Page 122 of Big Stick Energy
Darcy
October
I wake up starfished in the king-sized bed in Eric’s penthouse bedroom, to the sound of the gentle beep that his coffeepot makes when it’s done brewing. He walks into the bedroom a beat later, wearing nothing but a towel, two mugs in his hands. “Wake up, princess. Breakfast in forty minutes. And I need help choosing a tie.”
“How come?” I force myself upright to take my coffee mug from him.
“We’ve rumpled some of my usual picks,” he says, pacing into his vast closet. “And I almost always wear a blue or red tie on game day.”
“Ohno.” It’s still early, but the ramifications of wearing inauspicious ties at the start of the season are important enough that I catch on right away. “Why did we rumplethose, then? Obviously, we should be playing our naked games with the unlucky ties.”
His head pokes out of the closet. “Bite your tongue. I need all the lucky ties forgettinglucky.”
“Hmm.” It isn’t, I guess, any more or less ridiculous of an idea than any other athlete’s superstition. “Okay, clearly, we need to go shopping. But in the meantime, what are we working with?”
Eric emerges from the closet holding two ties. “This one,” he says, indicating the blue one draped over his left arm, “has a little orange on it, which is not ideal. And this one,” he holds up his right hand, “is red with a white stripe. Classic, but maybe boring?”
I examine both options, taking this decision as seriously as he is. “The blue one is handsome, but you’re right—we can’t take that risk on a road trip to Philly.” I reach for the red tie. “This is better. It’s not boring, it’s confident.”
“Sold,” he says, gulping his coffee and walking back into the closet.
I pry myself out of the bed, admiring the sparkles on the water of the distant river. It’s shaping up to be a classic autumn day. “Where’s breakfast?” I call as I head for his bathroom.
“The NoMad!” he calls.
“Ooh, my favorite. You spoil me.”
“It’s intentional!”
It so happens that Eric and I are as good at secret dating as we were at fake dating. Possibly even better. Breakfast dates have become our thing—it’s easier to schedule outings together in the mornings than it is in the evenings.
Fortunately, there are a lot of linen-napkin restaurants in the Flatiron neighborhood and the west twenties—all of them in a reasonable proximity to our apartments.
I’d have guessed that a surreptitious relationship would be awkward and uncomfortable. But that’s not the case at all. It’sdreamy.All those stolen glances and the occasional copy machine alcove kiss.
It turns out that being a secret couple makes youfocuson the way you treat each other. You have to work for those special moments. You have to show how much you care in subtle ways—like when I occasionally have lunch waiting for Eric after a grueling practice, or when he quietly leaves a cappuccino on my desk.
For two people who haven’t enjoyed a long history of successful dating, it’s kind of perfect. Like we’re wearing training wheels.
These are my thoughts as I shower and dress for work. Eric summons a rideshare, and I roll my travel bag to the front door of his apartment. He saunters out a few minutes later wearing his game day suit, and my stomach does the same flip it’s always done when I catch a glimpse of him.
Yup. Still going strong.
I reach for the doorknob, but he stops me. “Hey, aren’t you forgetting something?”
“Whoops.”
He steps into my personal space, takes my face between his fingertips, and kisses me sweetly. “There. That’s all I get before tonight.”
This is also part of our new tradition—the kiss at the door. “One more,” I whisper. “For luck.” Then I stand on my tiptoes and kiss him again.
Like I said, we’ve gotten very good at this secret dating thing.
Three hours later, Zoe and I wait to board the team jet until all the players have gotten on.
“This is so exciting,” she says, elbowing me. “Baby’s first road trip.”
“This is my eleventy billionth road trip, you dingus.”
