And the woman I love is way at the top too.
Fortunately, my friends are nuts about Bryn because she’s amazing.
But sometimes it’s good just to hang with the guys, though they do love to give me a hard time about how little they see me now.
It’s a balancing act, fitting everything in, but Fitz is taking off for England for a week, so I make some time to head over to his place on a Sunday in August.
I arrive at his Gramercy Place apartment around one.
The door swings open. “Hand it over,” he says, a stern look on his face as he holds out his palm.
“It’s a no-phone game?” I ask.
“Yes. Because the pact is kicking in, and I don’t want to be tempted,” Fitz says.
I tap my chest. “I’m turning in my phone so you’re not tempted? That’s not fucking fair.”
Fitz turns to the two other guys here at his place. “They did.”
Oliver leans against the back of the couch next to one of Fitz’s teammates, a dark-haired, wisecracking, hypercompetitive guy named Ransom.
Ransom raises a soda can in one hand. It’s some kind of LaCroix-flavored water. “All for one,” he says, then lifts his other hand. There’s a ping-pong paddle in it. “I turned in mine.”
“But you’re the two with the pact,” I say, gesturing to Fitz and Ransom.
“Yes, we are, and we look out for each other,” Ransom says sternly.
I sigh as I hand over my phone. “Tell me again why you two have this pact.”
Fitz shakes his head, clapping my shoulder. “Because sex is distracting. We made a pact not to have sex once training camp starts, so we can focus on being fucking amazing on the ice. A bunch of us on the team did it. And since camp starts in less than two weeks, this is good practice.”
“And the phones?” I ask.
“We turn our phones in so Ransom isn’t tempted by his Tinder profile.”
“Same to you,” he says to Fitz.
“Yeah, I don’t use Tinder,” Fitz deadpans.
Ransom rolls his eyes. “Yes, I know. ‘Because everyone hits on me,’” he says, imitating Fitz.
“It’s the truth. And I handed over my phone in an act of solidarity with Ransom. So did Ollie, and he’s engaged. Like this cat will be soon too,” Fitz says, gesturing to me.
“Whoa. I’m not engaged.” But when I say the word, it doesn’t sound like a bad idea at all.
Fitz shoots me a knowing glance. “Only a matter of time.”
He’s probably right.
He takes my phone, drops it in a drawer in the kitchen, and locks it up.
I blink, surprised at the lengths he’s going to. “Whoa. You don’t fuck around.”
“I do not fuck around,” he echoes, then hands me a paddle. “You’re with Ransom.”
“I’ve been crushing these assholes single-handedly, but I’ll let you play on my team,” Ransom adds.
Oliver clears his throat. “I wouldn’t exactly say he’s been crushing us.”
Fitz tuts as we head to the game room in his penthouse pad. “Ollie, be man enough to admit it. Ransom is absolutely crushing us.”
“That’s what I do. I crush the opposition. Isn’t that right, Fitzgerald?” Ransom calls out as we make our way to the ping-pong table.
Fitz stage-whispers to Oliver and me, “He’s getting psyched up for the season by destroying us at ping-pong. It’s his new pregame ritual. Just go with it.”
“What’s your pregame ritual?” Oliver asks as he and Fitz take one side of the ping-pong table.
Fitz gives a casual shrug. “I like to mix it up. Sometimes I take a nap. Sometimes I listen to Nirvana. Other times,” he says, lifting the white plastic ball, narrowing his gaze, and then raising the paddle, “I focus on absolutely annihilating Logan Clarke.”
Fitz and, to a much lesser extent, Oliver proceed to decimate me. Fitz is relentless. Determined. And savage.
Ransom is simply collateral damage.
By the time an hour is over, I am winded and spent. “How the hell did I not know ping-pong was a workout?”
“Because you’ve never played it like this,” Fitz answers, then tosses his paddle on the table. We follow suit and head to the living room, grabbing more cans of soda from the fridge before we flop down on the couch.
