I don't hear a sound. Maybe Conner is one of those lucky adults who can sleep in. I yawn, stretch, and get out of bed. I strip and grab my robe off the back of the door. Then, I head into the rest of the apartment. Still no one and not a sound. I turn and glance toward the second bedroom. The blow-up mattress is half deflated on the floor, blankets tangled at the foot of it, but there's no sign of him. Maybe he decided to go to his parents after all?
I head into the bathroom and take a long, hot shower. My eye catches a glimpse of the remaining dollop of expensive bubble bath in the bottle on the ledge of the tub. I frown. Then I remember Conner naked and some of those expensive bubbles sliding over his hip and down to that soft but very formidable-looking cock. My cheeks flame so hard I have to turn the temperature down in the shower.
To be honest, I’ve never thought of Conner that way. Never wondered what he would look like naked, that’s for sure. He is six years younger than me and at the time I met him, that was a big deal. He was a baby. The last time I saw him he was a teenager, and muscles had started to sprout on his long, lean limbs. He was stopped everywhere we went that summer. He got us free ice cream cones by taking selfies with the owner and his kids. He wasn't even an NHL player yet, but people treated him like he was. I was fascinated by that. By the way, he carried that attention like it wasn't a big deal. Like it was as natural as his eye color or height or any other part of his DNA.
And also, he had this way of smiling that was… Contagious? Enticing? Tender? I never did figure out the right word for it back then. And to be honest, I hadn’t thought about his smile much since then. Now though… Now I’m thinking about it again. About him. He’s definitely more intense than I remember. He’s become a little bit grumpy when he used to be all sunshine. He’s also a full-fledged man now. Naked Conner flashes across my brain again. I close my eyes and shove my face under the shower spray to wash away the memory with the soap on my face.
I remember the reason he was in my apartment to begin with. This waiver fiasco is obviously a big deal, and I'd like to talk about that with him some more. Maybe what Conner needed was to vent about it, or to strategize about what to say to his family. I’d be the perfect person to do that with because of my training. But Conner was gone, so it wouldn’t be me helping him. Even though I kind of found myself wanting to.
I turn off the water, grab my towel from the rack, and carefully step out of the tub. After drying off and hanging my towel back on the rack, I slip into my robe and open the door. As soon as I step into the hallway, I know he’s back. I can smell him. Is that weird? That’s probably weird. But the rich scent of my pricey bubble bath, and that crisp, woodsy scent that lingered on my pillow last night permeates the air. And makes me much more aware of all the neglected bits below my belly button.
My head swivels and there he is, standing at the counter next to the stove. He looks up from whatever he’s making. I yank off the shower cap that keeps my curls from getting wet in the shower. My hair is up in a pineapple-style pony and curls must be standing up all over the place, but it’s less humiliating than the plastic fuchsia shower cap with orange flowers on it. “I thought you were gone.”
"I was. To the grocery store," Conner explains. "Do you still want me gone? Like really gone?"
“No. I’m fine with you here in the light of day, not stealing my bubble bath of course,” I say and smile. He smiles back.
“I have a peace offering.” He holds out the plate with a breakfast sandwich on it. I eye the sandwich.
“I didn’t know we were at war.”
“We aren’t, but I owe you a thank you and an apology,” he reminds me, a sheepish smile playing on his lips. “I was kind of growly last night”
"I once lived on the street. I can handle growly," I reply and step closer to his outstretched hand holding the delicious-looking sandwich. “That smells incredible.”
“It is,” he replies confidently. “The guys all come over for my breakfast sandwiches if we have a day off on a weekend. I guess I mean they used to. Anyway, I usually use Spanish chorizo sausage for them but I know you're vegetarian so I bought veggie sausage and used sriracha mayo for the spice. I’m hoping you’re still an octo-lacto veg head because if you aren’t, this sandwich is worth converting back.”
I lift an eyebrow at being called a veg-head but I’m sure he means it kindly so I just nod, and he grins. I can't believe he remembered I'm vegetarian? After all these years? Something about that makes my insides feel… lighter? Warmer? I guess I just never knew he paid that close attention. I take the plate from him and he grins like it's some kind of hard-fought victory. "Sit. Enjoy."
I sit on one of the bar stools at the small island. “You didn’t happen to make coffee too did you? Do athletes do caffeine?”
