Page 54 of Offside for Christmas
Maybe this was what having someone felt like.
“What are you thinking about?” She said.
"Just the fact that I'm standing in a kitchen in Vermont, cooking dinner for a woman who scares the shit out of me, in a town I can't decide if I hate or love, and I have no idea what I'm doing." He set the wine glasses on the small table he'd set up by the window—complete with an actual tablecloth he'd bought that afternoon and a candle that was currently providing romantic lighting.
When did I become this person?
"I scare you?" Ellie moved closer, and Cole could feel the warmth of her even though they weren't touching.
"Terrify me."
"Why?"
Cole set down the serving spoon and turned to face her fully. "Because you make me want things. A life outside hockey. A home. Roots. Things I don't know how to have. Things that have never worked out for me before."
"You're having them right now," Ellie said softly.
Cole looked around—at his apartment that finally felt like more than a hotel room, at the dinner he'd cooked, at the woman standing in his kitchen looking at him like he was more than just a broken-down hockey player.
"Yeah," he said quietly. "I am."
They ate at the small table by the window, and Cole couldn't remember the last time he'd had a meal that felt like this. Easy. Comfortable. Real.
Outside, snow had started falling again—light flurries that caught the Christmas lights from Main Street and turned everything into something magical. The town square's giant tree was visible from his window, lit up and perfect, and for once, Cole didn't feel annoyed by it.
"Okay, you have to tell me," Ellie said, twirling pasta on her fork. "How did you learn to cook like this? Because this is not 'I can make scrambled eggs' cooking. This is art."
"My grandmother." Cole reached for his wine, the memory warming him from the inside. "She was Italian—well, her parents were from Naples, and she grew up in an Italian neighborhood in Chicago. She refused to let me grow up not knowing how to feed myself properly."
"Wait, Hansen isn't exactly an Italian name," Ellie said, pausing mid-bite.
"That's from my grandfather. He was Danish. Met my grandmother at some church function in the sixties, and apparently she took one look at this tall, quiet Scandinavian guy and decided he was hers." Cole smiled despite himself. "Helearned to speak Italian for her. She learned to make smørrebrød for him. They just... made it work."
"That's actually really sweet." Ellie set down her fork. "Can I ask—why did your grandmother raise you? What about your parents?"
Cole's hand tightened around his wine glass. He should've known that question was coming.
"Car accident. I was seven." The words came out flat, automatic. "Drunk driver ran a red light. Killed them both instantly."
"Cole, I'm so sorry—"
"It was a long time ago." He took a drink, the wine suddenly tasting bitter. "My grandfather had already passed by then—heart attack when I was five. So it was just my grandmother and me."
"That must have been so hard."
"I don't remember much about them, honestly. My dad was a mechanic. My mom worked at a bank. They were just... normal people. Went to a Christmas party, were on their way home, and some asshole decided to drive drunk." He laughed without humor. "The guy survived, by the way. Got five years, served three. Was out before I even started high school."
Ellie reached across the table, covering his hand with hers. "That's not fair."
"No, it's not. But my grandmother used to say that life doesn't owe you fair, it just owes you the next day. So you either spend it angry or you spend it living." He turned his hand over, threading his fingers through hers briefly before pulling back. "She tried, anyway. To make sure I lived and didn't just... exist."
"Did it work?"
"Not really. I just channeled all that anger into hockey. Turns out rage makes you a pretty decent player." The bitterness crept back into his voice. "So I guess something good came out of it."
"Cole—"
"She also used to say a man who can cook will never be lonely. Said food was love you could taste." He stabbed at his pasta, changing the subject. "Didn't exactly work out that way for me."
