Page 1 of SCRUMptious

Chapter1

L A U R EN

When the celebritychef you worked for went on a drug and alcohol induced rant on live national television—effectively canceling the show and rendering everyone associated with it unemployed—you did what you must to get by. For me, that meant answering an ad for a temporary position halfway across the globe. It wasn't what I'd had in mind when I'd gone to culinary school almost eight years ago, but that was the story of my life thesedays.

To wit, professional cooking hadn't been my first plan, either.

I'd left home at 18 to pursue a degree in international studies at an Ivy League university with the hope of one day working at the U.N. Six months later, that dream was shattered into a thousand different pieces when my dad died after a drunk driver t-boned my parents' car. The accident also left my mom without the use of herlegs.

With no income and mounting debt, she'd been forced to sell our house, and I'd dropped out of college to move home and help her. Those first few years after the accident had been difficult—some of the hardest of my life, in fact—but a job working for a high-end caterer on the weekends had given me a new dream: to own and operate an award-winning food truck.

Thus, culinary school.

Since then, I'd been a line cook in a hotel restaurant kitchen; served as the personal chef to a famous lingerie model; and then, finally, I'd landed the gig with Gavin Jones. While the pay had been good, the working conditions were deplorable. I couldn't tell you what was worse—the long hours associated with producing a weekly television show or the verbal abuse Gavin would fling at his underlings. I'd often wondered if it was because I was a woman that he treated me like he did. Or, maybe, it was because I was the one who actually cooked the food Gavin passed off as his own, but more often than not I was the one he'd lash out at during one of his infamous tirades. While it'd been terrifying to lose my paycheck, it was nice no longer having to worry about holding my shit together while my boss called me a “fucking cunt” in front of the staff and TVcrew.

Although, I'd only been at this job for one day and already I'd heard two guys calling each other cunts over lunch. I'd flinched and then stood completely frozen, my body instinctively waiting for the threat to pass. Thankfully, no one noticed my reaction and I'd been able to go about my day no worse for wear. Now, I was coming to learn that in Ireland the word “cunt” wasn't viewed as being quite as vulgar as back home in the U.S. Here, it was practically a term of endearment.

And that brought me tonow.

It was my second day working for Dublin Rugby as an assistant chef, and already I was wondering what in the fuck I'd gotten myself into. Because that whole cooking assistant thing? It had flown completely out the window five hours after I'd started when the head chef slipped and broke both hisarms.

I honestly didn't know the first thing about cooking for athletes, but as they'd wheeled my boss out on a stretcher, he'd seen my look of panic and, taking pity, told me I just needed to cook as much protein as possible. It didn't even have to taste good, he'd added, just before they shut the ambulance door. Once my shock wore off, I'd wondered if his last bit of advice had been more about him keeping his job than about helping me out—because I was pretty sure no one expected me to serve shitting tastingfood.

So now—with the help of three other assistants—I'd cooked up a veritable feast for 50 players, ten coaches, 12 members of the medical staff, and 20 some-odd other employees of the organization. Utterly exhausted at only noon, I had no idea how I was going to repeat this four days aweek.

“I didn't think you could pull it off, but this looks delicious.” Marla Kennedy, the head of human resources, squeezed my shoulder in encouragement. She'd been the one who'd hired me to come work for theteam.

“Necessity is the mother of invention and all that,” I replied with a shrug.

I'd never been good at accepting compliments, even when they were warranted. But I could admit—at least internally—that Marla was right. The meal I'd thrown together tasted amazing. I hadn't found any of Harold's notes or menus, so I'd winged it, throwing together a random assortment of dishes based on what had been in the walk-in refrigerator and pantry. Now, I was actually quite proud of the results.

Wiping the sweat from my brow with the back of my forearm, I surveyed the food spread out in front of me. Chicken breasts stuffed with sun-dried tomatoes and capers and then wrapped in prosciutto. A salad of fresh greens with sliced red onion, crumbled blue cheese, and candied pecans, topped off with a balsamic vinaigrette dressing. A white bean salad with grilled onions, chopped dill, olive oil, and lemon. Grilled lamb steaks dressed with copious amounts of rosemary and garlic. And finally, roasted eggplant with harissa for the vegetarians of the group (there were three, none of them players).

As Marla walked away, I called the kitchen assistants over and instructed them to begin taking the second wave of food into the dining area. Then, hefting the platter of chicken into my hands, I pushed my way through the swinging double doors and was immediately hit with the sound of raucous applause.

Stopping in my tracks, I stared out at the room in awe. Almost 50 guys, still sweaty from their earlier training session, sat at tables of eight clapping for their midday meal. I'd been in the kitchen all morning, but the warmth infusing my cheeks and snaking its way down my chest had nothing to do with slaving away over a hot stove all morning. The truth was, in addition to being bad at accepting compliments, I was also incredibly shy around attractive men. And right now? I was surrounded by a whole horde ofthem.

I dropped my head forward and scrambled to the table where the rest of the meal had been laid out. But before I could scamper away to the safety of the kitchen, Marla approached me again. “I don't mean to speak ill of Harold, but his food has never caused anyone to break out into spontaneous applause.”

“It's nothing,” I murmured, batting away her praise. “I just cooked what made sense given the supplies that were available.”

She studied the meal for a few quick seconds and then shifted her eyes back to me. “Do you know what Harold usually serves on Tuesdays?”

“No, I couldn't find his menus.”

Marla squeezed my shoulder again. “Oh dear, that's because there are none. Tuesdays and Thursdays are plain baked chicken, seasoned with salt and pepper; some boiled vegetable; mashed sweet potatoes; and a salad. If you can call undressed leaves in a bowl a salad.”

“That's what he serves?” I asked incredulously. “Then why do we have all these other ingredients onhand?”

“Well, it's not always so dire. On Fridays, he cooks a special meal for the boys—usually grilled lamb with a few side dishes.”

Thinking back to the canned chickpeas I'd located, I nodded. “Hummus?”

“Yes. And baba ganoushtoo.”

“Ah, that explains the eggplants.”

“Our Harold went on a trip to Greece last summer and we've been the beneficiaries of his new-found love of Mediterranean cuisine ever since. Although his repertoire isn't very imaginative—it's basically just the same dish every Friday—it's a nice reprieve.”

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