“This athlete does,” Conner replies. “But since it’s your day off, I thought we’d start with something else.”
He slides a glass of orange juice to me on the island. Only it's not in a regular glass. It's a wine glass filled with OJ. He grins again. It's such a good grin, equal parts mischief and kindness. "There're no champagne flutes so I’m using red wine glasses. It’s a big pour. Sorry, not sorry."
“Mimosas?” I question even though it’s quite evident with the open bottle of champagne on the counter. He nods. I contemplate not drinking it but he’s right. It’s my day off. And it’s the holidays. I have to work Christmas Day so this is as close as I’ll get to a celebration.
He tips his glass to mine and we clink in a cheers, then we drink. I take a bite of the breakfast sandwich and it’s as divine as he promised. I can’t help but groan as I chew and his hazel eyes twinkle with pride. “Told you.”
We both eat and sip our mimosas in silence, which is more comfortable than it should be all things considered. But Conner’s warm, welcoming energy I remember from when he was a kid is back. Maybe grumpy Conner only comes out when he's getting surprised, while naked, at midnight. The image of him naked flashes in my head again. I struggle to swallow the sandwich, so I grab the mimosa and take a big swig. When I recover from almost choking, Conner tops up my glass with more champagne than orange juice. I should object. I’m not a big drinker and one is more than enough. But I don’t object. It’s nice to have day drinks.
I think the last time I did this was Harlow Richard’s bachelorette party two years ago. The hangover I had for two days was not fabulous, but I’ll be more careful today. I move my eyes to his face. “This feels like liquid courage. For what?”
He takes in a long, slow breath. "Talking to my parents. If I just don't play today, without telling them why first, then Callie will freak out and assume I'm injured. Dad will start texting his hockey contacts and likely find out that I'm about to be dumped. Then he'll be freaking out that I didn't come to him first."
I remind him, “You’re just essentially being traded. In a weird, stupid way that—as a psychiatrist—I find slightly emotionally abusive if I’m honest." The poor guy now gets to carry around the feelings of failure longer than he should. “The holidays are already a really hard time for many people and they go and dump this on you too. Fuck them.”
“I appreciate you saying that,” Conner tells me as he puts the last bit of his uneaten sandwich down on a napkin on the island. “Do all psychiatrists use the medical terminology ‘fuck them’?”
I laugh. “I’m not a doctor, yet. I have a few months to go.”
He nods, chewing thoughtfully, eyes examining me the whole time. At least it feels that way. “I didn’t know you wanted to be a doctor when we were kids.”
“When we were kids I just wanted food, shelter, and stable parental figures,” I reply without thinking about it. My truths are always bombs. I sometimes forget that. Conner blinks his eyes, which have really cool flecks of smoke and amber in them along with a color I can only describe as terracotta.
“I never knew the details of your life before Alex and Brie adopted you,” he tells me. “My parents said it wasn’t cool to ask, and you never brought it up.”
I sip my mimosa. "I wanted to just be past it back then. Once I let go of the trauma of it, with counseling and a lot of patience and understanding from my parents, I didn't want to tell anyone about it. I guess I still don't."
“Okay.” Conner nods. “But you picked psychiatry to help kids who might need it, like you did?”
I catch his eye and let out a sheepish sigh. “I’m a cliché, aren’t I?”
“Only the best possible kind,” he returns with a wink. Man, this boy… now a man… went to charm school apparently.
"Yes. I wanted to be a psychologist to help kids, teens, and adults with addiction issues," I confirm. "And hockey players who are having existential crises."
He barks out a laugh, almost spitting out his mimosa. I grin at getting such a strong reaction from him. Wiping a dribble of champagne from his chin he cocks his head. “I appreciate that but I’m not into the idea of being your guinea pig.”
“The term is patient,” I correct him and take another bite of the dreamy sandwich. When I’m done, and have swallowed it down, I add, “Well speaking then as a daughter of a former professional hockey player, let me just remind you that the Garrison family is a well-respected institution in this sport. And everyone knows you’re talented and destined for even more greatness than you’ve currently shown the sports world. The Barons’ struggles are not your fault. I bet the team loses tonight. That will just prove their failure has nothing to do with you.”
Spoiler Alert. The Brooklyn Barons win.