Page 40 of Hockey Nanny

I frowned. “Nobody’s perfect. You shouldn’t put pressure on yourself when all he needs is for you to just be yourself.”

He gave a short laugh, bitter, but not without a trace of amusement. “I’ve had to fight for a place in the world my whole life. Didn’t get a lot of chances to be… me.”

“What would that look like?” I found myself asking. He glanced at me with a questioning look as if I’d suddenly said something in a foreign language. “If you got the chance now, who would Gage Winslow be?”

He thought for a moment, absently nudging the chicken in front of him. “Good question.”

“Do you have an answer?”

He shrugged. “Most people think I’m the guy they see on the ice. Angry, impatient, getting into trouble.”

“I see a player who never gets tired of stepping in when the chips are down.”

His hand stilled, and he slowly moved to turn off the burner. The kitchen felt smaller, warmer, the night pressing in fromthe windows but nothing in here demanding anything we didn’t want to give.

“Sometimes I think… I have to be what they expect. I have to not let them down.” There was a pause, and then he continued with, “The kid gets close to me, it’s only a matter of time before my reputation rubs off on him. Makes his life harder. Our own fans hate me. The media can’t get enough of the headlines that make me out to be the bad guy. He doesn’t need that. Doesn’t need me.”

I swallowed, inexplicably moved by the honesty on offer. “It didn’t sound like hate echoing through the arena tonight. You saved the game.”

He smirked faintly, then went back to plating. Chicken on one side, sautéed vegetables layered on the other, lemon wedges at the edge. He slid the plate across the island to me. “Eat. Tell me if I overcooked it.”

I raised an eyebrow, skeptical, then took the fork. Every bite was impossibly good. Tender, flavorful, balanced. I stopped mid-chew and looked up at him. “This is incredible. Not angry, or impatient.”

Our eyes met, and he looked almost surprised by my observation.

“Seems you have more than one side to you, Gage,” I said quietly, and took another bite.

“Yeah, well, consider yourself lucky. This is a once-in-a-blue-moon kinda thing.”

I laughed, a short, genuine burst. The tension of the night, of Boone and Dawson, Henry, my dad, it all loosened a fraction. My shoulders eased against the counter. “You’re full of surprises.”

He glanced down at the mess he’d made and shook his head. “It’s easier when it’s just me. No expectations. No one to disappoint.”

“Except… that’s a lie.”

His gaze shot up to mine, searching.

I let it simmer, working through another bite packed with scrumptious flavor. “You hold yourself to the highest standards. Highest expectations. You’re always pushing, because it’s you who’s never convinced it’s enough. Sound about right?”

“Nobody asked you,” he said, and a glimmer of a smile lifted his expression as he slid onto the stool beside me. “Anyway, there’s no room for softness in my world.”

“There’s always room for a good cook, though.”

He plated some chicken and veg for himself and took a bite. “I wouldn’t call it good. I get by. Just always like cooking, I guess.”

I smiled, feeling the weight on my shoulders dissolve. “I’d be really happy if you like cooking more often. This is amazing.”

“In that case, I’d cook for you whenever you want,” he replied, holding my gaze. His eyes weren’t as guarded as they always were. Maybe it was the low lighting, or some unknown side effects of the meal he’d prepared, but they seemed almost soft.

The deep purple bruise blooming along his cheekbone and the thin red line on his temple caught my eye. “If you’re going to cook for me like this, then I get to patch you up when you need it.”

Gage froze mid-bite, fork hovering in the air. “That’s not necessary.”

“Not a request, Winslow.” I was already sliding off the stool, knees bending lightly as I rummaged in the kitchen drawer for the first aid kit.

When I returned, kit in hand, his eyes followed me, wary and amused, as I sat again, close enough for our knees to almost touch. He tilted his head slightly, the bruise catching the dim kitchen light. I opened an alcohol swab, gave it a little shake, and he flinched.

“Stop being such a baby,” I said, leaning a little closer, careful with my hands as I pressed the swab to the cut. He winced, squeezing his eyes shut, but didn’t pull away.