Page 53 of Offside for Christmas
"This is really from scratch?" Ellie asked, watching him strain the pasta. "Like, you made the pasta?"
"My grandmother would disown me if I used store-bought." Cole tossed the pasta with the sauce, the movements automatic from years of practice. "Here, taste this."
He held out a fork with a small bite of pasta. Ellie leaned forward and took it, her lips closing around the fork, and the domesticity of the gesture—feeding her in his kitchen, watching her mouth, her eyes closing as she tasted it—made something in Cole's chest constrict. And lower. Definitely lower.
"Oh my God." Her eyes opened wide, and she made a small sound of pleasure that went straight through him. "This is incredible."
His breath hitched. "Yeah?"
"Seriously. Cole, you could open a restaurant. This is better than half the Italian places in Burlington."
She licked a tiny bit of sauce from her bottom lip, completely unaware of what she was doing to him. Cole gripped the counter behind him, trying to think about hockey stats, anything to calm down the way his body was reacting to something as simple as watching her eat pasta.
"That's the backup plan if hockey doesn't work out," he said, and winked.
Ellie stepped closer, and Cole's pulse kicked up. The kitchen suddenly felt very small and very warm.
"Is it really?" Ellie set down her wine glass, studying him. There was something in her eyes that suggested she knew exactly what she was doing to him.
Cole focused on plating the pasta, drizzling olive oil, adding fresh parmesan. His shoulder twinged as he reached for the second plate, and his hand shook slightly—just enough that he nearly dropped the serving spoon.
"I don't know. Maybe. I never let myself think about 'after hockey.' It was always just... hockey. That was the plan. The only plan."
"And now?"
Cole tried to lift the plate with his right arm and felt the sharp bite of pain radiate down from his shoulder. He compensated quickly, switching hands, but not quickly enough.
"Stop." Ellie was suddenly right next to him, her hand on his forearm. "Your shoulder. You're favoring it."
"It's fine—"
"Cole." Her voice had that PT tone—firm, no-nonsense. "Don't lie to me. Not about this."
He set down the plate, defeated. "It's just sore. From practice earlier. I overdid it on a drill."
"Why didn't you say something?" But she was already moving behind him, her hands going to his shoulder with professional efficiency. "Here. Let me—"
Her fingers found the knot immediately, pressing with just enough pressure to make him wince. Then she began to work it, small circular motions that hurt and helped at the same time.
"Jesus," Cole breathed, his eyes closing.
"You've been tensing it all evening. Probably stress cooking." Her voice was gentle now, her touch expert. "You need to ice this after dinner. And stop trying to power through pain. That's how you make it worse."
"Yes, ma'am."
She worked the knot for another minute, and Cole felt his entire body start to relax under her hands. The pain didn't disappear, but it dimmed. Became manageable.
"Better?" Ellie asked.
"Much." Cole turned to face her, and they were suddenly very close. "Thank you."
"That's what I'm here for." She stepped back, a small smile playing at her lips. "Among other things."
"Other things?"
"Eating your incredible pasta, for one." She picked up both plates and carried them to the table. "Come on. Before it gets cold. And after dinner, I'm icing that shoulder. Non-negotiable."
Cole followed her, something warm settling in his chest. She'd noticed his pain. Helped without making him feel weak. Cared enough to insist on taking care of him.
