Pavel gives him a serious look. “Nie. You do not.”
“Well, you’re in luck. Hope you like spaghetti and meatballs,” Natalie says, heading back toward the kitchen.
Tristan clasps his hands together. “I think I love you already.”
“Keep your grubby mitts off my sister, Fleabag,” Jesse warns without looking away from his game. His tone is light, but Natalie catches the subtle shift in his jaw, the way his eyes flick quickly toward Tristan.
They plop onto the couch, grabbing spare controllers. Conversation flows easily between them. They’re chirping like brothers—ragging on each other about missed shots, terrible playlists, bad haircuts, and, inevitably, Jake.
She casually leans through the kitchen doorway, trying to look uninterested and failing spectacularly. “So, uh… how’s that going? With your mentor?” she asks, feigning nonchalance. Totally breezy. Totally not asking about a man she secretly made out with.
Just a normal question. About hockey. Obviously.
Tristan snorts. “Mac despises me.”
Jesse howls, not taking his eyes off the screen. “It’s true.”
“Why?” Natalie asks.
Tristan shrugs. “I dunno. Probably because I have personality.”
Jesse rolls his eyes. “No, it’s because you’re soft. You don’t finish your checks. Gonna start calling you Butter, bud.”
“Fuck off.”
Pavel shakes his head. “Mac, he is not liking bullshit. Tristan? He is bullshit.”
“He’s a cranky old geezer, but he’s been helping us out,” Jesse offers.
“Geezer? Why do you call him that?” Natalie asks curiously.
Jesse finally looks up from the TV and regards Natalie seriously. “Nat, he’s, like, thirty-five. That’s ancient in hockey.”
“He’s practically a pylon,” Tristan offers.
“A pylon who flattened you last practice,” Jesse quips.
Natalie returns to the kitchen. So Jake is close to retirement. That must be what he was talking about when she first met him, when he said he needed to find a new gig soon.
Don’t think about him. Natalie scolds herself. It doesn’t matter. He’s on Jesse’s team now.
The soft hum of the exhaust fan above Natalie mingles with theclinking of pots and pans as she busies herself mixing a green salad. She glances at the clock. In a few more minutes she will set the table.
As she adds a pinch of salt to the sauce, there’s another knock at the door.
She dusts her hands off in the sink and moves toward the front door. The three lumps have not moved, or looked up. “Jesse, are you expecting a package?”
She opens the door and finds Jake standing there. And he looks absolutely delicious.
He leans against the doorframe, clutching a baguette. For a mortifying second, she just stands there like a deer in headlights, drinking him in. The way his broad shoulders fill the doorway. How his tanned forearms flex as he shifts his weight, all corded muscle she wants to trace with her fingertips. The memory of those hands on her skin flashes through her mind, and heat blooms low in her belly.
His blue eyes meet hers—God, those eyes, those stupidly blue, stupidly kind eyes. They lock onto hers, soft and uncertain, and Natalie feels the heat crawl up her neck like she’s sixteen again and hopelessly crushing on someone she has absolutely no business crushing on.
He looks delicious. Infuriatingly, heartbreakingly delicious.
“Hey,” Jake says, voice low and cautious. “Jesse invited me. I hope that’s okay.”
Of course he did. Jesse has no idea.
