Ethan doesn't respond, but I'm sure he's just distracted with breakfast.
“I can probably get something on Amazon delivered today.”
I head to my duffel, finding it completely empty of clean clothes with the exception of one pair of socks. Conveniently, Ethan isn'tthatmuch bigger than me. I grab a pair of joggers out of the chest ofdrawers and pull them on – I'm sure he won't mind that I don't grab a shirt to go with them.
“Babe, did you hear me?” I head for the living area, smelling coffee in the air.
As I emerge from the bedroom, the first thing that crosses my mind is that we're not alone. There, sitting at the kitchen island, is over six feet of Russian goalie.
Suddenly, I wish I'd grabbed a shirt after all.
“Oh, uh, hey Alexei.” I look toward Ethan, whose face tells me nothing. The two seem to be locked in a staredown, and I have no idea what I'm supposed to do. Finally, I just grab what I really need – there's no way I'm getting through this without a cup of coffee.
The clatter of the carafe seems to break whatever trance they're in.
“Um, Alexei was just stopping by to take me for brunch. It was a, uh, surprise.”
I bet it was.
“Well, that was a great workout, Cap. But I need to do some, uh, laundry? So I'm gonna....go.” As quickly as possible, I go back to the bedroom to grab my duffel – and a shirt. Behind me, I hear footsteps.
“You don't need to leave, Jamie.”
I cover my face with my hands, unable to conceal the embarrassment rising within me.
“I amsosorry.” I whisper.
Ethan crosses to me.
“Why are you sorry? You didn't do anything wrong.” The words are a little reassuring, at least. He's not blaming mepersonallyfor this.
“Yeah, well, I'm sure this isn't how you wanted your best friend to find out you're, uh...” For once, I'm the one who can't get the word out.
“He knows.”
My eyes shoot to his, and I'm sure my shock is written clearly on my face.
“About us?”
“About me. I, uh, told him. A couple weeks ago.”
At this, I need to sit down on the bed.
“You told him ?”
He nods and I grab for his hand.
“Was he...okay about it?” I can't believe he didn't tell me. Did he think I wouldn't want to know?
“He was great. He, uh, already knew. He was just...waiting for me to tell him myself.”
I've often wondered about this. Ethan is in his early thirties and, as far as I can tell, has never had a girlfriend to speak of. In a sport where the average player is married by twenty-five, it's not unremarkable. But somehow, I've never heard anyone on the team give him shit for it. Do theyallknow?
“I'm so glad he was good about it.” I say, squeezing his hand once more before standing up. “But based on the look on his face, I think you've got some more talking to do.”
Now it's his turn to lift a hand to his face, scrubbing at it as though he's exhausted.
“I'll talk to you later, ok? Text me to tell me how it goes?”
