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“No—”

Vera was interrupted by Connie, who burst into the kitchen, red-faced and crying.

“Hey! This is a no-cry zone; take it to the freezer or in the alley,” DeAndre reminded her.

“Oh, my God. Why do people have to be such assholes?” she cried, not paying him any mind.

“What’s going on?” Vera asked, taking a protective stance.

“It’s this fucking table of rich-ass snobs. They’re rude as fuck. The husband snapped his fingers in my face, and the wife couldn’t stop rolling her eyes and sighing every time I came by. I’ve comped their appetizers and gave them a bottle of wine, and—”

“What table are they?”

“Ten.”

“Take Table Twenty, and I’ll take your table. I’m waiting on two cod. What are you waiting for?”

Connie rattled off her ticket, and Vera was gone in a flash. We pushed the cod, and I took off my apron, leaving directions with one of the sous chefs, Amil.

“Where are you going?” DeAndre asked.

“Just checking things out. I’ll be right back.”

“She’s fine. Get back behind the line.”

I didn’t bother to answer and left the kitchen. A few of the diners perked up when they noticed me, hoping to get my attention. I nodded at some and thanked the ones close by for their patience and understanding as I approached Table Twenty. I’d expected Vera to be in a heated standoff with the customers; instead, she was laughing and joking along with them, as if they’d known each other forever.

“Will you be at the game tomorrow? You can sit with us,” the woman offered her.

Vera hissed through her teeth and said, “Unfortunately not, Mrs. Hendricks. I have other obligations.”

“That’s a shame.”

“Are you sure we can’t change your mind?” Mr. Hendricks inquired hopefully.

“Good evening. Sorry for the interruption. I just wanted to check in personally and make sure everything is to your satisfaction,” I said once I arrived.

The man’s face lit up with immediate recognition.

“Hart Myers, as I live and breathe.” He turned to his wife. “Honey, this is Hart Myers from the Washington Warriors.”

“It’s so lovely to meet you,” she said with a wide grin. “Our son plays hockey, too. He’s captain of the Summit Storms.”

My stomach gave a slow, unwanted turn.

Of… fucking… course. Honestly, I expected nothing else. Luke’s parents were assholes, so naturally he’d be one too.

“He’s very excited to attend your team’s developmental camp next year. Hopefully, you can take him under your wing and show him the ropes,” Mr. Hendricks said.

Fat chance of that happening.

I offered a tight, mechanical smile.

“I look forward to it.”

“I hope you’re treating Vera well,” Mrs. Hendricks cooed. “She’s such a special, lovely girl, and we’ve been trying to convince her to give our son a chance, but—”

“Trust me, Vera is in good hands,” I interrupted. “It was lovely meeting you folks. Again, I deeply apologize for the wait, but your food will be arriving shortly.”