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NOLAN
Ishove my duffel bag into the overhead compartment and grimace. It’s the last flight home after our final game of the season. Up and down the aisle of the team’s private jet, the guys are all smiles and laughter. Sure, we just fell short in the playoffs, but it was a good season, and now we get a few months to recover and enjoy the offseason.
So why do I feel like I’m bracing for a punch?
I take my seat next to Jake, our team captain and one of our lead scorers. He’s got the window, and he’s on his phone, playing some dumb memory game he swears by.
He glances up when I sit, but I just give him a slight nod. I’m not really in the mood to talk.
More than anything, I wish we could just skip this part and go straight into the first game next season. That way, I could get on the ice and shut my brain off again. I could pick up some random woman in a bar I never plan to see again and take her home. Play, eat, sleep, fuck, repeat–and not necessarily in that order. As somebody who knows his way around the kitchen, I can appreciate a winning recipe when I find one. That particular recipe has done a pretty damn good job of numbing me.
Jake just lost a round on his game. He swears under his breath and shoves his phone in his pocket, attention now on me. He’s dark haired with prominent eyebrows, slabs of muscle, and a permanent intensity in his eyes. The man reeks of leadership, and it’s no surprise he has been voted team captain since his rookie year. “You look like you’re on the way to a funeral,” he says. He nudges me to take a little bit of edge off the accusation, but I know he’s asking me what’s been up my ass all season.
There’s been an unspoken agreement between all of us to leave shit as it stands during the season. At the end of the day, winning the cup takes precedence over everything else. But now that we have a few months, Jake must have been dying to figure out what my problem is if he’s not even waiting until the plane ride is over to press me.
“Just tired,” I say, trying to add a note of finality to my words–a not-so-subtle hint that I don’t feel like getting into it with him.
“Right. What was that girl’s name last night? Kat?”
“Couldn’t say,” I mutter.
He shakes his head, and I can sense his growing frustration with me. “I thought you’d be excited about the restaurant. Taste, right? Pretty badass that you’re opening your own high-end restaurant. I doubt most guys could handle something like that on top of playing at our level.”
“I’m excited,” I say. I do my best to inject a little bit of false enthusiasm in the statement, though. The truth is I feel conflicted, more than anything.
Jake sighs. Apparently, my acting job sucks. “I know this has always been a dream of yours. Shit, man. I still remember your first year on the team. The guys told me our new goalie could cook, and I thought they meant like… toast. Then you had us over and blew our fucking minds with some fancy rissotto and shit.”
I grin at the memory. “Garlic and white truffle risotto with homemade bread.”
“See?” he says, smiling a little and nudging me. “Cooking shit always cheers you up. So this restaurant is going to be great, right? And remember how much fun we all had in Frosty Harbor two years back? Now we’ll have Jesse’s cabin and your restaurant in one place. We’re going to be there all the time.”
“Yeah,” I say, nodding, even though that familiar emptiness is creeping back in as quickly as it left me. “It’ll be good.”
He hesitates. Jake isn’t the kind of guy who hesitates, so I know he must be about to say something he’s sure is dangerous. I brace myself for it, already certain what the topic is going to be, even if I don’t know how he’s planning to approach it.
“Are you planning to see Mia?” he asks.
“No,” I say, probably too quickly. “I mean, if she wants to hook up for old time’s sake, sure,” I add. I’m not sure if my indifference is convincing.
“Have you guys talked?”
Since the breakup. He doesn’t say that part, but it’s clear enough.
“Maybe. I’m not sure.” I’m positive we haven’t talked, but I don’t feel like admitting that.
“Think she’ll want a job at your restaurant?” he asks.
The question triggers a sharp jab of cold in my gut. “No,” I say, speaking carefully. “She’s probably still in New York. She left for culinary school, remember?”
“She’s back,” he says. “Andi was just telling me they’re meeting at some rental her Grams owns near the center of town. Tonight, I think.”
Another wave of ice creeps through me. Fuck.
Jake leans forward, eyebrows drawing together. “You good, dude? You look like you just saw Carter trying to sing that Gangnam Style song at Karaoke again.”
I lick my lips and shake my head. “I’m fine.”
“You didn’t know she’d be back?”
