Page 26 of Speed

“Cool,” Brody said behind me as I started pulling ingredients from the fridge: kale, peppers, tomatoes, cucumber, and avocado. I grabbed some bell peppers and set them on the counter before digging through the drawer for a knife.

I could feel him watching as I moved around the kitchen, but I tried to ignore it. Cooking wasn’t exactly thrilling, but I liked it—simple and predictable. I washed the veggies and started chopping, falling into an easy rhythm as the sound of the knife hitting the cutting board filled the space.

“You have to eat more carefully, I guess. Because of diabetes?” Brody asked, leaning against the counter, his arms crossed as he watched me dice a tomato. “No huge plates of pasta?”

I shrugged. “Pretty much. It’s not that different from what any professional athlete eats. High protein, good carbs, healthy fats. Balance is key, especially when I’m training or playing.” He nodded, his gray eyes tracking every movement as if I were a puzzle he was trying to figure out. I grabbed a bowl and tossed the chopped veggies in. “It’s about timing. Eating before games or practices ensures I’ve got enough energy, but not so much that my blood sugar spikes. And then, after, I have to refuel to recover.”

I pulled out some leftover roasted chicken, shredded it with my hands, and added it to the bowl. “It’s a lot of trial and error, but I’ve been doing it long enough to know what works for me.”

Brody tilted his head, curiosity flickering in his expression. “My niece has an insulin pump. She’s had diabetes since she was two.”

“Aww, bless her.” I grabbed a handful of almonds and tossed them into the bowl, my focus on the salad. Brody sat across the counter, watching me with that quiet, curious intensity that made me feel as if I were under a microscope.

“Do you use a pump?” he asked, his gaze flicking down to where my shirt had risen, exposing a sliver of skin.

I shook my head. “Nope. Hockey’s too rough for one. Pumps are great, but they’re delicate. One bad hit, a fall, or even just getting slammed into the boards the wrong way and it could get ripped out. It’s not worth the risk; I use multiple daily injections. Long-acting insulin once a day, fast-acting before meals and as needed. It works for me.”

Brody leaned forward, resting his elbows on the counter. “So, no automatic adjustments? No steady stream?”

“Nope. It’s all manual. I have to check my blood sugar, count my carbs, and decide how much insulin to take.” I smirked. “It’s like having a full-time job on top of my actual full-time job.”

Brody was silent for a moment, his fingers drumming against the counter. “Avery hates her pump,” he admitted. “She says it’s itchy and doesn’t feel normal.”

I nodded, scraping the avocado into the salad. “Yeah, I get that. It’s a lot, especially for a kid. Some people love their pumps, but they’re not for everyone. I had one for a while when I was younger, but I hated feeling like I had something attached to me all the time.”

Brody studied me, his gray eyes sharp but unreadable. “Doesn’t it get exhausting? Managing all of it?”

I shrugged. “It’s just my normal. I don’t think about it much—it’s like breathing. You just do it.”

He exhaled, shaking his head. “I don’t know how you do it.”

I smiled, handing him a fork and setting the salad bowl between us. “Same way you survived years of F1. Discipline, routine, and pure stubbornness.”

Brody huffed a laugh, shaking his head. “Yeah, I guess we’ve both had to figure out how to stay alive.”

The words sat between us, heavy but unspoken. He wasn’t just talking about diabetes, and I wasn’t just talking about racing.

We just understood each other.

He nodded slowly, and for a moment, his expression softened. “You’re a good role model, you know? For kids like my niece.”

The compliment caught me off guard, and I ducked my head, focusing on the dressing I was whisking together—parsley, garlic, lemon juice, and buttermilk. “Thanks,” I said, my voice quieter than I intended.

I poured the dressing over the salad, tossing it until everything was coated. Then, I grabbed two plates and served it. When I turned back to him, he was still watching me, his expression unreadable but intense.

“All right,” I said, handing him a plate. “Dinner’s ready. No complaints about the kale, okay?”

He took the plate with a small smile, his fingers brushing mine briefly. “No promises,” he said, but his tone was lighter now as we sat at the tiny island, a tiny one for two. After filling two water glasses, we dove into our salads.

“This isreallygood,” he said after a few bites.

“Thanks. I took a few cooking classes in college, just trying to learn how to feed myself now that I didn’t have two parents watching every bite I ate. I like cooking and feeding people. It’s nice to see someone enjoy what you make.”

“You’re not at all like I would’ve imagined a hockey player to be,” he said, then dabbed at his chin with a paper napkin. The afternoon sun warmed the room.

“What did you think hockey players were like?” I asked, then took a bite of chicken. I suspected I already knew what he was going to say.

“Big dumb brutes who like to fight.”

---