Page 34 of Hockey Wife

“I’m used to helping.”

Of course he was. All those sisters, who wouldn’t let him get away with a thing. Neither did she want to set up a dynamic of herself as the little woman toiling away in the kitchen, so she relented.

“Maybe open the wine? I also bought beer. Well, I ordered it using this concierge service that Tara recommended. Can Do. Have you heard of it?”

“Yeah, Reid Durand’s wife owns it.”

Reid was one of the players. She’d added them all to her flash cards this afternoon, along with the names of their wives, children, and playing positions. That was how she usually began a project. A new set of flash cards and bullet points to guide her.

“Wine good for you?” he asked.

“Great.”

He approached, an almost predatory move like he did at the Empty Net, then again at her party. Was he going to touch her? Take her hand? Kiss her?

She swallowed. “Need something?”

“Uh huh.”

He stepped closer. She held her breath.

“Wine opener. The drawer behind you.”

“Oh!” Stupid. Jumping aside, she turned back to the bubbling pot of water and added salt, then stirred the meat sauce next to it.

He sniffed. “Pasta from scratch?”

“I thought it might be nice to have something … homemade.” The more she thought about it, the more absurd it was. He came from a family that probably cooked together, ate together, and prayed together, if that was their jam. What was she trying to prove here?

She picked up a coil of linguine, shook off the flour, and dropped it into the pot. Then another.

Ten minutes later, after Banks directed her to a colander, she served their meals. He had poured a couple of glasses of wine and even had the foresight to pull a hunk of Parmesan from the fridge.

“Sorry, I forgot to get bread.”

“That’s fine. I can carbo-load tomorrow. This is a good start.”

“Carbo-loading? Is that what you do before a game?”

“Typically.”

She filed it away in the segment of her brain now devoted to hockey lore. “How was the gym?”

“Good.” He picked up his fork and hovered over the pasta, which in truth, looked a bit gloopy with its stuck-together strands. He curled a few around his fork, taking a clump of sauce with it, and put it in his mouth.

The poker face was top-notch as he chewed and swallowed.

“This is really good.”

“Liar.”

Almost defiantly, he added an even bigger coil of pasta and sauce to his fork. “Got any more?”

“You haven’t finished that lot!”

He sniffed. Kept eating. The only hint that he might not be enjoying it as much as he claimed was his addition of a hefty dose of grated Parm.

Cheddar was circuiting under the table. He had taken a liking to Banks, probably because he ignored him, and cats were contrary like that.

---