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Beth appears from the back, whistling a vaguely familiar song. She’s tone deaf but loves music, so she is always whistling or singing something no one can recognize. Whenever Cyn and I work together, we try to guess the songs. We’re never right.
Beth’s eyes widen when she sees Eli. “Hockey player!” she says, beaming with delight and hustling around the counter to squeeze him so tightly, a littleoomphwheezes out of him.
I’m jealous I didn’t think to hug him. And of how tightly she’s holding him and, for the love ofChristmas, how long this hug is going on. Is she going for some kind of record?
I also don’t know that I like Beth calling himhockey player. It’smynickname for him. Which I guess I must have used a lot last night. Now that I’m thinking about it … yeah. I did.
Hey, hockey player—watch your elbows.
Nice gutter ball, hockey player.
Can I steal a French fry, hockey player?
I blush again thinking back over my boldness last night. Who even was the woman who said those things?
Is that what one beer, a birthday, and a late hour does to my confidence—sends it skyward like some kind of rocket? Maybe there’s another version of me. Nighttime Bailey, who wears ugly nightgowns while bowling and flirts shamelessly with a famous hockey player.
Anyway, back to the point at hand—I suppose if I wanted to have a nickname that’s just for my personal use, I should have chosen more creatively. Not the man’s actual profession.
But … I’ve already claimed it. I kind of love calling him hockey player. It’s so obvious and literal that it feels edgy. And in a weird way, like I’m jokingly taking him down a pegsomehow. He’s not Eli Hopkins with the bazillions of followers on social media, all of whom seem to assume this weird familiarity with him, like cozying up in his comments gives them some corner of the Eli market.
To me, he’s justhockey player. And though it’s the weirdest arrangement ever, one I’m still very unclear of in terms of details, I can safely say I’ve claimed more than a corner of him.
When we getmarried—I try to swallow and find my mouth totally dry at this thought—I guess I’ll really claim all of him.
Technically and legally speaking, of course. Not in the other …marriage parts—to quote Eli’s phrasing—ways.
Right? I mean, I’m assuming. But then I look at Eli, still trapped in a Beth hug, and realize we need to sit down and clarify some things.
Although I might opt to send a surrogate. I’m already filled with pre-shame at theideaof talking to Eli about the specifics of what our married life—another attempt to swallow—will entail.
Eli catches my eye over Beth’s white curls, clearly signaling he needs help. I walk around the counter, ready to yank Beth back by the neckline of her scrubs. But she finally lets go and pats his cheek, going from extended bear hug to grandmotherly affection in the span of a few seconds.
“Good to see you again. Hope you had fun last night with Bailey. She seemed a little grumpy this morning.”
I did? Honestly, waking up to find Eli sleeping outside my apartment might have been the best event that’s ever happened to me before eight in the morning. I’m surprised I wasn’t glowing when I came into work.
“Hey,” I protest weakly.
“Kidding,” Beth says, then mouths to Eli,So grumpy.
“I can see your lips moving,” I tell her. “And I wasn’t grumpy. Just tired. I was up late.”
This is the wrong thing to say. That is, if I don’t want Beth to get the wrong idea. Too late! She’s already got the wrong idea. I can tell.
“Mm-hm,” she says. “I’ll just bet you were.”
“Oh!” Eli says suddenly, and I could give him a medal. Best Timing or maybe Best Distraction or Best Non Sequitur. “I have something for you in the car. Be right back!”
He takes off like a shot, the bell above the door almost ripping right off with the force of it. Beth looks me up and down like I’m the tea leaves at the bottom of a cup. Only she’s not trying to read my future, but my very recent past.
“Up late, huh? Do we need to havethetalk?”
Beth has to know I know about sex, so I’m not sure what talk she means. I only know I probably want to preempt it at all costs. And now I’m blushing at just the idea of talking about sex with Eli right outside.
“Eli filled out an official volunteer application!”
I practically scream the words and then snatch the stapled pages off the desk, waving them in her face.
