The next day at the arena, I was standing over Max, disinfecting his new cut.
“I can’t believe I already have to give you stitches, Max. The season hasn’t even started yet!” I said, and he just chuckled. The guys had been playing some sort of indoor shinny during lunch and Max had ended up getting slashed by Kris’ high stick, giving him a nasty gash under his right eye.
Once I was done with his stitches, I began working on some long put-off paperwork from last season. I was about half-way through when I heard a knock on my door.
“It’s open!” I called, not looking up from my desk.
“Hey,” someone said as the door opened, and I looked up to see Jordan leaning against the doorframe.
“Hey! I didn’t know you were coming to see me,” I said, smiling.
“I just thought I’d stop by to see how you were doing.” He said.
“I’m good; I’ve got a shit-load of work to do though. Why?”
“Well you left kind of suddenly last night; I just wanted to know if everything was okay.” He asked me with concern in his voice and written all over his face.
“Oh, yeah everything’s fine, I was just tired.” I lied coolly.
“Oh, okay,” Jordan said, obviously not convinced. He just stood there, looking at me. I racked my brain for something to say.
“So…how was practice?”
“It was okay, I’m feeling more out of shape than I’ve felt in a long time though, and this new rookie guy gave me a nasty check that I’m sure I’ll feel tomorrow morning,” he replied, rubbing his arm. I laughed.
“I can’t believe you let a rookie hit you,” I laughed, and he frowned defensively.
“Hey, it’s not my fault that the new guys have been training all summer and I’ve been sitting around like a bum on the beach,” he said, before smiling slightly. “Okay, I guess it is kind of my fault.”
“Well, you’ve never been known for thinking ahead,” I said, moving my eyes back to the paperwork on my desk. After a few seconds, I heard his footsteps come across the room and he took the pen out of my hand. I looked up at him, confused.
“How about we go to dinner tonight,” he said. “Just you and me, to catch up and stuff.” I smiled.
“Sure. Just like we used to,” I responded.
“Great. I’ll pick you up at seven?” he asked as he backed away to the door.
“Sounds good,” I answered, “See you then.” He smiled and walked out of the room, closing the door behind him. After about three seconds, the door peaked open again. Jordan face popped through.
“Forgot this,” he said sheepishly, tossing the pen in my direction.
“Thanks,” I said, and he shot me a lopsided grin before disappearing behind the door. I chuckled to myself. I loved how much of an airhead he could be. I set my attention back to work so I could finish it in time to go home and get ready. I hated having un-finished work hanging over my head when I went out.
I managed to get out by six and hurried home to take a shower. Showers were my favorite part of the day. It was always easiest to think when I had the warm spray falling over me. I spend a bit too long day dreaming and had to throw on the first pair of jeans I saw in my closet before I heard Jordan’s car pull up in the driveway. I almost tripped down the stairs in my attempt to get to the door. I yanked it open and Jordan laughed.
“Why are you always out of breath when you open the door?” he asked.
“Lost track of time.” I answered, and he nodded.
“What else is new?” I heard him mutter as he walked in.
“Can you give me like five minutes?” I asked, already on my way back up the stairs. He nodded and sat down on the edge of the couch in the living room.
I threw on some light makeup and brushed out my tangled hair until it was straight. I stood for a moment admiring myself in front of the mirror.
“Hey, where’s Gil?” Jordan called from downstairs, referring to my dog.
“I brought him to my parents’ for the week.” I said, walking back downstairs. He stood up, fixing the collar of his shirt.
“Open or closed?” he asked me. I took a step back to take in his whole look.
“Definitely open,” I said. He smiled and undid the top button.
“You look great, let’s go.” He said, and held the door open for me.
“Where are we going?” I asked him once we stepped into his flashy silver car.
“I thought we’d try that new Chinese place on Bleeker.” He said.
“Sounds good.” I nodded, and turned on the radio to my favorite station.
“Oh no, not in my car,” he said, turning the dial.
“What’s wrong with country?” I asked, offended.
“Nothing, in moderation. But I get way too much of it from hanging out with you. I’m afraid for my health.” He responded. I scoffed.
“Music won’t kill you.”
“Country music will,” he contradicted. “It’ll kill us all.” I sighed and rolled my eyes at him.
