn’t even get to the best part of the gift,” Tyson says in my hair.
I sit, kicking my feet, and put my hands in the bag, pulling out a bag of coffee beans. Bringing the bag to my nose, I take in the deepest breath, trying to smell the notes and uniqueness of the beans. The aromatics hit me—my favorite smell in the world.
Coffee is one of the few things I don’t budget or pay attention to when it comes to a price tag. I’m meticulous about keeping my equipment taken care of and absolutely love trying coffee beans from other roasters.
“You fiend,” Tyson teases, shaking his head at me. “There’s three bags. One for each away game I’ve had this season. Went on a mission to find you the best coffee from each spot.”
“Ty. That’s so sweet.” He grins at the nickname, the one he’s pretended to hate, but doesn’t seem to mind when I use it. “Thank you for thinking of me.”
He sucks in a breath, like he’s going to say something. Instead, he takes a drink of water and follows it with a standard, “You’re welcome.”
Tyson always seems to remember the little details and puts other people first. Exhibit A: the second bottle of wine we’re working on when I know he doesn’t drink much during the season, and if he does, it’s typically an IPA. But here’s this burly man, drinking pink wine, without a care in the world.
He pours the rest of the bottle into our two glasses and one thought keeps running in my brain.
How is this man single?
"Woah,guessit’stimefor us to go,” I say, looking around at the chairs flipped on tables. It looks like most of the restaurant staff has left, leaving only the closers behind.
“Time flies,” Ty adds, standing up and pulling his phone out. “I’ll get us an Uber.”
Smart, considering we each had a bottle of wine. And a glass of bourbon with dessert, as recommended by the server. Apparently, it was the perfect match for the Pecan Pralines, and let me tell you, he was 100% correct.
Ty leaves an extra $100 bill on the table, probably because we stayed for hours and no one made us feel rushed. Hell, maybe they did and we just didn’t pick up on it? Wouldn’t be the first time. We have this way of getting wrapped up in each other, no matter if we’re talking sports, the gym, family drama, or some meme on the internet.
We’re waiting for the Uber outside, seeing the closing time on the door and realizing we’re past it by almost an hour. The air has the chill of winter on its edges and it’s windier than before. I try to wrap my arms around me,but that’s difficult when I’m holding a gift bag, plus this jacket is much more for novelty than function.
Like Ty can read my mind, he wraps me in a bear hug. He’s big and warm, and I don’t know what kind of fabric this pullover is, but fuck, it’s soft. Rubbing my back, he tries to warm me up—shield me from the cold.
And I don’t resist.
Too quick, it seems, the Uber shows up. Tyson confirms the license plate, opens my door and helps me in before walking to the other side and sliding in next to me.
“What about my car?” I finally realize that tomorrow—well, today, considering it’s after midnight—I will have work to do and places to be.
Tyson’s face is illuminated by his phone. He swipes around a few times and hands it back to me. “Schedule an Uber to your apartment. Address and everything is typed in, just need to know what time.”
Again, thoughtful.
“You think of everything,” I say while trying to decide what time I'll want to be up and ready to go get my car and start my day. Ooof. Tomorrow may suck a little. But I'd do it again, no questions asked, to spend time like this with one of my favorite people.
We’re on our way to my place first; it’s about twenty minutes from here, and I can’t get my hands warm. I’d rather melt into the Earth than ask the Uber driver to turn the heat up or be a burden in any way, shape, or form. I rub them on my jeans and try to put them inside the sleeves of my jacket, but nothing helps.
“Here,” Ty says while reaching for my hands, which feel like icicles, and sandwiching them between his own.
His hands are massive and ridiculously warm. “Your hands are like bear paws,” I tease while leaning my head to his shoulder and letting our hands fall between us.
Ty laughs. “Lots of encounters with bears since we’ve last caught up?”
I smile into him at the joke and feel my stomach flip, like when you start the drop of a rollercoaster.
