My body aches, and my muscles throb. I’ve pushed myself to a new physical peak, and now the real work starts. Now the season is ready to begin. The first of the smaller tournaments is around the corner, and after that, it’s a steady buildup to the first Grand Slam in Paris at the end of May.
Just one more quick detour for me first.
When I land in Seattle, I expect to grab a car to Gabriel’s loft. He surprises me, though, and picks me up on his motorcycle.
The Space Needle rises above the water, and from the back of the ride, the sweeping views of the city engulf me. After we pull up to the old brick building, a cool drizzle starts to fall.
I hitch my jacket up as we walk down the sidewalk. “You had the nerve to complain about Boston weather?”
Gabriel grins as he pushes the double glass doors open, holding it for me. “Yeah, but it’s part of the vibes here, you know?”
An old freight elevator takes us up to the third floor, and we walk out into a spacious wooden loft. “Very Seattle grunge,” I say, turning on my heel as I glance around. “Are those flannel couches?”
Gabriel takes my suitcase from me. “I’m sentimental. I like my old furniture. One ridiculous thing about me is that I ship all my stuff across the country every time I move. Busted furniture, notebooks with only two pages in them, old sneakers. Everything has to come.” He shrugs. “Never let the fact that you relocate every year or two prevent you from acquiring a massive guitar collection.”
I follow him across the loft. “Age-old advice.”
He chuckles as he pulls a curtain back. “Your room,” he says. “Sorry about the lack of walls.”
There’s a comfy bed and plenty of space, and out the window, I see a stunning view of the water. It’s fine. I’ll be totally comfortable.
But I’m not about to cut him a break on the walls.
“Do you ship the curtains every time you move, too? Or is the lack of walls just a special feature of your Seattle place?”
He laughs. “Special for Seattle.”
“Lucky me,” I say, teasing him. “But if I’m sleeping behind a grunge curtain, I want credit for not insisting on a hotel.”
“You’re a total team player,” Gabriel says as he sets my suitcase down, joking back. “Let the record show.” He pushes a hand through his hair while he gives me a funny smile. “What do you say? I’ll put on a record and we’ll have a little dinner before we head to Fox’s party?”
Five minutes later, I’m sitting at an old wooden table and drinking red wine out of a water glass while I watch Gabriel mess around in the kitchen. He looks particularly sexy chopping the knife and tossing vegetables in the pan, except for the fact that he’s kind of a mess with his technique.
The slow, sloppy way he chops the carrots is inefficient, but when he approaches a big yellow onion with a paring knife he’s already proven dull, I can’t handle it anymore.
“Here,” I say as I slide beside him. “Let me help.”
Gabriel frowns at me. “You think I don’t know what I’m doing, don’t you?”
“Yes. And the only reason you know I think that is because you obviously don’t know what you’re doing.”
He laughs and sets the knife down, leaning back on the counter. “I end up with totally fine food in the end.” He picks up a garlic clove and pounds it on the chopping board with the heel of his palm, squashing it. “I just make a mess on the way there.”
I take a proper knife from the rack, removing it carefully. “The way you were going at those carrots, you were going to chop your precious guitar fingers off.” I gently move him out of the way and turn my attention to the onion. “Diced?”
Gabriel rolls his eyes, but I think he’s entertained by me being bossy. “Sure.”
He flips the stove on, turning the burner under a cast-iron pan up to ten. When he opens the fridge, I lower the heat first and then efficiently finish off the onion.
As Gabriel tells me about the blues album he’s playing us, I manage to fuss the dinner a couple more times, and in the end, it comes out pretty decent.
The tuna is seared nicely, although I wonder how clean that pan was. The vegetables are a little mushy together, but you barely notice when they’re mixed up with the rice.
As we eat, though, the things that are off are kind of the best parts. It’s so rare to have someone else cook for me, the mess Gabriel made is half of the enjoyment.
Easily, we fall into conversation. He catches me up on his songwriting, I confess that I’ve been looking at motorcycles online, and we both laugh about the rumor circulating that we’ve been a couple for years and half his songs are about me.
We get cleaned up after dinner, and Gabriel emerges in a fitted gray suit, a black tie hanging loosely over his collared white shirt. He’s got the sleeves rolled up, revealing his tattoos and leather bracelets, and his nails are freshly painted black.
