Page 14

Right. That happened.

I’ve lived alone for eight years. Since college, since going pro, my mornings have been the same—alarm at seven, protein shake from the blender that I drink standing at the counter scrolling my phone. Then I grab my gym bag, keys, and I’m out the door. Twenty-two minutes. I’ve timed it. It’s efficient. It works.

Nobody cooks in my kitchen. My housekeeper preps meals and stacks them in labeled containers in the fridge. I have a six-burner gas range that I’ve used twice in three years, both times for pasta, and the second time I burned the pot bad enough to throw it out.

But right now, someone is making breakfast in my home, and I’m lying here with this stupid grin I can’t get rid of.

I swing my legs over the bed and stand. The morning situation in my boxers needs to settle before I go anywhere, so I head into the bathroom. Brush my teeth. Splash water on my face. Athletic shorts. White T-shirt. Hand through my hair.

Mirror check.

I stop. Since when do I care what I look like walking into my own kitchen?

I head down the hall.

Ryleigh’s hair is piled in a messy bun—the kind that looks like she twisted it without thinking, and somehow it’s perfect. Without last night’s makeup, she looks younger. Softer. She’s barefoot on my marble floor, singing under her breath to some pop song that’s been stuck in everyone’s head, moving between the stove and the counter with this easy, unhurried rhythm. Like she lives here. Like she’s done this a hundred mornings in a row and this is just another one.

Something about it catches me off guard. Not because it’s strange—but because it isn’t.

“Morning,” I say, voice rough from sleep.

She turns. “Hi. Good morning.” She waves the spatula toward the counter. “There’s bacon and coffee and toast. I figured being an athlete, you probably eat a lot. And then I opened your fridge and saw everything and just . . . went for it. I hope that’s okay.”

“More than okay. This is . . . yeah.” I gesture vaguely at the spread. “This is great.”

Eloquent. Really nailing it.

I pull a mug from the cabinet and pour coffee. Strong, dark, hot. The first sip makes my eyes close on their own. I usually grab something on the way to practice—lukewarm, forgettable, functional. This is none of those things. This is really good, and someone made it for me without being asked, and I can’t remember the last time that happened.

“Your fridge, by the way,” Ryleigh says, sliding eggs onto a plate. “It’s like a museum in there. Everything in matching glass containers with handwritten labels. Individual jars of overnight oats with little almond slivers on top. Who does that?”

“My housekeeper.”

“You have a housekeeper.”

“She cleans and does the grocery shopping and the meal prep too.”

Ryleigh turns from the stove, spatula aimed at me. “So someone else shops for your food, cooks your food, labels your food, and puts your food away. What exactly is your contribution?”

“I eat the food.”

A beat. I watch her try to hold it in—the corner of her mouth twitches, then the other corner, and then she gives up. “What a life.”

“I also put the fork in the dishwasher after. Sometimes.”

“Wow. A real renaissance man.” She turns back to the stove to turn off the burner, but I catch the grin she’s trying to hide.

I grab a plate—bacon, eggs, toast—and settle onto a stool at the breakfast bar. Ryleigh takes the stool beside me with her own plate. Her portions are about a third of mine.

I look at her plate. Look at mine. Decide to wait before saying something.

I last about ten seconds.

“That’s what you’re eating?”

Eyebrow up. “Are you monitoring my food intake?”

“Just pointing out there’s a lot of bacon left.”