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"Hey, you're back," he said, not turning around. "How was the grocery run?"
"Ugh, the lines were ridiculous. You'd think people had never seen produce before." I kicked off my shoes and wandered into the kitchen.
He looked up, and I was immediately lost in those azure blue eyes. "You led us to victory over the Thunderhawks, but you can’t handle the crowd at the grocery store?”
I chuckled and tossed a bag of chips on the counter. "On the ice, you don't have little old ladies elbowing you out of the way to grab the best avocado."
With a grin on his face, Hoss held out a wooden spoon. "Taste this."
I took a sip, and the sauce's flavor exploded in my mouth. "Damn, that's good. Are you sure you weren't a chef in another life?"
“I’m confident of that, but I have graduated beyond grilled cheese and mac and cheese. I’ll probably learn even more now as I cook for two." He winked at me, and my heart fluttered.
“You make spaghetti sauce, and I melt. Damn, I'm easy."
“Do you hear me complaining?”
I leaned on the counter, watching him. "So, what else is on the menu tonight?"
He grinned and turned off the burner. "Garlic bread, Caesar salad, and for dessert, a dish best served cold."
I raised an eyebrow. "Revenge?"
"Close. Ice cream."
I laughed as I proceeded to help Hoss set the table. We moved around each other with the same ease we had on the ice, knowing where the other would be a second before he got there.
"Hey, I had a question from Waller today," I said, putting down the forks. "He wants to organize another team night out. Thoughts?"
Hoss paused, thinking it through. “That might be good. It could help us roar into qualifying for the playoffs, but no pranks at the rookie’s expense this time; Eddie's still recovering from the hot sauce incident."
I chuckled, remembering the notorious evening. "Deal."
As we sat down to eat, the food tasted as good as it smelled. Added to the man sitting across from me, it was a perfect evening.
"Oh, by the way," Hoss said, wiping his mouth with a napkin, "I got a call from an old friend today."
"Yeah?" I took a sip of water.
"Yeah, he's a sports psychologist. He ran my group in rehab. He's open to giving some workshops for the team. I think it might be a good thing.”
The idea grabbed my attention. “Not a bad idea. Some of our guys could use a mental tune-up. Probably wouldn’t hurt me either, but how do we introduce him without making it look like an intervention?"
“Maybe advertise it as sharpening the brain. They understand hockey skill isn’t only physical.”
"Smart. I like it."
Hoss grinned. "I aim to please."
After dinner, we ended up on the couch, and Hoss put a classic hockey game on the TV after pulling one out from his massive collection of hockey DVDs. The way he shouted at the referees like they could hear him captivated me. He also laughed out loud and waved a dismissive hand at the screen when a commentator said something ridiculous.
Our hands found each other at one point, and our fingers wove together naturally. When Hoss leaned in to kiss me, it wasn't a hot, feverish one; it was even better than that. It was a “weekday, and I’m worn out but still happy to be with you” kind of kiss, sweet and simple.
Suddenly, Hoss's phone buzzed on the coffee table, shattering the relaxed atmosphere. He glanced at the screen, then back at me. “It's Eddie. He's having a tough time."
I squeezed his hand. "You should call him back."
Hoss looked at me as if torn over disrupting our perfect evening, but I knew what he would do before he even moved.
