Page 24 of Slap Shot Daddies

“Yes,” Kenzie replies with deadpan precision, her retort drawing a burst of laughter from Braden and me, echoing warmly through the cozy kitchen.

Ambrose smirks, finally allowing himself a glance at her, his eyes twinkling with mischief. “Well, surprise. Some of us actually know our way around a kitchen,” he retorts with a playful wink.

I grab a cutting board, its surface smooth and worn from use, and start chopping a bundle of fresh parsley, the vibrant green sprigs releasing their earthy fragrance into the air. “Ambrose is the dad of the house, didn’t you know?” I chuckle, looking over at Braden.

Braden snickers, the corners of his eyes crinkling with amusement. “Yeah, and we’re his dumbass kids,” he adds, his voice light with camaraderie.

Kenzie laughs, the sound pure and unguarded, and for the first time tonight, she seems completely at ease.

The tension melts from her shoulders, and her eyes, no longer darting anxiously as if plotting an escape, are bright and content.

She just looks…happy.

And that’s when a realization strikes me with clarity.

I like thislass, a lot. Not just in the superficial “she’s hot” way, though undeniably, she is.

No, in a deeper sense, where I genuinely want to unravel the layers of who she is.

I exchange a glance with Braden and Ambrose, and their expressions mirror my own revelation. It’s clear we’re all thinking the same damn thing.

Kenzie Wood might just be the kind of trouble we don’t mind getting into.

CHAPTER SIX

Kenzie

The kitchen radiates warmth.

I’m enveloped in the mouth-watering aroma of garlic, butter, and parmesan, so thick they seem to hang in the air. I lean casually against the cool, speckled countertop, observing the boys as they glide around in a seamless dance, each expertly executing his culinary task.

Ambrose, with a focused gaze, stirs the Alfredo sauce, its glossy surface bubbling gently as he meticulously folds in freshly grated parmesan.

The scent is divine, rich, and creamy, teasing my senses and causing my stomach to rumble with eager anticipation.

Braden, standing by the sink drains the pasta, sending billowing clouds of steam swirling around him and gently fogging the edges of the kitchen window.

With ease, he tosses the noodles in a drizzle of olive oil, shaking them in the colander with the precision of a seasoned chef.

Meanwhile, Reggie retrieves a loaf of garlic bread from the oven, its crust perfectly golden and crisp, releasing a buttery, herby aroma that mingles with the other scents.

Beside him, a fresh salad rests in a large bowl, its vibrant greens coated in a delicate sheen of homemade vinaigrette.

When we finally gather around the dining table, Reggie grins broadly and raises his glass in a toast. “This might be the first time we’ve actually eaten at this table,” he declares, his eyes sparkling with amusement.

Braden chuckles, filling my glass with wine despite my half-hearted attempt to refuse. “Yeah, we usually just eat in front of the TV, and let’s be real, most of the time it’s takeout,” he admits with a wry smile.

I laugh, shaking my head as I twirl a forkful of pasta, savoring the moment.

The first bite is like a celebration—creamy, cheesy perfection, with noodles cooked to tender brilliance. The boys dive into their meals, exchanging playful jabs and laughter between mouthfuls.

“Holy hell, Ambrose,” I exclaim. “You could open a restaurant.”

Ambrose smirks, a playful glint in his eye. “I’ll stick to hockey,” he replies, his voice filled with easy confidence.

I had skipped my pain medication earlier, wanting to keep my mind sharp. I’m glad that I did so because, as the evening progresses, the boys continue to top up my wine glass.

The warm, soothing burn of the alcohol spreads through my limbs, leaving me feeling light and a touch reckless.

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