Page 25 of The Catch

What am I doing, playing with those thoughts in my mind? Using them as a joke?

"Fu-date?" She says it like one word. A fuck-date fucking portmanteau. "Is that what you call what you do?Fu-dating."

She laughs, treating it as simple banter. I breathe in her words, but they're a cloud of cement. They turn into concrete right there in my lungs. Heavy and gray and damp.

"I don't call it anything but simple, casual fun," I say.

"I think I'll call it fu-dating that ends in baking pies."

She grins but I don't get to reply. The beep of one of the timers breaks the conversation.

Without hesitation, Ames takes out a tray of what looks like buns with a creamy filling and glazed blueberries on top. She sets them up on a cooling tray, only to turn back to the oven and take out a large dish. Chicken and potatoes, carrots, parsnip, all bathed in herbs.

I lick my bottom lip. "Please tell me you were joking before and I will get to taste all of this."

"Of course!" She bastes the chicken. Oil and a dark liquid— balsamic vinegar, maybe— drip down the bird's skin. "I was too stressed watching the game. I thought we could both benefit from my stress-cooking."

"You watched the game?"

Those butterflies I feel? Not welcome. Especially since I fumbled the ball not once, but twice. Shameful mistakes that won't help me convince the GM to let me stay. Nothing but a ring and top-tier, MVP-level playing will keep me here.

I take off my hoodie and throw it across the island to land on top of my bag. Embarrassment heats up my insides, and I hide it by washing the couple of dishes still in the sink.

"I'm sorry about the loss." She puts the chicken back in the oven. "I have no idea how you guys do it. You were so close, too. Those last three minutes… ugh. I had to distract myself by making an emergency grocery list."

The sound prompts me to steal a glance at her. She shudders.

"Wait." I put the large metal bowls on the rack to dry, and use the kitchen towel on my hands. "Is that why you never went to watch Pablo's games in college? You get too nervous?"

Back then, Ames' attendance at a game was extremely rare. Pablo never complained, and I never asked. I assumed it was disinterest.

Ames shrugs. "I can't stand it. I hate seeing people lose."

"Meanwhile, I love winning."

"I can't fix the disappointment of today's game, but I can feed you roasted balsamic chicken and veggies, and finish it up with blueberry Vatrushka buns. I was going to make pasta frola but I couldn’t find quince."

"It sounds incredible. Quite a treat."

"The least I can do. I know it's very late, and I don't know how early you need to be at training tomorrow—"

"I'd love to have dinner with you."

Half an hour goes by. We sit at my dinner table, the twinkle of the city out the window, and the warm yellow light above us. We talk about being an athlete and being a chef, and the things we want out of it all.

"It's so clear you love cooking," I say. "And that you're amazing at it. Wow. This is incredible, Ames."

"Thank you." There's no false modesty on her face. "But you have been eating my food for a long time. Hadn't you noticed?"

I chuckle. "Of course I had noticed, but this meal is particularly good."

"Because I made it to lift your spirits?"

I nod. "And because it got you back into cooking. You hadn't been doing it much."

I stuff my mouth with a bite of chicken and parsnip. It melts in my mouth, a mix of acid and sweet and herbs that could make me moan.

"Which is silly, isn't it?" She says, oblivious to the sound I bite back. "It makes me happy to cook. I love doing something like this for you. So why did I stop?"