Page 7 of What If I Hate You
Carla, the volunteer who runs this place like it’s her rink, hands me a tray of roasted chicken thighs and gives me the same side-eye she gives me every time I show up.
“You sure you know how to serve without flinging gravy halfway across the room, goalie boy?” she asks, lips twitching at the corners. She always enjoys teasing me like I don’t know what I’m doing. In reality, I know how much Carla respects me for giving my time to the community soup kitchen. And I’m grateful she doesn’t sell me out and tell the media I’m here garnering more attention for the charity because of my presence. Maybe she’s been so good about letting me be anonymous here because I also donate a hefty chunk of cash. Either way, I’m good with it. I just like to come here and be the guy who gives back. Not because the league tells me I have to, but because I want to.
I smirk. “Gravy, pucks, same wrist action.”
She chuckles softly, and moves down the line, muttering something about, “Celebrity athletes with no damn common sense.”
I can’t blame her. A lot of guys come through here once or twice, take a few photos, hand out some smiles, and never come back. But I see who actually comes through the doors to this community soup kitchen. I see the moms, the kids, the seniors who look like they haven’t had a full meal in a week. It hits me in the chest harder than a slapshot to the mask because I know the look.
I’ve sported the look more than once in my lifetime.
Growing up hungry with next to nothing was the norm for me for longer than I care to remember. So, I show up. No press. No PR team. Just me. The guy serving up the chicken and gravy.
“Here you go,” I say, placing a piece of chicken on the tray of a woman who looks like she hasn’t slept in days. Her little boy clings to her side, eyes huge, staring up at me like I’m someone important. Maybe it’s my size.
“You like hockey?” I ask, offering him a smile.
He nods, shy. “My uncle says you play like a wall.”
I can’t help the laugh that slips out. “Your uncle’s a smart guy. Tell him I said thanks.”
We bump fists—tiny knuckles to my calloused ones—and then I give him an extra piece of chicken. The kid is tiny. If I can help fill his belly tonight, I’ll rest easier.
The line moves slowly, but steady. I don’t mind. I have nowhere I need to be tonight and there’s something about this place that grounds me. No crowds. No bright lights. No pressure to be perfect. Just food, people, and the occasional roll that hits the floor.
After a couple hours, the rush thins out. I lean against the counter for a second, wiping the sweat from my forehead. Myback aches, and my arm is starting to cramp from holding the ladle too long. And somehow, I like it.
Carla walks by again, eyeing me like I’m a stray cat she doesn’t trust. It’s amusing to me because I’ve been giving my time here for several months now. I know deep down she really likes me, but I let her pretend otherwise. She stops in front of me, one eyebrow raised like she’s about to call me out for something.
“You know, Cunningham,” she says, leaning on the counter opposite me, “you could be home with your feet up, watching highlights of yourself on TV. Instead, you’re in my kitchen handing out chicken and mopping up gravy spills. You ever going to tell me why?”
I straighten, tossing the rag over my shoulder. “Maybe I like your cooking.”
She barks out a laugh, the kind that’s more gravel than melody. “Boy, don’t you lie to me. You wouldn’t keep coming back here if it was just about free meals. Plus, in all the time you’ve been here I haven’t seen you eat one darn thing.”
I rub the back of my neck, feeling her stare like she’s poking holes right through me. Most people don’t press. They take the smirks, the sarcasm, the surface-level stuff and move on. But Carla’s been around too long. She can see what’s under the mask.
“Let’s just say I know what it’s like to be on the other side of the line,” I explain, nodding toward the tables where a family is packing up leftovers in foil. “Hungry. Tired. Pretending you’re fine when you’re not.”
Her face softens, but only a fraction. “That your story?”
“Part of it,” I admit. My jaw tightens, but I force myself to keep talking. “Grew up with parents who weren’t always able to keep the fridge full. Some nights, it was either find dinner myselfor go without. I figured out really fast what empty feels like. You don’t forget that kind of thing.”
Carla nods slowly, her eyes narrowing, like she’s deciding whether to push further. Finally, she pats my shoulder once with a protective firmness. “That explains why you don’t just write checks.”
I shrug. “Checks don’t look you in the eye and they don’t hand a kid an extra piece of chicken when he needs it.”
For a second, she’s quiet. Then her lips twitch, probably the closest she’ll ever get to sentimental. “You know, goalie boy, you give off this grumpy as hell vibe but you’re good people.”
I smirk, grabbing the mop and twirling it like a stick. “Don’t tell anyone. Wouldn’t want to ruin my reputation.”
Carla shakes her head and rolls her eyes muttering, “A bear on the ice, and softie off it, I guess.”
And for once, I don’t mind being called soft. Not here. “Maybe.”
“A guy like you with money, fame, all your teeth still intact,” she says with a wink. “Why’re you still single?”
I huff out a laugh, grabbing a tray to stack. “You been talking to my teammates? That’s their favorite question.”
