Murphy and Me: Sophomore Fall

October: Naked with a Towel, Conversation, and a Lack of Artistic Ability

Hot water over sore muscles? Absolutely heavenly. Even on the forming bruises. And there were plenty, too. A couple on the sides of my calves, a few on my biceps, and one hell of a blob on my right quad. That sucker was little over softball-size, complete with hexagons. It's what happens when you stuff someone's on-goal shot at the top of the eighteen. Which was also on par for playing U of R. They were tough. They had probably called us every name in the locker at half time that we'd called them. And weren't nice.

Collegiate soccer isn't pleasant. We take no prisoners. It's how we made it to the Final Four last year.

And it's the type of mentality that we need to make it there again.

If the body took a beating for the cause, well, hot showers and ice did the trick. Usually.

I turned the water off, reaching through the gap in the curtain for the towel and thought of nothing. Well, maybe not nothing. More like went over the conversation from dinner at Friendly's with my parents again.

Namely, I'd bucked up and told Dad about Murph. It went better than expected - there were no Irish jokes or anything that made me instantly red. Nothing at all, really, except "How old is he?" and "Is he a nice boy?" The last one was more from my mother, but I told them the important stuff: history major, sweet guy, football player.

Under no circumstances did I even hint at our first ER visit or that we'd slept in the same bed multiple times. Also that he'd seen me with no shirt on.

Some things, really, are better left unsaid.

I wrapped the towel around my almost nonexistent boobs, dumped my face wash and all-in-one shampoo bottles into the shower basket on the sink, grabbed that, and squelched down the hall. The communal shower flops were left outside the room; I opened the door and stepped onto the indoor/outdoor rug, automatically bopping along with the DMB song coming through the open laptop.

My after-shower routine was solid muscle memory at this point. Comb out the hair (now almost even with the bottom of my shoulder blades), clean out ears, and find something comfortable to wear if the shower comes at the end of the day (whereas real clothes are required for start of day ones).

What wasn't routine was the knocking on the door.

As long as the towel covered the important bits, I could care less who was on the other side of the door.

Unless, of course, it was tall, dark, and Irish with the name of Murphy.

"Hey, Ol - You need me to come back when you're...not so naked?"

I gave him props - the hazel eyes never went further south than my nose. "Murph," I said, clutching the towel for safety reasons, "you've seen me more naked than clothes could ever show."

He turned a very pretty shade of red. "Ollie...."

"It's true."

Murph chuckled. "So...have an interesting day?"

"Quite." I leaned against the edge of the door. "Let me put some clothes on and clear off the bed, yeah?"

He shrugged, backing away from the door frame. "Or you could clear off the bed and skip the clothes part, but I'm good either way, really."

Cue flaming cheeks. "Murphy," I laughed. He grinned, sinking into the armchair in the pseudo-lounge as the door swung shut. For as sweet, funny, and overall wonderful as Murph was, this was proof he was, somewhere deep down, still a guy. One who enjoyed looking at his girlfriend in a towel.

There was no need to get fancy with Murph; a pair of sleep shorts from Wally World's men's department and a tank would be just fine. The towel went in the basket under the bed - along with the clothes on the comforter - and for the hell of it, I left my hair down.