“To avoid questions from my teammates,” he says, as if he needs to explain himself to me, when I left my wedding band behind when I fled Vegas.
I just stare at it, then at him.
He gives me a lopsided smile. “Kiss me again, wife.”
I do.
And I do, and I do, until we’re both panting.
“Food,” I say.
“Kitchen?” he asks.
“Yeah.”
“Pasta?”
I laugh. “Eggs?”
We’re both blushing and reduced to single words, but it feels so good.
In the kitchen, he hands me his phone. “Make me a playlist of songs you like.”
“I’m supposed to be cooking for you,” I protest.
“I can do the cooking. You were in surgery today.”
“Observing, not performing.”
“Still intense. I want to have some of your favorite songs to listen to tomorrow before the game. Five-two-one-five.”
“Pardon?”
“My passcode.” He says it so matter-of-factly.
“Umm…” I type it in and he opens the fridge, pulling out eggs and salsa.
“Do you like these together?”
“Sure?” I shrug. “I’m not picky about food. Salsa is good. Eggs are good.”
He keeps hunting.
It feels very strange looking at his phone. At the apps he has, the email inbox with way too many notifications, and then clicking in to the music app, all without him caring that I’m going to stumble across something incriminating.
It’s a very spouse-y thing to do.
“This is a weird second date,” I murmur.
“Wait until I bring up real estate,” he says as he shakes a tetra pack of broth. “Is this from yesterday?”
I glance up. “Yeah, that’s still good.”
“Perfect.”
“What do you mean, real estate?”
“We aren’t likely to make the playoffs, so I might be out here by mid-April. Where do you want to live?”
