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I catch a hint of Peggy’s distinctive shampoo, a combination of honey, banana, and coconut. But more prominent is a second distinctive scent that underscores what I already know to be true: she used my bed for self-gratification.
“Don’t be a dirtbag.” I angrily pull the previous load out and jam the sheets into the washing machine.
I need to deal with this situation. I set the sheets to wash, start the dryer, and return to my bedroom so I can get dressed. But my erection is excessive and highly inconvenient. Not to mention inappropriate. I need to keep my head on straight when it comes to Roman’s daughter. Wanting her in secret is one thing, but actually entertaining the possibility that we could be anything more than friends is ludicrous. Any man would be lucky to love her, and it can’t be me.
I put on jeans, a shirt, and a hoodie, ignoring my hard-on, then flip open my laptop and pull up the video feeds from the kitty cams. One is aimed at the living room couch, where the cats often nap. The second is on my dresser, focused on my bed. It only records when motion is detected. I’m unsurprised by the footage of my boys doing zoomies. I’m also unsurprised when it picks up Peggy entering my bedroom with the giant banana-duck purse I bought her last year for Christmas slung over her shoulder. I stop the feed immediately, move them both to the trash and hover my finger over the delete forever button. I’m disgusted with myself for even hesitating. I hit delete and close my laptop.
If I can talk to Peggy before the diner, it’ll make this less awkward. I hope. I can even bow out of joining Roman and Peggy. Say something came up. Let them have their time together instead of tagging along. I don’t want to admit to myself that it’s been purposeful. A constant reminder that she’s his pride and joy and whatever feelings I have should be kept to myself.
I send a single message, careful with my phrasing. It’s hers. She knows it. I know it.
Hollis
I think you left something at my place.
The humping dots appear, then disappear, then appear again. This happens half a dozen times before they stop altogether.
It’ll be an uncomfortable conversation, especially when I tell her about the kitty cams, but I can reassure her that any evidence is gone and we’re the only two who will ever know it happened. I grab a gift bag from the closet in the spare room and one of my clean bath sheets, which she’s apparently a fan of, folding it so it’s narrow enough to stuff into the bag. I roll the vibrator inside the towel, turning it into an inedible Maki roll, then stuff it into the gift bag, adding tissue paper to cover the towel.
I’ll set some very clear boundaries and then forget this ever happened. Or at least try to. But Roman is standing by the elevator when I step into the hall. Fuck.
“Oh hey, I thought you were already at the Pancake House,” I say.
“I spilled coffee on my shirt earlier, so I came up to change first.” His gaze drops to the gift bag in my hand. “What’s that?”
“Uh…it’s, uh…for Peggy.” Double fuck. Why didn’t I lie? “A gift for taking care of Postie and Malone.” I thumb over my shoulder and reach for my door. “I’ll drop it off at her place later.”
“Nah. Don’t do that. Bring it with. She’s meeting us there.” The elevator doors slide open, and he covers the sensor, waiting for me to join him.
It’ll raise more questions if I don’t bring it along, so I reluctantly follow. “How was your meeting with Coach?” I ask as he presses the button for the lobby.
“Good. They’re assessing options for backup goalies next year, preparing for the inevitable, you know?”
“How do you feel about that?” I wouldn’t love it, but goalies take a lot of training.
“I’ve had a good run, and there are other options to explore once I’m off the ice,” he replies.
I just nod.
“I know you’ve got some time, but sportscasting would be a nice option for a good-looking guy like yourself,” Roman says.
“I’m not sure my personality would be the right fit,” I grumble.
Roman is in a much different headspace than I am about retirement. He’s the oldest player in the league, and he’s had a solid career and no serious injuries with one year left on his contract.
I, however, busted my ass after my knee injury last year so I could be back on the ice this season. Unlike Roman, who’s pushing forty, I’m only thirty-three, and I’m having a great comeback season. If I can keep my stats where they are, Toronto could extend my contract for a couple more years.
We reach the lobby and step outside into the cold winter afternoon. It’s mid-January, and snow dusts the sidewalk. Our breath puffs out in foggy bursts that disappear like ghosts. We cross the street to the diner. The familiar, comforting scent of fresh bacon and buttery pancakes makes my mouth water as we enter.
My stomach lurches as I scan the tables and spot Peggy, sitting at a four top. She’s furiously typing on her phone, her bottom lip trapped between her teeth. She seems stressed. And I’m positive the contents of the bag I’m holding are the reason. I can relate. I squash the images that keep popping into my head. I know better than to want her.
I wish I’d left the bag at home, but I can’t undo my stupidity. Roman would probably rip my head off if he knew what was inside and where it had been used. And rightly so, as I’m more than a decade Peggy’s senior and she’s my best friend’s daughter.
Roman takes the seat across from Peggy, and I drop into the spot beside him.
Peggy’s eyes bounce between me and Roman. Her cheeks flush, and a constipated grin forms—like she’s trying to be friendly, but someone just dropped a green-fog fart. “Hey. Hi. How was the trip home?”
“Good. We got ahead of the storm. Looks like it’ll mostly miss us here.” Roman shrugs out of his jacket.
