6. Delaney
6
Delaney
I watch the precise patterns my skates carve in the ice as I wind down from another grueling session with Lachlan. My muscles ache, but it's the good kind of pain—the kind that means progress. As I approach the exit, ready to trade my skates for my cozy boots, I spot a flash of blonde hair and an all-too-familiar scowl.
Greer Collins, Miss Prickly herself, skates towards me with surprising grace. It’s not at all shocking to know she played hockey growing up. The figure skating still surprises me—even if I have seen her medal in multiple competitions. In her hands, she clutches a mysterious container that looks suspiciously like it might contain actual food.
"Hey, Quinn," she calls out, her voice carrying that trademark edge. "Want some?"
I eye the container warily. Is this a trick? Some elaborate prank where I'll end up with my face covered in whipped cream? My paranoia kicks into overdrive, and I can practically hear my nutritionist screaming about macros and cheat days.
"What is it?" I ask, unable to keep the suspicion out of my voice.
Greer rolls her eyes so hard I'm worried they might get stuck that way. "Jesus, Del. It's not poison. Just try the damn thing."
Why is everyone joking about poisoning me lately?
I hesitate, my hand hovering over the container. "Since when do you share food? Or anything, for that matter?"
"Since I decided to be a fucking saint for five minutes," Greer snaps, but there's a hint of amusement in her eyes. "Take it or leave it, princess. I've got places to be."
I can't help but snort at her impatience. It's so quintessentially Greer that it actually puts me at ease. Slowly, I reach into the container and pull out what appears to be a piece of... banana bread?
"You bake now?" I ask, raising an eyebrow.
Greer scoffs. "Please. As if I have time for that domestic bullshit. It's—"
But I've already taken a bite, and oh my god. My taste buds are having a party, and they've invited every neuron in my brain. It's moist, it's perfectly spiced, and it's somehow both indulgent and not too sweet. I involuntarily let out a small moan of pleasure.
"Good, right?" Greer smirks, clearly enjoying my reaction.
I nod, unable to form words around the heavenly morsel in my mouth. As I savor the taste, a traitorous thought creeps into my mind: When was the last time I allowed myself to enjoy food like this? When did I start seeing everything as just fuel for training?
"Who made these?" I ask once I've swallowed, already plotting how to get my hands on more.
Greer's smirk widens. "Wouldn't you like to know?"
“Can I even have these?”
"Relax, Miss Olympian. They're allowed on our meal plan. Breck worked with Birdie to make them."
My heart does a little flip at the mention of Breck's name. I try to squash the feeling, but it persists like an annoying itch. "Breck?" I ask, aiming for nonchalance but probably missing by a mile.
"Yeah. Hockey player. You know, light brown hair, kinda looks like he got in a fight with a lawnmower and lost? Annoying as hell, but apparently a world-class baker." Greer shrugs. "And Birdie's studying to be a nutritionist, so she knows what's up. It's all good for us mere mortals trying to defy gravity on ice."
An unbidden, a pang of jealousy. Birdie. The nutritionist. Working closely with Breck. Probably laughing over failed recipes and licking batter off spoons.
Which is ridiculous. Right? Right. I have no claim on Breck. I barely know him. And I'm not here for romance. I'm here for gold medals and glory, not boys with stupid haircuts and delicious muscles who can bake like gods.
But as I take another bite of the banana bread, I can't help but wonder what other talents those hands might possess. No. Bad Del. Focus. We don’t need another boy destroying us.
Greer holds out the container and I can’t stop myself from taking another treat. This one looks like it’s maybe a brownie, but also a cookie? I bite into the baked good, and holy hell, it's like a flavor explosion in my mouth. The banana bread was moist, but this is heaven. Before I can stop myself, another moan escapes my lips.
Greer bursts out laughing, her sharp edges softening for a moment. "Jesus, Del. You want me to leave you two alone?"
I feel my cheeks burning, but I can't even bring myself to care. "Shut up," I mumble around another mouthful. "This is... fuck, this is amazing."
As the flavors dance on my tongue, I find myself wondering about the guy behind this culinary masterpiece. "Hey, um," I start, trying to sound casual and probably failing miserably. "Do you think Breck would be willing to share the recipe?"
Greer's eyes roll so hard I'm worried they might get stuck. "Jesus, the two of you. I swear, it's like dealing with lovestruck teenagers."
"What's that supposed to mean?" I ask, my heart suddenly racing.
"Look, I'm not playing go-between here," Greer says, her tone brooking no argument. "You want the recipe? You're going to have to ask him yourself. I can give him your phone number, but that's all I got."
I freeze, cookie—brookie?—halfway to my mouth. Breck? Having my number? The idea sends a thrill through me that has nothing to do with baked goods and everything to do with warm brown eyes and a crooked smile.
I hesitate, my mind racing. Do I really want Breck to have my number? Sure, these treats are practically heaven in carb form, but he's... well, he's a distraction.
"I don't know, Greer," I say, biting my lip. "My training schedule is pretty intense right now. I can't afford any distractions."
Greer raises an eyebrow. "It's just a phone number, Del. Not a marriage proposal."
I scoff, but my resolve is wavering. "I've worked too hard to let anything derail my dreams. Again. Not even insanely talented baking hockey players with stupidly attractive faces."
"Did you just call Breck attractive?" Greer smirks.
"What? No! I meant... the brookie. It has an attractive face. Shut up."
I take another bite to stop myself from saying anything else embarrassing. The moment the chocolatey goodness hits my tongue, I can't help the small moan that escapes. It's just so damn good.
"Oh, for fuck's sake," I groan, defeated. "Fine. You can give him my number. But only for recipe purposes, got it?"
Greer's triumphant grin makes me want to tackle her to the ice. "Sure, Del. Purely professional banana bread discussions. I'm sure that's exactly how it'll go."
I glare at her, but there's no real heat behind it. She holds out the container. “Here, take the rest.”
I snatch it up before she changes her mind, or I come to my senses. As I skate towards the exit, I can't help but wonder if I've just made a huge mistake or opened the door to something unexpectedly sweet.
I push through the heavy doors of the changing room, my skateguards scraping against the rubber floor mats. The familiar scent of sweat and deodorant hits me, but I barely notice it. My mind is too busy replaying the last few minutes on loop.
"What were you thinking, Del?" I mutter to myself, yanking open my locker with more force than necessary. The metallic clang echoes through the empty room.
I start unlacing my skates, my fingers working on autopilot while my thoughts race. Did I really just give Greer permission to hand out my number like some sort of desperate... bread groupie?
"It's just a recipe," I remind myself, but even I don't believe it. The image of Breck's stupidly attractive face flashes in my mind, and I groan, letting my head thunk against the cool metal of the locker.
"Everything okay in here?" Natalie's voice startles me.
I whip around, plastering on what I hope is a casual smile. "Yeah, just... tired. Long practice."
She eyes me suspiciously. "Uh-huh. And it has nothing to do with that hunky hockey player who keeps showing up here?"
"I wasn't—" I start to protest, but Natalie's knowing smirk cuts me off. I sigh, shoulders slumping. "Is it that obvious?"
Natalie laughs, patting my shoulder. "Only to someone who knows you as well as I do. So, spill. What's got you all twisted up?"
I hesitate, weighing my options. But the words tumble out before I can stop them. "I may have... sort of... given Greer permission to give Breck my number."
Natalie's eyes widen. "Wow, Del. That's... unexpected. What happened to 'no distractions'?"
"Banana bread happened," I groan, slumping onto the bench. "Really, really good banana bread."