My house has never been this clean. I’m pretty sure it wasn’t this clean when I bought the place three years ago. Every single large window along the right-hand wall is streak free, the hardwood floors are polished and smooth. My home is no bachelor pad, but it is still not where I wanted it in terms of decoration. There always seems to be something missing from each room, more art or another rug. Just something to make it feel like home. Still, every shelf has been emptied and dusted before being filled with trinkets again, pictures from childhood and my high school trophies lining the shelves. When my parents retired to Florida it was either I display them here or they go into storage. I didn’t like the idea that just because it’s old it doesn’t have value.

In the past eighteen hours and twenty-three minutes since El called me I have scrubbed the whole place top to bottom. Twice. I have vacuumed every carpet and rug, even upstairs. I spent time on my hands and knees at six a.m. this morning cleaning between the bathroom tiles. Until yesterday I don’t think I even realised how big this place is, it was just the one that felt most like home when the realtor showed it to me. Now five bedrooms and three bathrooms feels excessive, especially when two of those bedrooms aren’t furnished because nobody’s ever used them.

Usually, I don’t get nervous. I don’t get nervous on the ice. So far, women haven’t made me nervous. Ellis Ainsley makes me nervous, though. She was the only one who did all those years ago in school and she still does now. Something about her biting sass just makes my bones itch. I guess in the same way some people feel butterflies, I get the bone itches. I sound insane even to myself, but that is the only way to describe the feeling: El makes my bones want to crawl out of my skin so badly that it made me want to clean. To make my space worthy.

When she was here last month it wasn’t deep cleaned, but then I never expected to see her, let alone have the pleasure of having her in my space. Not to mention that it was the middle of the night, it’s not like she was taking a good look around. But this time I want her to be impressed; I want her to notice the brown leather couch I had made especially for the main room – something I added because I wanted it to feel warmer than my team’s bachelor pads, filled with blacks and greys. I have area rugs and pictures on the walls. This is my home, and I want Ellis to see me as a grown man now; not the little college boy who should have fought harder for her.