Page 64 of Line Change

He dries his hands and heads down the hall. By the time I follow, he’s crouched in the second-bedroom closet with one of his unopened boxes pulled out, digging through stacks of teal and gray clothes from the team he doesn’t play for anymore.

Those are the boxes I saw through the doorway last night. I didn’t expect to be borrowing his clothes out of one this morning.

Pope finds a teal training top with a hammerhead-shark crest across the front and MIAMI printed over the shoulders.

“You don’t have anything without that logo?”

He shifts two shirts in the box. “Not where I can get to it.”

“They’re going to see this.”

“Your coat will cover it until you change.”

He holds it out, and I take it because standing here in a shirt with dried come on it isn’t a better option.

Pope has seen all of me, but I still turn toward the closet mirror before pulling the dirty shirt over my head. In the reflection, his eyes drop to my back before he looks into the box and starts folding a shirt that was already folded.

The teal shirt is soft from being washed a hundred times and much too big for me. The tag says extra-large, the shoulder seams hang halfway down my arms, and the hem covers most of my ass.

In the mirror, Pope’s old team is stretched across my chest, and anyone who sees me will know where it came from. My stomach turns over, so I face him again before he catches me staring at myself.

Pope is already pulling on a hoodie. “Ready?”

“Yeah.”

Pope slings his gear bag over one shoulder and picks up his keys. At the door, he puts his free hand on my shoulder. It’s the same grip he uses after a good shift. I’m already leaning toward him before I know whether that’s all he’s doing.

He goes still.

So do I. My mouth is six inches from his, and I can feel my face getting hot.

His eyes drop. The hand on my shoulder slides to the back of my neck, and he pulls me in.

The kiss is quick and closed-mouthed, but his thumb rubs once under my hair before he lets go. I want to do it again and have no idea if he does.

Pope opens the door.

We take the elevator down together. The back of my neck still tingles under his thumb. I stare at the floor numbers and try to think of something normal to say. Nothing comes.

At the garage level, Pope turns toward his assigned spot and I head for the visitor row.

“See you there,” he says.

“Yeah.”

My car is cold. I start it, zip my coat all the way to my throat, and sit with both hands on the wheel while Pope’s taillights disappear up the ramp.

The guys are going to ask about the shirt, and Bobby will keep asking until he gets a story.

Pope never told me to lie, but he doesn’t have to. The team knowing I’m bi doesn’t give me the right to tell them what Pope does with me.

I still resent needing a story.

By the time I pull out of the garage, I have one simple enough to remember: I spilled Pad Thai while we played video games and fell asleep on the couch. Most of it is true, which should make it easy to say.

At a red light, I look down at my zipped coat. As soon as I take it off, that shirt is going to look exactly like what it is: something I put on the morning after sleeping at Pope’s place.

I’m still thinking about the coffee, the two sugars and the second plate already waiting for me, when the light changes and the car behind me honks.