I hold up the plastic bag in my hand, and her eyes go wide when she recognizes the logo on it.
“Is that what I think it is?” she asks in amazement as she starts to rise from her chair.
“A double salmon poke bowl with brown rice, cabbage, radish, beets, eel sauce, and extra ginger on the side.”
Her eyes flare even wider that I would remember those exact details, but I remember every single thing we talked about yesterday.
Her love of poke and exactly how she likes it is one of the dozens of things I learned about her. Our shared workout—which should have lasted no longer than forty-five minutes—stretched more than two hours because we ended up doing far more talking than lifting weights.
I don’t know the reason for it.
I doubt she does either.
But somehow, conversation just seemed to flow as we switched out weights between sets. Sometimes it flowed so damn good we stopped working out and just stood and talked.
It wasn’t anything deep. We didn’t share secrets. But I now know her favorite way to eat a poke bowl, that she’s allergic to honey, and that she ran away from home when she was eight, only making it to the front porch because she was too afraid to go further. She spent an impressive full night on the stoop because she refused to go back in the house even though her dad and stepmom relentlessly begged her to. Admittedly, she accepted the pillow and blanket, along with the sandwich they brought out to her, but she felt she’d made her point.
Bottom line, by the time we finally made it through a complete workout, the dynamic between us had changed. We actually developed a friendship during that time, both of us realizing that we have a lot in common and enjoy the other’s company.
Of course, there was no mention of future dates and that was okay by me. I don’t want the complication of her having a kid and she doesn’t date co-workers.
In essence, it would be friends and nothing more, which isn’t anything strange. Over my life, I’ve had plenty of good female friends.
Except… well, I wouldn’t spontaneously bring one of them their favorite food for lunch, now would I? Maybe that only means I like her as a friend more than the others. And I’ve decided I can certainly overlook how gorgeous she is and push down any considerations that perhaps we could have something more.
No, we’re just friends.
I’m sure of it.
Maybe.
Leaning over Emory’s desk, I hand her the bag. She takes it with relish, dropping back into her chair and nodding at the chair beside me. “Sit down. I’ll share with you.”
“I’d love to,” I say, not accepting her offer and instead, putting a hand on the back of the chair to lean on it. “But I’ve got to be down in the auditorium in about ten minutes.”
“Game meeting?” she guesses, pulling the clear plastic poke bowl out of the bag, along with chopsticks. She doesn’t wait for confirmation, instead affirming her knowledge of the Vengeance. “It’s going to be a tough game tonight against San Diego.”
I smile at her, which she doesn’t see because she’s got the top off the bowl and is busy stirring all the ingredients with her chopsticks. Emory spent a lot of time yesterday quizzing me about hockey. She wants her knowledge base to go deeper than what she’s already cultivated through her own research. I spent time telling her a bit more about some of my closest mates on the team so she could understand the cohesion we have out on the ice transcends coaching and talent. It has as much to do with a personal connection between the players.
We spend a few minutes chatting about the strengths and weaknesses of the opposing team, which morphs into a discussion about the following evening’s game against the Spades in Vegas, and how we’ll fly back the same night to Phoenix.
Emory wipes her mouth on a napkin before she dips her chopsticks back into the bowl, then asks, “You have big plans for Thanksgiving? You know… seeing as how you’re not American and all.”
I laugh, shaking my head. “So asks the Brit.”
She snickers and expertly pulls a clump of rice, beets, and salmon up to hover before her mouth. “We definitely don’t celebrate the holiday.”
“That’s odd… given that your stepmother is American,” I remark.
“Right?” she says in obvious agreement. “But it was never a big holiday to her for some reason, and my dad hates turkey, so for the fifteen years she lived in London after marrying my dad, we didn’t celebrate it.”
“I’ve been invited over to Jim’s house. His wife is cooking a big spread. Coach has extended an open invite to all us single dudes to come eat with him as well.”