Page 15 of Goalie Secrets

“Based on that number, I think we’re across from each other. I’m at 503A.”

“You live with Professor Sorel?” I blurt in surprise.

“I’m renting it while he’s on sabbatical. I can’t believe I never saw you. I was in and out all weekend. It’s a friendly street. The three girls who live on the other side of the duplex say hi every time they play outside. And Mr. and Mrs. Rahn dropped off a casserole the second night I moved in.”

“Oh, no,” I exclaim ominously. “Not their sweet potato with green bean casserole!”

She chuckles. “The dish contained, from what I could discern, sweet potatoes and green beans.”

“I’m so sorry. They bring that to every potluck, and no one has the heart to tell them those are good together on a Thanksgiving table but, like, separately.”

“It was still nice of them. I ate a bit and then froze the rest. I’ll be too busy to make myself dinner one of these nights and would love nothing more than a Thanksgiving-themed casserole.”

“They mush them together, Vanya! To-get-ther,” I slow down to emphasize my point.

She smiles and shrugs. “Anyway, I’m surprised I never bumped into you.”

“We came back from a long road trip last night,” I explain. “Although, wow, what are the chances. That’s kind of…”

“Crazy!” she says the same time I say “Awesome!”

She has a subtle laugh that’s more in her eyes and the shake of her shoulders than an actual sound. It’s a nice laugh, and one I didn’t expect to hear after our rocky start. There aren’t a lot of things a warm cookie can’t fix.

“Do you come here often?” she asks.

“The team dietitian forces me to watch my sugar intake, so I rarely pop in.”

She looks concerned all of a sudden. “Why? Are you glucose sensitive?” Vanya reverts to the stern doctor from earlier today. “Inflammation issues?”

She has no idea.

“Yeah, inflammation is shit for my nerves,” I confirm.

She closes the box and pulls it to her side of the table. “Well, for your benefit, it looks like I’m taking the leftovers.”

“That was always the plan,” I say with a wink.

This time, she doesn’t bother hiding her eye roll.

He drives us the five minutes it takes to get to our street. The coincidence is nearly comical.

When I ask why he didn’t walk to Drexel Theater like I did, Jeremy explains that he’d had dinner with teammates before the show.

“They didn’t want to go to the musical with you?” I ask when he pulls up in front of my place.

“Old movies isn’t something I do with the guys.”

“Yeah, I bet,” I say absentmindedly, drawing from what I know of the typical athlete whose popularity provides a more active social life than Musical Mondays.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” His eyes narrow to sharp attention.

I shrug. “Nothing, apart from you being the only man in the audience under sixty years old. Just an observation. Guys in their twenties do other things, that’s all.”

“You mean party.”

“You said it,” I confirm. “What? Is that inaccurate?”

“It’s a generalization.” He sounds miffed.