Page 17 of The Big Puck

“We have to eat, don’t we?”

“I was going to order out.” She ignores me and places a large bowl of macaroni and meatballs in the middle of the old table that came with the house, now covered in a red and white checked tablecloth like some kitschy old-time Italian restaurant.

She gestures for me to sit. “You’re welcome.” She flashes a brilliant, undaunted smile at me, and I feel the burn down to my ungrateful soul.

“It smells good,” I admit, scraping the chair back as she stares at me, and I try and figure out if her smile might be a little forced. “Thank you.” Did I forget my fucking manners? What is it about this girl that has me on edge and feeling like I’m going to take a dive into hell any minute if I make a wrong move?

“I went with Italian since everyone loves Italian, but we can talk about what you like.”

Nodding, I reach for the intercom sitting on the table and turn up the volume. Hearing the vague sound of Krissy’s breathing in the background eases the tension in my shoulders.

“Maybe you should go up and peek in at her.”

I dart my eyes to Lainey’s, and she shrugs with one of those knowing looks like she thinks I’m adorable. Which is not at all how I feel. I feel pathetically helpless when it comes to Krissy. I need to get my shit together.

I shake my head. “I’ll check on her later.”

She serves up the pasta and meatballs, bragging without shame how she made everything from scratch—including the pasta and sauce—and as I take a bite, I can’t help being impressed.

“This is good.” I empty half my plate while she carries on about Krissy, picking up where she left off in her texts.

I have to ask. “Were you a cook before?” I wave at the food.

She furrows her brow and then chuckles, a light-hearted sound that she can’t possibly be faking. After a long, busy day there’s no hint of tiredness or annoyance or need to relax and chill. She’s still as energetically enthusiastic as a high school cheerleader ready for a game.

“You mean, where did I learn to cook?”

I nod.

She grins. “You’re a man of few words, aren’t you?”

I don’t bother responding to that and wait her out for the answer. I wonder if she’s a one-trick pony with this meal or if she might keep up the cooking—which would be a fucking treat I don’t deserve. Then I wonder if I’ll need to give her a raise. Totally worth it if this is a sample. Not even my Aunt Hildie cooks like this. Forget about my mother’s cooking.

Lainey heaves a big sigh, and my gaze is drawn to the dip in her yellow flowered sundress where the plump mounds of her breasts rise and fall. Shit. I dart my eyes back to her face. No relief there. Her wide baby blues scorch me, and her relentless smile bullies my conscience, reminding me of the value of being grateful yet again.

She’s like some kind of siren-conscience, a temptress wielding a whip of forbidden pleasure and promise of a better future. Or I’m going batty after too long a day at the office on the phone and staring at films and stats. I did manage to talk to all the players, and they’ll arrive tomorrow for our first team meeting and our first official skate.

“It’s a long story, but I’ll tell you anyway,” she says.

For a second, I forget what the story is about. Her grin widens, her eyes twinkle, and I can’t tell her not to bother. I don’t say anything, so she goes on.

“I took cooking lessons from my family’s cook for the last three months in preparation for… my future on my own. So, I could go out into the world and cook meals for myself and…whoever else I’m…with.”

The muscles between my shoulder blades tense up again, and I nod. “Sounds sensible.” Sounds ridiculous and unnecessary, and like she’s not telling the entire story, but hell, she doesn’t owe me any explanation. Especially not if I’m that person she’s with—whatever that means, which in this case, I’m sure isn’t the normal meaning of being with someone.

She laughs. “Sensible? Are you sure you don’t mean silly or overkill?”

I clamp my mouth tight because no way am I copping to that. No way do I want to encourage her to tell me her whole story, and not because I’m not curious or interested—probably the opposite. I don’t need to be interested in Lainey Hall. I need to be politely distant to keep her at arm’s length.

“Okay, I’ll tell you. You were bound to find out sooner or later.” She sighs, and I hold my breath, guessing it has to do with a man. “I was engaged to be married—the wedding was supposed to be in a couple of weeks, actually two weeks and two days from now—and I wanted to learn to cook for my new husband.” She huffs a breath, and her smile fades.

For the first time, I see no light in her face, only a rim of sadness around her eyes where they twinkled seconds before. But she rouses herself quickly.

“There you have it. Now, I’m here, and lucky you gets the benefit of my cooking lessons.” Her full smile returns as she studies me, waiting for my response with more patience than most women I’ve met.

“Lucky me.” I really mean it this time though my words are flat.

“You sure? You’re not very convincing. I get that you’ve had some…bad luck lately to dampen your spirits. I mean, let’s call it what it is—you’ve suffered some tragedy. But, Spence, you’re on the upswing now because you have Krissy and a great job as an NHL head coach, and you have Jason on your team and me. You have me. On your team, I mean. So to speak.”