Page 128 of The Off Limits Captain
There is a hair tie on my lamp.
One of her pens in my drawer.
A wineglass on my counter.
I look at her. “You smell like my soap.”
“Your soap smells like a hotel for emotionally repressed men.”
“You used it.”
“Under protest.”
The food arrives ten minutes later.
Peyton sits cross-legged on the floor with lo mein balanced in one hand and a plastic fork in the other, like this is a normal place to eat dinner in a professional athlete’s apartment.
I sit across from her with beer, rice, and the sense that I have lost control of my own living room.
I do not hate it.
The broadcast stays muted. The apartment smells like soy sauce, fried dough, and her shampoo.
Peyton points the fork at me. “Game question.”
“Is this a date or a press conference?”
“Neither. There would be better chairs at both.”
I take a drink of beer. “Ask.”
“Why did you let Evan take the high lane in the third?”
She does not smile. That is how I know she wants the real answer.
“He saw it first,” I say.
“You do not usually like that.”
“No.”
“What changed?”
I look down at the carton in my hand. “He was right.”
Peyton’s fork stills.
“And I was tired of being the only one allowed to be right,” I say.
The room goes quiet around that.
Not bad quiet.
Useful quiet.
Peyton nods once, like she is filing it somewhere private instead of on paper.
“Good,” she says.
