He steps closer, leaning in as I chop garlic and onions, tossing them into a pan with olive oil. The sizzle fills the air, followed quickly by the rich, fragrant aroma of garlic. Gabriel takes a deep breath, his eyes closing as he absorbs the smell. “Smells good already.” I add in some fresh basil I found in the fridge. Shocker, I know. I didn’t expect to find fresh basil in the fridge, either.
“You haven’t seen anything yet,” I tease, stirring the ingredients as the kitchen fills with the mouthwatering smell of a home-cooked meal. “This is how my nonna taught me—simple and fresh.”
He watches me intently, his usual dominant energy muted, replaced with something softer, more curious. “I didn’t know you had Italian roots.”
“The dark hair, dark eyes, and soft tan didn’t give it away?” I ask.
He shakes his head.
I grab a spoon to stir the sauce, letting the warmth of it settle the nervous energy building between us. “I’m Italian on both sides. Dad’s mostly Italian with a sprinkle of Greek. Mom is half Italian, half Spanish,” I explain. “Sundays were always pasta night at my house, and a good marina is one of the first things I learned how to make.” I can feel him studying me, and it makes my heart race for reasons that have nothing to do with the cooking.
The sauce starts to bubble, the aroma growing richer. He reaches a finger toward the sauce, and I smack it away. “It’s not ready,” I admonish, ignoring his disgruntled frown.
Gabriel steals a piece of basil from the cutting board and pops it into his mouth with a triumphant, boyish smile. His nose wrinkles. “Delicious.”
I laugh, knowing full well that raw basil tastes like black licorice. “Liar.”
He grins and shrugs, stepping back just enough to grab two plates.
“So ... How’s practice been?” I stir the sauce and lower the heat, letting it bubble gently as I glance over at him. It’s hard to focus on anything but him, but I try to steer the conversation to safer ground. “You’ve seemed stressed lately.” And I’d rather it be over soccer than because of me.
Gabriel exhales slowly, rubbing a hand through his hair. “It’s been rough. Some of the younger guys ... they’re good athletes, but we’re not jelling. It’s late in the season, and we still haven’t found our rhythm. Everyone’s in their own heads.”
I nod, tasting the sauce and adding a pinch of salt. I can feel the tension in his voice, the frustration gnawing at him. "Maybe you guys need a break from the field. You know, something outside of soccer that helps you connect. One of those team building exercise things.”
He tilts his head, considering the idea. "Like what?"
“I don’t know. How about a team BBQ sometime before your next game?" I suggest, glancing over at him. "It could be a good way to get everyone on the same page. Build some chemistry."
"Yeah … that’s not a bad idea." He pauses, his gaze narrowing slightly as if another thought crosses his mind.
"And maybe …" I check my pasta water and stall long enough to salt it. "You could invite Asher and Adam.” The second the words leave my mouth, I see the change in his expression. The split-second shift from casual ease to strained tension. “I know you don’t see them as family and I think that’s fine,” I rush to add before he has the chance to shut my idea down. “But, it can’t hurt to get to know them better, right?”
Gabriel’s jaw tightens, his easy going demeanor slipping for a moment. “I don’t know ...”
“It was just an idea.” I place a hand on his arm, squeezing gently. “I figured with the team there, you’d have a buffer. But, it’s probably a bad idea, anyway. Forget I mentioned it.”
He doesn’t respond immediately, and I can see the internal battle playing out in his head. But finally, he lets out a sigh. “I’ll think about it.”
“Cool.” I smile, reaching for the pasta. "Now, let’s finish cooking so I can eat before I have to go.”
The rest of the meal prep goes quickly, the tension easing between us as I throw the pasta into the boiling water, stirring it occasionally while the sauce continues to simmer. I can feel his eyes on me, that familiar warmth in his gaze, and it makes my heart skip a beat. There’s something so intimate about cooking together, about sharing this simple piece of my heritage with him.
A few minutes later, I drain the pasta and mix it with the sauce, plating two bowls and sliding one over to him. Gabrielgrabs two forks, handing me one as we sit down at the small kitchen table.
He takes a bite, closing his eyes briefly as he chews. "Damn, this is good."
"Better than your cooking?" I tease, twirling a forkful of pasta.
He chuckles, shaking his head. "Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. Mexican food will always reign supreme.”
We eat in comfortable silence, the tension from earlier melting away as we share the meal. Gabriel's mood seems lighter, more relaxed, and I’m glad we took this moment together. His leg brushes against mine beneath the table and butterflies dance in my stomach.
I don’t know what it is. I just … I really like being with him like this.
But as much as I wish I could stay, I glance at the clock, realizing I need to leave soon.
“I should head out,” I say reluctantly after finishing my bowl, glancing at the clock. “Coach will kill me if I’m late for practice.”
