Total pages in book: 107
Estimated words: 101505 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 508(@200wpm)___ 406(@250wpm)___ 338(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 101505 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 508(@200wpm)___ 406(@250wpm)___ 338(@300wpm)
“So,” I say. “What happens when the season starts again?” I ask the question innocently enough. On the surface, I’m asking about the restaurant and Nolan. Beneath that, I’m wondering if we’re going to go back to being strangers once his season starts again.
“I go back to play for the team. The restaurant goes on. I’ll stop by Frosty Harbor when our schedule allows to check on things, I guess. But the idea was always to set up something that can run on its own.”
“And that’s enough for you?”
He’s twisting pastries in plastic wrap, but he stops to look over his shoulder at me. “What does that mean?”
“I just mean… before,” I say, using that dangerous word I seem to be avoiding. “I almost thought you would be happier if you were out of the league and following your passion for cooking full time. I thought maybe you were going to tell people this was your last season once I heard you were the one who was opening Taste.”
He sets the pastry down, not moving for a few moments. Then he shakes his head. “Nah. The team needs me, and I’m not going to abandon them.”
I feel the familiar sensation of cold fingers sliding up and around my insides. The team always comes first. He’s an athlete, and nobody is ever going to be more important to him than his “brothers”. I can respect his mentality and even understand it, but that also means being realistic, like I was two years ago.
When I find the man for me, I’m not going to settle for coming second. Maybe that’s selfish, but I just call it self-love.
“What if you had to choose?” I ask him suddenly. “Hockey or cooking? No compromises. Which one would it be?”
He pauses with plastic wrap in both of his capable hands, eyes down on his work. He roughly pulls it between the wrap, squishing the delicate pastry with his excessive force. “Hockey,” he grunts.
“Really?” I ask.
“I love my teammates,” he says simply. “It’s a brotherhood. I wouldn’t trade it for anything.”
I nod slowly. “But if you took the team aspect out of it, which thing makes you happier?”
He shrugs. “Doesn’t matter. I don’t have to choose between them. I’ve got the restaurant now. I’ve got another season coming up. Problem solved.”
I watch his back as he continues to work, mostly mangling the pastries now because he’s being too rough. The clipped way he answered my question says there’s more he’s not saying. It also says he doesn’t want to be pressed on it.
“Well, your teammates are lucky to have you. They must be happy for you–opening the restaurant and all.”
He freezes again, as if I’ve said something wrong. But he brushes it off. “Yeah. We’re all excited for next season. We’re going to run it back.”
“Another Stanley Cup?” I ask. “Is that just athlete speak, or do you really think you guys will win it?”
“We can win it. Every team has a window. This is ours.”
I smile a little because I want to be happy for Nolan. I want to believe he’s telling me the truth. But every time I see him working with food, it’s hard to believe he’s going to spend the whole hockey season eating takeout and letting other people cook for him. It’s hard for me to imagine this isn’t his happy place–that he’s just deluding himself out there on the ice into thinking it’s where he’s meant to be. But maybe he’s right. Maybe he doesn’t have to choose one or the other.
“Have you and Zander made up?” I ask. “He seems to have received the message loud and clear that I’m off limits. That means you guys don’t have anything to fight about, right?”
Nolan doesn’t even glance toward the dining room to see if Zander is listening. “Fuck him,” he says simply
I laugh. ‘You hired him.”
“That was before I knew he was a creep.”
“Oh, come on. He’s not a creep. He grew up with Italian parents. They visited every summer. He’s just comfortable in people’s personal space.”
“He needs to get less comfortable in yours,” Nolan grits out.
I smirk. “He has been giving me way more space. I think you glared at him enough for the message to sink in. It’s pretty obvious you were jealous, after all. You couldn’t stand the idea of some other guy liking me, could you?”
Nolan turns toward me and takes a single step, eliminating the air between us until it feels like I can’t breathe anymore. He’s all anger and heat and muscle. He stares down at me. “I don’t want you talking about him like that.”
“Like what?” I ask.
“You’re talking about him liking you as if you like it.”
“What if I do?” I ask, fully aware I’m poking a very large, very temperamental bear with a stick.