Coach gave a quick speech in the locker room before we were all dismissed, told to enjoy our Sunday and get back here ready to work Monday morning. I flew out of there with my headphones on so no one could ask me to go out to the bars or The Pit.

It was a long walk to Giana’s spot off campus. I usually took the train or called for an Uber. But the rain had stopped, and I found myself thankful for the cool night air as I made my way off campus and wound through the Fort Point district. It was busy, locals and tourists alike flocking to restaurants and bars now that the weather had cleared up.

It was almost nine by the time I made it to Giana’s, and she buzzed me up, waiting with her door open when I made it to her floor.

“Okay, I figured you were hungry after that monster game — that pick was insane, by the way! — but I didn’t know what you’d be hungry for, exactly,” she said, holding the door wider so I could slip inside. As soon as I did, a plethora of aromas assaulted me. “So… I kind of ordered a little of everything.”

Her hair was big and frizzy from the rain, piled into a sloppy bun on top of her head with little curls bursting out of the hold and framing her face. She wore her black glasses tonight, the frames wide, and her fluffy, pink house slippers slapped against the wood floor as she walked me toward the kitchen.

She wore a simple white, spaghetti-strap tank top, and it was cropped so that her stomach showed between it and the oversized sweatpants hanging low on her hips. Everything about her screamed cozy, along with the candles burning in every corner of her place.

When we made it to the little kitchen, she bit her lip shyly, gesturing to the spread of food that was entirely too much for two people.

“There’s dumplings and rice, and pizza, and some slider burgers from the bar down the street. I got some pretzel bites with beer cheese because yum.” She rolled her eyes up to the ceiling, patting her stomach like a starved man before she popped a finger up. “Oh! And fries. And donuts. And ice cream in the freezer. I might also have some… chips… up… here,” she added, struggling as she reached up onto her tiptoes to open the small cabinet above her stove.

She indeed did have chips, two bags of Cheetos — both puffy and crunchy — and she added them to the spread before hanging her hands on her hips in satisfied victory.

“Bón appétit,” she said. When she finally looked at me, her brows folded in. “Oh God, it’s too much, isn’t it?”

I tried to smile, shaking my head. “No, it’s great.”