Total pages in book: 13
Estimated words: 12091 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 60(@200wpm)___ 48(@250wpm)___ 40(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 12091 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 60(@200wpm)___ 48(@250wpm)___ 40(@300wpm)
“It’s one hundred degrees in here, might as well be on fire.”
Without overthinking it, I lower my gaze and shoot my shot. “I figure you’d be used to the heat… since you’re always in the kitchen.”
“Wait… y-you… How—”
“I watch your videos religiously.” It’s cute how his mouth pops open. “Graham Cracks an Egg? Right? I tried to make that dessert… shit, what was it called? You made it last week…” I scratch my head trying not to stare at the way he’s pinned his bottom lip between his teeth, or how his cheeks have gone a deeper shade of pink that I assume has more to do with being recognized, and less to do with the fact the temperature has risen at least three more degrees in the last two minutes. “I think it was French.”
“Profiterole?” he whispers, and a small smile starts to spread across his handsome face.
“That’s it.” I rub the damp skin on the back of my neck, a weird surge of embarrassment coursing through me as I wrap my head around being the fan for once. “I totally botched it. The entire endeavor was a failure.”
“You… Sports guy, goalie man, seriously watch my cooking tutorials?”
His channel is more than cooking tutorials. He has his own aesthetic; this sort of old-world-meets-modern vibe that’s easy to get lost in. The chopping, the sizzle, those sexy hands kneading dough, what can I say, it gets me going.
“Sports guys, goalie man?”
“Sorry, I’m doing it again… the whole assumptions thing.”
“To be fair, I suck at cooking, but I love food, and I don’t know, your page is… interesting.”
He raises a doubtful brow and my gaze snags on his Adam’s apple as he swallows. He looks different in real life. Better. More etched, hard lines and intense angles. Maybe it’s the tux, or maybe it’s the stubble on his jaw and the way it pulses as he fidgets under my appraisal.
“I’ve never…I like trying my hand at French cuisine but honestly, I’m just an amateur foodie, an eating connoisseur, really. I have a decent following but…” His words stall in his throat.
“I’m one of them,” I say. “For the last six months at least.”
I found him one night when I was mindlessly scrolling on my phone, trying to shut off my brain after a shit loss last season. His smile grabbed my attention. I was lying in bed, overthinking every goal I’d let slip by, and there he was, all soft eyes and big smiles, covered in flour, laughing at something that had gone over my head, because baking? I didn’t know or care. He was a hot guy, making something that looked edible as fuck, and I was there for it. I tapped the follow button, and my addiction was born.
“I’ve tried a few of your recipes, all of which turn into utter abominations. I tried once to make cookies for the team, and they give me shit for it all the time.”
“Because they were bad?” he asks, and I nod.
“Yeah, and now they call me Betty to mess with me.”
“Betty?”
“Betty Crocker.” I shrug. “It shouldn’t bother me, but it hits a sore spot I guess.”
“Because you can’t bake?”
“Because I’m gay.” I force a smile and shake my head at my honesty. “Every time they call me Betty, I feel like they know somehow. The stereotypes and shit. It’s ridiculous. I’m ridiculous, I don’t know.”
This man. He’s a stranger regardless of how well I know his face, yet I can’t seem to shut my damn mouth. Did I really admit to him I was gay? I never allow myself to even think of the word most of the time. My smile is too heavy to hold, and I let my eyes drift to the crack in the elevator doors. With zero out NHL players, hiding who I am? It’s become a way of life. Over time, after many failed attempts to get me to hang out, cruise the bars, get me out of my so-called shell, my team finally assumed I was overly dedicated to winning. I’d gotten good at selling my “no distractions” policy. When in reality, my loneliness wore me down day by day. I’m a thirty-year-old goalie. If I’m lucky my knees will give me at least two more seasons, and then what? When will I get to stop hiding? When will I get to begin a life that belongs to me?
“Being a gay athlete isn’t unheard of,” he says, and the innocence in his tone revives my smile.
“It’s not. But it depends on a lot of things. I’m sure I’m not the only gay player in the NHL. Statistics prove I’m not, but no one has come out yet. A few have in the minor leagues, and college players, but active NHL players? Not a single one.”
“Wow.” The corners of his mouth tip down, his brows bunching as he processes what I’ve said. “That’s… fucking depressing.”