Not that commonality is important. For someone I’m not attracted to. Who I don’t want to sleep with. At all. Ever.
I clear my throat and try to straighten my posture on the exercise ball. “So, having to rub shoulders with Maddox bothers you. The punching bag is how you deal with your frustration that the bullies are still at large.”
Ren glances up from his food, looking surprised. “Among other things, yeah.”
“Well, listen.” I snap a fortune cookie in two and give him one half. “If it makes you feel any better, you got the last laugh. Matt’s a mean-spirited prick. His reputation is shit, and I think we’ll end up having to pay another team to take him. Then look at you, look where you are.”
Ren accepts his fortune cookie. “I’m not sure what you mean.”
I almost fire back a blunt remark about false modesty, but I’m stopped by this newfound knowledge he’s given me: Ren honestly doesn’t see himself how everyone else does. He isn’t feigning humility or fishing for a compliment. He really means what he says when he expresses self-doubt. If anyone can empathize with seeing yourself one way and being perceived so dissonantly from that, it’s this mostly invisibly ill, autistic woman right here.
A new crack forms in my heart. This is a travesty. No one this wonderful should feel so unsure of himself.
I toss the fortune cookie in my mouth and crunch. “Ren the Red. You’re a twelve out of ten, inside and out. I bet the queue of women waiting for you is longer than the line for the next Apple product.”
“Women I don’t know.” Focusing his attention on his cookie, Ren slips out the fortune paper and stares at it.
“Well, that’s why you get out, buddy. So they become women you do know. Problem is, you’re a saint. I’ve never even seen you with a woman. I’m aware puck bunnies aren’t your thing, but in the off-season, you let yourself have some fun, right? Now that you’re not a rookie anymore, your career’s totally on track, maybe you’re ready to look for someone who’s relationship material.”
“There’s someone.” His eyes dance across the fortune cookie paper. He folds and pockets it.
“And?” I press.
“And she’s unavailable for the time being. I’m also not sure she sees me that way.”
“Then she’s thick as a brick. Move on, dude, that’s her problem.”
He shakes his head. “It doesn’t work right now, but maybe one day it will. That unavailability won’t last forever. When it ends, I’ll work up the courage to tell her how I feel.”
“Does she know you’re waiting?”
Also, shit. What guy waits for a woman these days? Most men I’ve known do not have that kind of old-school courtship patience. They can’t even wait ten minutes in a Starbucks line for a mediocre latte.
He runs a hand over his beard. “No. And right now if I told her, it would put her in an awkward position, which isn’t fair to her. The timing’s just not good.”
“Well, welcome to working in professional athletics. The timing is never good for a relationship. Not until retirement. But, then again, as you know, some of the guys are blissfully paired off, at least until playoffs, when their partners are over an eighty-game season. I don’t mean to sound so cynical. If anyone could make it work, it would be you.”
Ren crunches his fortune cookie and stares at me curiously. “I can wait. I’ve waited this long. A few more years won’t kill me.”
“But you should have fun, Zenzero. Get your kicks. A guy like you shouldn’t be sitting on the shelf.”
“A guy like me?” A wry half smile tugs at his mouth. “What’s that mean?”
My high is slowly dissipating. I grope frantically on the counter for my root beer gummies and rip open a new bag. Tugging one between my teeth until it snaps, I chew and buy myself a minute. My unfiltered brain still wins out. “You know women drool over you.”
He stands, then clears our empty plates and bowls to the sink. “You’re not answering the question.”
I watch him run water in the double sink and add a splash of soap. The jerk is going to wash my dishes and prove the very point I’m about to make. “Dammit, Bergman, you’re the total package. You’re thoughtful, talented, handsome, and a true gentleman. You’re a prince of a man. Okay?”
Ren stops washing for a moment. Then he starts scrubbing again. I watch him rinse the plates and prop them on the rack to dry without saying a word. Finally, he turns and leans his hip against the counter, arms folded across his broad chest. “Do you think that? Or are you saying what you assume other people think?”
Of course, I think that. What woman in her right mind wouldn’t?
I tear another gummy with my teeth. “Does it matter?”
“Yes.” His jaw is set, those pale cat eyes locked with mine intensely.
Dread washes over me. God, I have to be horrifying him. Here I am, half baked. Barely clothed. And so far past the line of professional behavior.
“Ren, I—” I swallow nervously. “I’m sorry. That was an inappropriate direction I took us. I’m unfiltered to begin with but the cannabis doesn’t help. Please ignore everything I said.”
Ren walks toward me, stopping at the counter where the gummies sit. Holding my eyes, he plucks one from the bag, sets it between his teeth, and tugs until it breaks clean in half. My eyes shift to his mouth.
Joseph in a Juniper Tree. Watching Ren tear a root beer gummy like a lion ripping open his prey just turned my knees to jelly. Thankfully, I’m already sitting. Well, bouncing, on the exercise ball. I’m one of those people who needs to be in perpetual motion.
“You still haven’t answered me,” he says, unsticking his jaw with a loud pop. “Wow, these are chewy. And for the record, we’re not at work. It’s not inappropriate at all.”
I grab a fistful of gummies and shove them in my mouth. Hopefully, I’ll choke and black out so we can forget about this mortifying corner I’ve backed us into.
“Oh, it’s inappropriate,” I say around my grotesque mouthful. “You’re a player, I’m your social media manager, no matter where we are. I’m sitting here in my ‘Boy Who Lived’ panties, high on hashish, nagging you about your intimate life. It’s so far past inappropriate, I almost want to fire myself.”
Ren’s face tightens with an expression I can’t read. “You’re not going to fire yourself, Frankie. You’ll be at work tomorrow.”
“I mean, you’re right. But only because I like my insurance and the mild weather. I’ll be there, on one condition: no more nice gestures like this, especially when I’m marijuana-ly impaired.”
Ren’s laugh is warm. It ripples along my skin, making the hairs on my arms and neck stand on end. Pushing off the counter, he sweeps up his keys, then smiles down at me, that easy, sunshiny Ren Bergman smile. “Goodnight, Frankie. See you tomorrow.”
He’s halfway down the hallway when I call, “Ren!”
In one smooth turn, he now faces me. “Yes?”
I tell my heart to stop trying to run out of my chest. “Thank you.”
Ren’s smile changes, his eyes dip to my mouth, like he’s waiting for me to say more. But it’s all I have. Finally, he says, “Of course.”