I don’t see Essie until Wednesday after practice. She returns home from class and drops her laptop bag at the front door.
“Hey,” I say, lifting my eyes from my phone. I’ve been watching North Carolina’s power plays and trying to get a handle on what our penalty-kill strategy should be going into Saturday’s game.
“Hey.” She sounds tired. She looks it too.
“You’ve been busy, huh?”
She nods, and tucks a length of dark hair behind one ear. “Yeah. I got home late last night. Hopefully I didn’t wake you when I came in.”
“You didn’t.” A lopsided smile lifts one side of my mouth. “Not that I would have minded.”
“Perv,” she mutters, rolling her eyes.
“Did you catch the game?” I ask, watching her move into the kitchen to grab a bottle of water from the fridge.
“No.” She takes a long drink. “
