Page 49 of Overtime
“Huh, that doesn’t sound so bad.”
“This will be better.” I slice the tomatoes in half and take out as many seeds as I can with one swipe of the knife. I hope she’s not testy like my little sister, who can’t stand a single seed.
She shifts, and I dare glance up in time for her to rest her chin on both hands, elbows on the counter. The picture of innocence. The drastic opposite of the thoughts in my head.
“How’s your head?” I ask a tad too loud.
It makes her startle. “Hurts a little, but not too bad.”
The moment she slipped in the icy parking lot comes back to my mind like a bucket of cold water. She looks, sounds, and moves normally, but you never know with head or spinal injuries. My chest constricts as if it’s being squeezed by a cold hand.
“My older sister, Luz, was the captain of the Thunder Strikes the year the team was created.” Even though I pause, she keeps quiet, probably sensing there’s more since there was no lead-into this. “Which is nothing short of a miracle, since for a while before that, she couldn’t walk.”
I only hear her sharp intake of breath.
For a moment, all I can do is focus on dicing tomatoes without maiming myself.
“She got checked against the boards at a weird angle when she was twelve.”
“Oh, no.” Another gasp. “But she recovered, right? I mean, if she was the captain of the Strikes…”
“Yeah, it was pretty much a miracle.” I dump the chopped tomato into a fresh bowl and grab an onion. “So, that’s why I’m being intense.”
“I get it. Um, I’ll stay awake all night and send you picture proof if you want.”
“No need. You’re staying under my supervision.”
She laughs. “You don’t need to stay up all night too. Don’t you have practice tomorrow or something?”
“Nope. Not tomorrow.” Besides, it wouldn’t be the first time I went all night long without sleep.
“Has anyone told you that you’re really stubborn, Aran Rodriguez?”
“I’m unmovable like an iceberg, remember?”
Her scoff sends her reeling back. “Unfortunately for you, icebergs are melting faster than ever.”
Yeah, that’s kind of the effect she’s having on me.
The onion fumes hit me, and I have to look up and blink really hard for a moment, which she decides to take advantage of.
“Oh, are you crying? Did I make the big, bad boy cry?”
“You don’t stink bad enough to make me suffer like this,” I say with a sniffle.
“So, I do stink?”
I glare, and it makes her burst into a giggling fit. With her eyes closed, she misses the lightning quick smile I manage to tamp down.
Back to work I go. I bag the rest of the onion and dump a small handful onto the tomatoes. I wash the cilantro and wring it out with my hands, which I find brings out the flavor better. Then I chop just enough and mix it with the other veggies, adding salt, pepper, vinegar, and a dash of olive oil.
“Whoa, that looks amazing already.”
“It’s pico de gallo.”
“Pico de gallo?” Of course she butchers the pronunciation of it, and I have to repeat myself two more times. As she practices the pronunciation, I turn the kitchen burner on and set a buttered pan on it. And off the arepas go.
“I didn’t know guys who cooked this well existed outside of books,” she says in a joking way.
