He knows what the thing is. I sit behind him on the bed and scratch his scalp for exactly three minutes while he closes his eyes and breathes. I started it in March, he was so tense his shoulders were up around his ears, but the team won the game that night, so now it’s canon. He will never admit he likes it. He will also never skip it.
He sits. I climb behind him and work my fingers through his damp hair and his shoulders drop and he makes a sound that’s barely audible, somewhere between a sigh and a groan.
“You’re going to be great today,” I say.
“You don’t know that.”
“I know you. That’s enough.” I lean forward and kiss the back of his neck. “You’ve prepared for this your entire life. Every practice, every morning skate, every game you sat on the bench andwatched and studied and stayed ready. This is what ready looks like.”
He reaches back and catches my hand and brings it to his mouth and kisses my palm and holds it against his cheek. His eyes are still closed.
“You need to go,” he says quietly. “Rodriguez is coming down at seven. We’re getting breakfast and then the gym and then I come back here and nap before I head to the arena.”
“I know. I’m going.”
“You’re still behind me scratching my head.”
“I’m finishing the three minutes. There’s a protocol.” One more kiss on the back of his neck. “Okay. Done. Going.”
I climb off the bed and pull on my jeans, checking my hair in the bathroom mirror. Dire. I finger-comb it into something that could be described as “intentional” if you were being generous and “feral” if you were being accurate.
Zach’s dressed now, standing by the door. I cross to him and place my hand on his chest.
“I love you,” I say. “Whatever happens today.”
“I love you too.” He kisses me slowly. “Go home. Get some sleep. I’ll see you at the arena tonight.”
“I’ll be the one screaming.”
“You’re always the one screaming.”
“It’s a gift.”
I grab my bag, slip out the door, and walk down the hallway toward the elevator. I’ve done this walk a hundred times. The 6 AM exit, shoes on, hair a disaster, riding the elevator down to the garage and walking to my car like I’m just a person who parked here for no reason. I’ve never been caught. Seven months and not once. I’m basically a professional at this. A stealth operative. A ninja of secret relationships.
The elevator takes forever this morning. I haven’t figured out why it does that sometimes. I stand here pickingat my nails, bouncing on my toes, thinking about Game 7 and smoothies. Thinking about the sound Zach made when I scratched his head, and whether the spinach actually does anything or if I’ve been torturing him for months based on one article I skimmed in the bathtub.
The elevator dings.
The doors slide open.
Rodriguez is standing inside.
He’s holding two coffees and is clearly on his way to Zach’s apartment, an hour early. Because of course he is. Rodriguez has never been on time for anything in his life, and today of all days he decides to be EARLY.
He looks at me.
I look at him.
His mouth opens and hangs there before he snaps it shut.
“Mackie?” He says it like a question. Like maybe I’m not real. Like maybe if he squints I’ll turn into someone else, anyone else, someone who has a reason to be standing on the fourth floor of this building at 6:15 in the morning that doesn’t involve the teammate whose door is twenty feet behind me.
“Hey, Rodriguez.” My voice comes out bright and breezy and completely insane. “What are you doing here?”
“I live here.” He says it slowly, like he’s explaining it to himself. “On the tenth floor. I live here. In this building. Where Zach also lives. On this floor.”
“Right! Right. Yeah, I know that.”
