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Whirling away from him, I scurry to the refrigerator and remove the orzo salad I put together earlier. I drizzle homemade Greek dressing on top before placing the bowl on his side of the island. Zipping back over to the oven, I check on the pastitsio. The top is lightly browned in spots just like my mom taught me. Using potholders, I maneuver the steaming pan onto the stovetop.
“What would you like to drink?” I ask.
He heads toward the fridge. “I’ll take care of it.”
I give a quick nod. Collecting some silverware from the drawer, I lay them on the granite next to his salad. “Here, start on your salad while the pastitsio cools off.”
He sits and gulps water from the bottle he just opened. I watch the muscles in his throat as he swallows. Suddenly, drinking water has become a turn-on. I guess throat muscles are doing it for me now. When he’s done, I shake my head, disgusted with myself for being so easily tempted. I’m reaching for a plate in the cabinet when I hear, “Thank you. This salad is delicious.”
“You’re welcome,” I toss over my shoulder, plucking a spatula from my assortment of utensils I brought with me. Cutting into the pan of pastitsio is as enjoyable as always. I don’t know what it is about it that’s always so satisfying, but it never fails. I plate a large square and deliver it to Ryder. Maybe it’s seeing all the tubes of pasta in neat rows that appeals to me. Whatever it is, nothing can compare to the expression on Ryder’s face as he tastes the first bite. It’s practically orgasmic.Wait. Scratch that.Using words with a sexual bent will only make me think things I shouldn’t. His expression is euphoric and he hums as he chews.
“Goddamn, you’re a culinary genius. This is the best food I’ve ever eaten. Although, that could change by the end of the weekend.”
I smile. “Thank you. That’s nice of you to say.” I’m hoping he’ll say the same when he tastes what I have in store for him tomorrow. I play a game with myself where I try to outdo the last meal I made. It keeps me motivated and striving to do better, and since I’m only competing with myself, it’s a healthy form of competition.
“What spices am I tasting? I expected it to taste like lasagna, but it’s different.”
“Cinnamon and clove. The cheese used differs too. I use feta like my mom taught me and my grandmother taught her, but you can use kasseri or kefalotyri too.”
“I like this pasta better than lasagna noodles. What is it, ziti?”
“No, it’s bucatini. I order it online because it’s difficult to find. It’s kind of like a thick spaghetti with a hole running through it. You could substitute it by using ziti or penne, which I’ve done before in a pinch.” Leaving him to eat in peace, I wander around the kitchen, putting away the things that I can. The rest gets loaded into the dishwasher.
Ryder dishes himself another large square and returns to his seat.
“Is it okay for me to wrap the rest of the pastitsio up?” I ask.
“Yeah, I don’t think I can eat any more than this.” He waves his fork over his plate.
“You have a lot leftover. I can freeze some if you want, so you don’t have to eat it all in the next few days.”
“Don’t bother going through the trouble. I don’t see any reason why I wouldn’t want to. It’s amazing.”
“You won’t get sick of it?” I ask, covering the pan with a piece of aluminum foil.
He shakes his head. “Are you kidding? I get to eat home-cooked food instead of takeout. There’s no downside to that.”
“Please don’t take this the wrong way, but I’m surprised you don’t eat better than you do. You’re a professional athlete, yet you don’t really pay attention to your diet. At least it doesn’t seem like you do.”
“You’re right, I don’t. At least not like I should. I make sure I eat enough protein, but a lot of that I take in through protein shakes and bars.”
“Don’t get me wrong, you’re in fantastic shape and, obviously, your skating isn’t suffering any.” He’s already one of the top forwards in the league.But what if he could be even better?
“Hit me with it,” he says.
My forehead creases with confusion. “Huh?”
“You look like you want to say something to me, so go for it.”
“It’s not my place. You’re a grown man who knows what’s best for himself.”
“I asked you to share whatever you’re thinking. I’d like to know.”
Moving from the stove to the island, I place my palms on the rounded edge of the granite. “Food is like gas for your body. You want to put the best fuel in your body to keep it running efficiently. You wouldn’t use low-grade gas on a vehicle that specifies using premium, right?” He shakes his head. “Without the higher octane, it won’t run as well. So think of your body in the same way. You’re a professional athlete, playing against the most elite in your sport. Shouldn’t you want to pursue every natural advantage you can get? Shouldn’t you be diet conscious and ingest the foods that will fuel your muscles and give you more energy?”
He sets his fork down on the side of the plate. “It may sound dumb, but I’ve never given it that much thought. I eat a lot and work out harder than most. I’ve always made sure I take in enough calories to maintain my weight, but beyond that, I haven’t given it much thought. I guess I’ve always been skeptical about how much of a difference it would make in my actual game.”
“You’ll never know if you don’t try it out.”
