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He couldn’t care less about the woman who’s about to be naked in his bathroom, and the feeling is mutual.
I walk over to the mirror just to see the damage from this day, and I just about jump back the instant that I catch a glimpse of myself.
It’s not as if I was expecting to look like a bombshell after trudging through a tsunami to get to the front door, but no wonder he couldn’t wait to get away from me.
I look like a walk-on extra for a living dead movie.
My mascara is smeared under my eyes; my hair is matted against my head, and my fly-aways look like they've been dipped in hodgepodge and plastered against my cheeks.
My skin is an awful grayish color, while my nose is bright red.
Good God, I look as awful as I feel.
Actually, I might even look worse than how I feel.
Perfect.
I begin the exciting process of stripping out of every layer of wet clothing that clings to my body until I’m finally naked.
My skin is cold and a bright pink, even in this humidity.
The steam begins to billow from the top of the glass shower enclosure and my skin starts to warm.
I pull open the glass door and step inside. My freezing, sand-encrusted toes feel the healing powers of the shower water at first contact.
I let out a moan at how good it feels to be under the warm water. Even though a storm is brewing outside, and I could be homeless by tomorrow, or worse, depending on the hurricane, this shower is doing everything right to take away the tension in my shoulders.
I look around at the contents inside, which Seven said I was welcome to use.
It’s no surprise that a single dark gray bottle of men’s three-in-one shampoo, conditioner, and body wash sits in the shower nook, along with a lonely bar of soap.
Do people actually use bars of soap these days?
How old is this guy anyway?
I know he’s one of the oldest players on the team but I don’t think even my father uses soap bars anymore.
From the little information I've gathered, watching sports commentators talk about Seven during a Hawkeyes game, I believe he's thirty-seven or thirty-eight. There's a ten-year age gap between us, which means we probably don't fall into the same generation.
A loofa is slung over the shower handle, but I think he and I would both agree that sharing a loofa is where we draw the line.
I should have headed back to my room to get my overnight bag before I stepped into the shower, but it's late, and I’m exhausted.
I’ll have to wait until tomorrow to pull out the contents of my overnight bag, and hopefully, by then, I’ll be in the privacy of a hotel room with no grumpy hockey player in sight.
I bend closer to the single bottle of product he left in the shower. I guess tonight I’ll be smelling like Blue Arctic Glacier. Whatever the heck that scent is. There is no way that I’m using the bar of soap that he probably rubs over his pubes.
I push the shower’s glass door open again to quickly reach into the cabinet and grab a washcloth from the stack of items I saw when Seven pulled out a towel for me.
I close the door behind me and drench the hand towel under the shower and then squirt a decent amount of body wash onto it.
I begin to rub my body down with the blue gel that resembles toilet bowl cleaner, and I’m actually pleasantly surprised by its crisp, clean smell.
I won’t be adding this product to my daily routine once I get home, but I’ll admit that this isn’t horrible.
I’ll stick with the girlie stuff that Daniel swears he never uses, but I smell it on him from time to time, especially my leave-in conditioning hair detangler.
I can’t blame him for sneaking a few sprays of it every once in a while. It leaves your hair silky and soft and protects it from heat damage. Plus, it smells freaking amazing. Nothing like this blue goop that Seven uses, that I know will leave my hair feeling dry and frizzy after it air dries tonight on my pillow.
