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I don’t even think about the pet name before I say it, and I know that’s where I’ve made a fatal mistake. She’s used to kitty cat, if I’d stuck with that I’d have hit the tone I was going for—light, carefree, ridiculous, out-to-annoy-the-fuck-out-of-the-pretty-social-media-manager—but sweetheart… that’s a new one. And there’s no way Tristan won’t recognize that she’s thrown me off-balance.
I clap my hands together and she jolts at the sound.
“We’re here to make smoothies.” I tell her and turn away to pull out all the ingredients I’ve prepped.
“Smoothies.” She repeats the word as if she’s never heard it before, but not like she thinks it’s a bad idea.
“Blended fruit, vegetables, and sometimes dairy products.”
“I’m not opposed to the idea.” Tristan steps forward and her eyes skate across the assorted berries, the bunch of bananas, the leafy greens, and container of Greek yogurt. I also have chocolate, jars of nut butter, coconut oil, and a million kinds of milk. “I just don’t understand how it’s going to bring in the attention we need.”
“Trust me, kitty cat,” I say as I grab the cup for the fancy industrial blender. “Just come over here and have some fun.”
She looks at me and I swear I can see the mental list she’s creating—pros on one side, cons on the other—before she’s shrugging out of her fitted blazer and looping it over the back of the closest stool. I turn to locate the cutting boards I’d stashed behind the bar, and when I’m facing her again, Tristan is setting her camera up on the tiny tripod she uses for filming. She puts it up on the bar, aimed in my direction, and it doesn’t escape my notice that she’s trying to make sure she’s out of the shot.
The first smoothie is one of my mom’s favorites. Mangoes, fresh pineapple, frozen banana and Greek yogurt. I talk about each ingredient as I slice and add it to the blender, letting our future viewers know about the shop’s commitment to fresh, organic ingredients without the exorbitant price. I add a handful of baby spinach leaves and a splash of orange juice and then set the whole thing to whir together. The machine is too loud to talk over, so I let my gaze rest on my film buddy.
The very edge of Tristan’s pink tongue is resting against her upper lip. Her eyes are on my hands, not my face, as I use a rag to wipe down the counter. I watch the muscles in her throat shift as she swallows and there goes that heat again, simmering in my blood and setting my nerves on high alert. She looks away as I stop the blender and pour the smoothie into a tall glass. The spinach has turned the whole thing a light green color, and the banana and yogurt have left a creamy texture. It’s a good smoothie. Popular. Tangy with just the right amount of sweetness, and I lift the glass to my mouth and take a healthy sip, letting the creamy liquid cool my body and my blood.
There’s more than enough to fill a second glass, but I can’t help sliding this one towards Tristan like a bartender showing off. She catches it, probably self-preservation so she wouldn’t wear the drink, and eyes me. Tristan tries not to talk while we film. She’ll give me occasional hand gestures or point at things with her head and eyes, but she tries to limit the things she’ll need to cut out. From where she’s seated, the film will look like I sent the smoothie sailing towards the viewer. She probably assumes it’s a gimmick or a showboating maneuver, so I can’t resist opening my mouth and saying.
“Try it, kitty cat.”
Her eyes flare at me, but she maintains her composure and says nothing. Even as she lifts the glass and brings it to her own lips. I watch as she tips her head back and sips, then smiles as she lowers the drink. She nods at me. It’s like I can read her mind.Good Varg, but pretty basic.
“That tropical twist is a favorite of my mama and my future sister-in-law, Quinn.” I say as I reach for another blender. I’ll do all the dishes after, but I don’t want to pause our filming to rinse. “Now I’m going to show you my favorite.”
I’ve made this smoothie so many times I could do it in my sleep. I blend the oats alone first until they’re a flour-like consistency before adding milk and full-fat yogurt. Bananas, protein powder—cocoa powder works well too, I tell the camera—honey, and peanut butter go in next. I set the blender whirring as I drizzle chocolate syrup down the sides of a fresh glass. I turn the blender off and fill the glass up to the top. There’s enough for another serving, but once again I take a taste before sliding the glass across the wooden bar top to Tristan.
This time she holds my gaze as she lifts it, turning the cup so she drinks from the same spot I did. For a moment, I swear I hallucinate her pink tongue dragging along the rim as she closes her eyes and lets out a guttural moan. I shift in place as the blood in my body rushes south. Her eyes fly open and pin mine in place.
“Sorry,” she says, setting the glass down with more force than necessary. “I’ll edit that out. I didn’t mean to… be audible.”
I don’t have a teasing quip ready to go. I don’t have an explanation for why I can’t seem to form a single sentence. Instead, I hear my mouth say, “It’s fine,” as though the most PG of moans, and the middle school act of her mouth touching a spot mine just touched, didn’t just flatten me where I stand.
“I didn’t expect you to make something so delicious,” she admits and then her cheeks redden, “Not that I don’t think you have good taste, I guess it just didn’t occur to me a professional athlete wasn’t on some strict meal plan.”
“I am,” I say, “but during the season I eat roughly six thousand calories a day. Game days involve a lot of pasta, and I eat a metric ton of fresh fruits and vegetables, but these bad boys are a great way to get some healthy fats and protein in.”
For a moment Tristan stares at me and then she laughs. The sound is husky and rich and I want to hear it again the minute she stops.
“The other day my sister told me she couldn’t eat a pancake because it had carbs. I can’t imagine the look on her face if I told her you eat six thousand calories a day.”
“Sometimes more,” I say. “If I lose muscle tone, the nutritionist might up my intake.” I want to ask about her sister. I want to ask why Tristan was making her pancakes. Not that I think it’s weird, but because I can’t imagine cooking for my brother, although we’ve only recently found our way back to each other. I want to ask if her sister is younger than she is. If she has more than one. I want to ask a fuck-ton of personal questions I don’t yet have the right to ask.
“I don’t think you have to worry about that,” Tristan says, cheeks flushed again.
I remember the way her eyes dipped to my chest and abdomen when we filmed our first set of videos. Her gaze tracing over the dips and definition of my hard-earned muscles. And I want to tease her about liking what she saw. I want to call her out for staring because god knows I stare all the time, but that feels weird. Not something I should do while our camera is rolling, even if the footage can be edited out. Because it’s one thing to rile her up to watch her bristle, and it’s another to blatantly flirt with her after she’s asked me not to.
“You can find this delicious concoction, The Varg,” I tell the camera, “exclusively at Magic Mangoes on Fourteenth Street. Some of my teammates have their own go-to smoothies on the board here too, so you’ll have to stop by and try the Ólaffson, the Ahlstrom, the Oakes, the Spaeglin, the Gage, or the Maroni and decide which you like best.” I lean in and stage whisper, “After the Varg, that is.”
Tristan is staring at me wide-eyed, “You’re going to quadruple this place’s business.” She says, as though that wasn’t the entire plan. “And you brought the other guys in and made yourselves look down-to-earth and relatable, not just million-dollar athletes snorting coke and fucking hookers.”
“Well, most people have facets,” I tell her, “And the coke and hookers wait for the off-season.”
She rolls her pretty blue eyes.
“I’m serious, Vic. This was a brilliant idea.”
