“I decided I wanted to watch the Red Wings on your enormous television,” Russ said.
Milt let him in. He was wearing a pair of athletic shorts and a shirt damp with sweat. “I just went for a run. I’m going to shower but,” he gestured around, “help yourself.”
Russ set the six pack on the coffee table, cracked one of the bottles open and tried desperately not to think about Milt in the shower. Was he one of those masochistic SOB’s that like freezing cold showers after a workout? Or did he like the water scalding hot? Right now, was he arching his neck under the warm spray as he soaped up that perfect body? A body that Russ was now well acquainted with, had run his own hands over… Jesus, what was wrong with him? Russ forced his attention back on ESPN.