Page 128 of The Off Limits Captain

There is a hair tie on my lamp.

One of her pens in my drawer.

A wineglass on my counter.

I look at her. “You smell like my soap.”

“Your soap smells like a hotel for emotionally repressed men.”

“You used it.”

“Under protest.”

The food arrives ten minutes later.

Peyton sits cross-legged on the floor with lo mein balanced in one hand and a plastic fork in the other, like this is a normal place to eat dinner in a professional athlete’s apartment.

I sit across from her with beer, rice, and the sense that I have lost control of my own living room.

I do not hate it.

The broadcast stays muted. The apartment smells like soy sauce, fried dough, and her shampoo.

Peyton points the fork at me. “Game question.”

“Is this a date or a press conference?”

“Neither. There would be better chairs at both.”

I take a drink of beer. “Ask.”

“Why did you let Evan take the high lane in the third?”

She does not smile. That is how I know she wants the real answer.

“He saw it first,” I say.

“You do not usually like that.”

“No.”

“What changed?”

I look down at the carton in my hand. “He was right.”

Peyton’s fork stills.

“And I was tired of being the only one allowed to be right,” I say.

The room goes quiet around that.

Not bad quiet.

Useful quiet.

Peyton nods once, like she is filing it somewhere private instead of on paper.

“Good,” she says.