Whoops. My fault. Don’t push him on the boxing stuff, got it.
“I train someone,” he finally says. “That feels good.”
I light up. “Training! That makes sense. I guess when you’re in your fifties, competing on the professional circuit isn’t an option, right?”
His brow furrows. “I’m forty-six.”
“Oh. Forty-six? Really?”
“Yes,” he harumphs. “Really. And boxers have longer careers than some other pros. I could have a lot of good years ahead of me.” He straightens his back, swallowing down a fresh jolt of pain.
“Who do you train?”
He frowns. “That’s private.”
I laugh. “How is that private?”
His frown stays. “It’s sensitive information,” he finally says, like that’s an explanation.
Just in time, I remember the dish in the oven and remove it, with the cheese bubbling and the edges getting crispy. “At least you’re not entirely a hermit.” I deposit it on a wire rack. “If you wanted to live that life, more power to you. But I suppose being your assistant, I’ve gotten attached to your happiness. I’m relieved you have some sort of social connection, even if you are just beating each other up.”
“Beating each other up.” He snorts. “It’s a sport. Hell, it’s meditative.”
Meditative? I wouldn’t have guessed he thought about inner harmony a lot, but who knows? I shouldn’t make assumptions.
We both look at the steaming dish. “Just give it a minute to cool.” I stick a serving spoon in.
Enzo sniffs, his nostrils flaring, and grunts in satisfaction.
“He approves,” I tease. I take a seat on the stool across from him; Enzo stands with a straight back, eating the delivery food. “Cooking is one of my many talents. You’d think a guy with so many could figure out a career, but alas.”
Enzo stares at me, locking me in his gaze.
A shiver goes through my spine. His focused attention trips me up .
“I’m sure you can do whatever you decide you want to do,” he says flatly.
I laugh. “While I appreciate the generic parental advice, I’ve got two moms ready to tell me the same thing anytime I despair in a crisis of confidence, so—”
“No,” he interrupts firmly. “Good attitude. Eager to work. Head on your shoulders.”
My mouth hangs open. He says it so firmly, like he knows me. Like he’s been paying attention in all of our fleeting interactions and decided this is true. That’s who I am. Although personally, I’m not so sure.
Still feels nice.
“Well, thank you,” I tell him. Confused suddenly where to put my hands, I dig into the food early, depositing a healthy scoop of the baked eggplant onto Enzo’s plate. “I just need a little assistance figuring out what it is I want to do.” I tilt my eyes up. “How did you know you were going to be a boxer?”
“Only thing I’ve ever been good at.” His voice is low and steady.
“I’m sure that’s not true. You seem like a wonderful dog parent. The girls are angels.”
He looks to his dogs with a half-smile. “Maybe two things.”
It’s adorable how much he loves them. I grin, savoring one of the few actual smiles I’ve seen on his face, until he turns back to his food.
Has he always been a loner? Eating a meal with another person is probably rare for him. Hell, I might be one of a very small number of people to ever enter his kitchen.
Maybe eating together right now is special to Enzo, and that’s why it feels kind of funny and special to me, too.