“Hey,” I say.
“How was practice?” he asks as we make our way to the food lines.
“Good, as usual.”
“Feeling confident about tonight?”
“Always. Did you have practice today?”
“Way too early this morning.”
“Not a morning person, huh?”
“I just like sleep.”
“Sleep is nice, but it’s the warm bed that makes me want to stay.”
He groans a sound that shouldn’t be so erotic… and now I’m thinking of him in bed, naked… running his large hand over his chest and abs that I know are there, the muscles in his arm flexing.
“Exactly that,” he grunts, shaking me out of my inappropriate thoughts. Though, maybe I’ll revisit it later. Naked Roman Callahan? Yes, please.
We’re dressed warmly here because it’s so cold, and when he’s on the ice, he has so much gear on it’s impossible to tell what’s underneath, but I know… they’re all built under there, even if they hide it well, and Roman is no different.
Just thinking about his hard abs, his firm muscles, has me way too excited for being in public, and these sweatpants won’t hide a thing, so I need to behave.
We get into the line to grab our food. I’m not hungry, but I should eat, so I get a salad with chicken, a banana, and water. I don’t see the pile of food on Roman’s plate until we sit at the table.
“Wow, did you leave any for the others?” I ask with a laugh.
He glances down at his plate, then mine. The corner of his mouth turns up in a smirk.
“Are you part bird?”
“Oh, so you have comebacks, huh?”
He shrugs. “Sometimes.”
“Eating all of that doesn’t make you sick?” I ask, pointing to his bowl of pasta that is easily a double portion, maybe triple.
He frowns. “Why would it make me sick?”
“It’s all so…” I roll my wrist as I think of the word I want to use. “Heavy.”
“I like food.”
“You don’t feel weighed down after eating though?”
“I just work it off in the gym.”
Narrowing my eyes, I watch as he digs into the food, noting the slice of cake to his left. I could do without cake, but I am a sucker for brownies. I’m glad they don’t have any here because I may feel the need to cheat.
“If I eat too much, I feel sluggish,” I say. “A lot of people comment on it, especially Étienne. For a while, he thought I had an eating disorder, which I do not, I’m just picky about what I put in my body.”
I glance up from my food to find him staring at me cautiously.
“You’re sure you don’t have an eating disorder?” he asks carefully.
I’m not mad or offended at the question. I put it out there for discussion. He’s just commenting on it.
