Page 73 of In My Hockey Era
“I’ve got it.Take off your shoes and sit down.”His voice is firm and I’m not going to lie, I think I like this bossy, take-charge version of him.
“Okay,” I say.
I sink into the couch and zone out.Maybe ten minutes pass and Max and Bennett are back.
Rising to my feet, I wander into the kitchen.Bennett sets a dish of dog food out for Max and I rub my face.“Why do you have groceries?”
“Because I’m going to feed you.”
At the mention of food, my stomach growls—loudly.
He gives me a look and starts unpacking.Bananas, soup, bread, pasta.A box of tea.Stuff I don’t even remember telling him I like, but somehow, he knows.
I cross my arms.“You really don’t have to do this.”
He ignores me, setting a pot on the stove.“You didn’t answer my texts,” he says again, tossing me a glance over his shoulder.“After your shift, when I didn’t hear from you, I figured you were either ignoring me or unconscious.And since I don’t like being ignored…” He trails off, turning on the burner.
Warmth spreads through my chest, something I’m too tired to push down.
I lean against the counter, watching him move like he’s been in my kitchen a million times before.“You didn’t have to check on me.”
He glances over, eyes soft.“Yeah, I did.”
I swallow hard.
Bennett standing in my kitchen, unloading groceries and preparing food like it’s the most natural thing in the world does something to me.And suddenly, the entire day shifts.
Becausethis—someone thinking about me, looking out for me when I don’t have the energy to do it for myself—feels like the best damn thing that’s ever happened.
A few minutes later, he’s handing me a bowl of soup and a piece of buttered toast, sitting me down at my tiny kitchen table like I’m a damn child.I should be annoyed.Maybe even a little embarrassed.But the truth is, it feelsreallynice to be taken care of for once.I take care of other people all day long.
I take a sip, and my eyes flutter closed.“Okay.This is actually good.”
He smirks.“You sound surprised.”
I peek one eye open.“You don’t exactly strike me as a home-cooked-meal kind of guy.”
“Quinn, I live with Chase.You think I trusthimto cook?”
I snort.“Fair point.”
He watches as I eat, only getting up to refill my water.And when I finish, when I let out a deep, exhausted sigh, he tugs me up from my chair and steers me toward my bedroom without a word.
“Ben—”
“Nope,” he says, nudging me forward.“Bed.”
I drag my feet.“I need to shower.”
“Fine.Then bed.”
“I have work in the morning.”
“I know.That’s why I’m tucking you in and then leaving.”
I turn to argue, but his face is set, jaw tight, like heneedsme to listen to him.
So, for once, I do.
