Page 21 of Gave Proof Through the Night

Not even a “Maybe, let me check.” This is a man who runs a tight kitchen and none of it is going to bend for me.

“Cool. Cool.” I back off before I become somebody’s cautionary tale about persistence.

I abandon the omelet line, pile scrambled eggs onto a plate because a man has to eat something, and I’m still holding a small funeral for my hot sauce dreams when Micah Lemon appears at my elbow with a plate stacked high enough to rival the Tower of Babel.

“You good?” He eyes me over the waffles. “You’ve been standing here staring.”

“There’s no hot sauce in this entire building, Micah.”

“There’s Tabasco. I saw a little bottle by the scrambled eggs.”

“That’s not hot sauce. That’s hot sauce’s redneck cousin.”

Micah blinks at me, waffles listing dangerously to one side. “Okay, Yelp reviewer.”

Behind us, the ballroom is already a wall of noise. Two full rosters of hockey players who’ve never once used an indoor voice.

Somebody’s laughing so hard he’s wheezing. Somebody just took a dinner roll to the side of the head, and from the outrage in his voice, it had butter on it.

I find our table and sit with what’s left of my dignity and my eggs.

No distractions today. Big day. Media photos, press conference this afternoon, team bonding tonight. I need to be locked in. Present. A guy who has his life together.

A guy who is not, currently, thinking about freckles.

So much for that.

Okay. New plan. I need a win. And it’s clearly not going to be the girl. So it might as well be the hot sauce.

I catch sight of a laminated sign taped crooked to the wall by the ballroom doors. Magnolia Room, Continental Breakfast, 6:30 to 10:30.

Oh yeah, baby.

I push back from the table.

“Precio.” Levi Nyberg points his fork at me like he’s been talking a while and just noticed I checked out. “You good? You’ve got the thousand-yard stare going.”

“I’m good.” I sit back down for exactly long enough to look normal. “Just thinking.”

“About?”

“Nothing.”

I get up again before he can push it.

The Magnolia Room is a different planet. Quiet carpet, quiet light, quiet families eating quiet waffles. Nobody’s yelling about cheese ratios.

Through the swinging doors, I catch a glimpse of the kitchen. Behind the line, there’s a cook exclaiming dramatically about what country will take home the World Cup, while another guy argues back at him good-naturedly. Some other guy is singing off key while the prep guy yells, “No manches, vato, ya no.”

I pull my attention back to the buffet line and spot a guy behind the coffee urns, restocking a tray of pastries. He’s short, a little soft around the middle, and has cheerful rosy cheeks. This guy knows exactly where the good stuff is kept.

"Oye, primo," I say, easy, friendly, like we've known each other for years. "No tienes algo picante en la cocina?"

He looks at me for a second, probably wondering why some guy the size of a doorframe just wandered in asking for something spicy in Spanish, and then his face does this slow, apologetic wince.

"Oh, no, jefe." He shakes his head, genuinely pained on my behalf. "Tenemos nada picante."

"Nothing? Hijoles." I put a hand over my heart. "No me digas."