“When are you due?” Nina asks.
“Next January. I’ve been working out at ESA on top of my regular strengthening sessions at the gym, but I plan on getting back to training more rigorously once I’m cleared post-delivery.”
I hear the sound of click clacks from her keyboard as she hums thoughtfully, then she says, “There’s an invitational meet on May fifth, so we can aim to have you ready by then. Keep showing Coach Samuels that you’re doing well and working on your behavior.”
“I’ll be ready.”
“That’s what I like to hear. What are you doing in the meantime aside from working? I know for a lot of athletes, losing the ability to do their thing is tough,” she says, her tone gentle.
“Nothing, I guess? I don’t really have any hobbies,” I tell her, feeling embarrassed over the fact that I don’t know what I like to do.
“Hmm, well, start trying different things. Paint, take up knitting or doing crossword puzzles. Keep going until you find one you like,” she suggests.
“It can’t hurt,” I surmise.
“Exactly. I have to get going, but we’ll catch up soon.”
We exchange goodbyes and hang up, and immediately I search for hobbies for adults and scroll through the list as the ones Nina listed didn’t seem up my alley.
Crocheting? Absolutely not.
Gardening? I don’t care to get my hands dirty.
Pottery? I’d probably smash it out of anger if it didn’t work out.
Baking?
I pause on that one as my stomach rumbles. Yup, Blueberry wants something sweet. With that in mind, I look up a recipe for blueberry banana bread.
Quentin said I could use the kitchen, and I’m not one to ask twice for permission, so I make myself at home as I pull out a mixing bowl along with measuring cups and the ingredients I’ll need. It takes me a few minutes to find everything as I’m not familiar with the pantry, but I’ll get there. If this hobby works out, that is.
I throw some music on and follow the steps for the bread, not entirely hating the process. After all the ingredients are mixed in, I throw it into a greased pan and toss it in the oven, then put a timer on my phone for forty-five minutes.
With my hands on my hips, I feel proud of myself until I realize the large mess on the counter that I need to clean up.
You know what, I don’t think baking is going to be my new hobby, but at least I’ll get a sweet treat for trying.
Once I’m finished washing the dishes and wiping the counter down, there are only a few minutes left on the timer.
I reward myself with a little dance session just as my favorite song comes on, “Still Into You” by Paramore.
I’m lost to the music, swaying my hips from side to side, bopping my head up and down while my hands mimic that of one onJersey Shoreas I fist-bump like nobody’s business.
There’s no one to witness, so I dance like a goof because when it’s time to perform on the floor at competitions, I don’t get to move my body as freely as I can now.
Truth be told, there’s nothing quite as freeing as screaming your heart out to a song you loved as a teenager and dancing at the same time.
Until someone walks in on you.
I’m mid-spin when I see Quentin leaning against the archway, arms crossed over his chest as his hair drips with dampness from his post-game shower. If I weren’t so mortified that he caught me dancing, I’d be thinking about how hot he looks right now.
The way the fabric of his T-shirt stretches around his biceps, the material taut against the bulge of muscle. Or how he has a lock of hair on his forehead that I’m itching to push back into place, just to feel his silky strands between my fingers again.
“Oh my God.” My words are muffled as my hand flies to my mouth and the other to my phone to pause the music.
“Don’t stop on my account.” He rubs his lips together, trying to keep himself from laughing.
“Nope, the vibe is ruined now.” I shake my head as I turn and check on the banana bread since my timer was nearly about to go off.
