Scoring with the Coach’s Daughter (Maine Megalodons #3)

5. Jake

5

JAKE

When Ellie first invited me to “family night” I pictured some kind of formal, over-the-top event. Maybe with white tablecloths and stuffy fake candles lighting the place. But stepping into the restaurant, I feel the opposite. The place is cozy, warm, and alive with personality.

The tables are simple—elegant. The wooden finish has just enough polish to make them look special without feeling like they’re too pretty to use. String lights hang across a wall with a huge picture window, and the smell of fresh basil and garlic fills the air.

Ellie runs ahead of me and her long hair flies behind her as she bursts through the swing doors and barges into the kitchen like she owns the place. And honestly, it seems like she does. The staff greets her with warm smiles, some reaching out for high-fives, and she laps up the attention more exuberantly than a puppy eagerly chasing a ball. She’s quite the firecracker.

Sam steps front and center wiping her hands on a towel. The moment she sees me, she pauses. I guess she wasn’t expecting me. Her lips press together like she’s not sure whether to greet me or tell me to get out .

“Jake is coming to dinner!” she announces.

“Ellie,” she says, her voice already carrying that “mom” tone. “What did I say about inviting people to dinner without asking me first?”

Ellie doesn’t even pause to acknowledge the warning in her Aunt’s voice. “But it’s family night!” she says brightly, grabbing my hand and pulling me forward like a prized guest. “Jake’s here. Isn’t he family?”

I swear her face is so adorable I’d be hard-pressed to punish her.

Sam’s eyes glance at me. I catch a hint of pink in her cheeks before her expression relaxes. “Jake isn’t?—”

“Sam,” I say, cutting her off with an easy grin. “I’m here to see an old acquaintance, besides, I can help.”

“Help,” she repeats, arching an eyebrow.

“Sure,” I say, shrugging out of my jacket and rolling up my sleeves. “You can put me to work. I’m great at... taste-testing.”

Ellie laughs at that, and Sam sighs, clearly trying to decide whether to argue or let me stay. I see the exact moment she gives in because her shoulders drop, and she gives me a knowing look—like the cat that got caught with a broken jar of milk. She waves her hand and motions me in.

“Fine,” she says. “But if you’re in my kitchen, you’re helping.”

“I wouldn’t have it any other way,” I say with a wink. Her jaw tightens just slightly, and I’d like to think she finds me irresistible. However, I get the impression that I’m making more points with Ellie than Sam.

The kitchen is spotless. Too spotless. If she’s anything like her mother, I can eat off the tiled floor because it’s probably cleaner than most people’s tabletops.

Sam moves through the space like a conductor— each movement has a purpose. She’s efficient and I’d expect nothing less. Her father is good at directing as well. I see a pattern forming before my eyes. Sam likes to be in charge. The way the staff moves around her can only be described as cautious. Which is strange. I know many business owners and so I assume Sam is similar to them—meaning she has an attention to detail that is second to none.

“Maggie,” she says, “can you pull out three pizza pans?”

“Yes, chef,” Maggie says with a smile while winking at Ellie. She grabs the pans and hands them off to Ellie who dutifully delivers them to Sam. Ellie then gives me her megawatt smile. She’s proud of herself. I for one, know that it’s important to give kids simple tasks they can complete as it builds confidence. If I had my guess, Ellie has that in spades.

This isn’t the type of kitchen where you just wing it. The staff moves like a well-greased machine and they aren’t chatty. They work with their eyes remaining focused on their tasks. I’m not used to employees being so mindful of their roles outside of an important football game.

There are the normal workstations one would expect. The garnishes are near the food line which is covered by whomever is waiting for an order to pop up. I can’t dismiss the fact that the staff is peering at me and perhaps they would have approached me if it weren’t for Sam being here.

“Grab your apron,” Sam instructs Ellie who nods and walks to a cubby. Sam grabs an apron from a hook on the wall. Sam ties it around her waist with a practiced hand.

Ellie returns with a tiny apron and slips it over her head. Then she grabs a spare apron off a lower hook on the wall and hands it to me.

“You need one too, Jake,” she says. “This way, we match.”

“Thanks, kiddo,” I say, tying the strings behind me. “How do I look?” I ask as I pose for her .

“Like a chef!” Ellie giggles, and I strike another more ridiculous pose that earns a burst of laughter.

Sam shakes her head, but I swear she’s holding back a grin.

“So,” Sam says, clapping her hands, “let’s get started. We’re making pizza.”

“Pizza!” Ellie cheers as she grabs a child’s stepstool and places it near the workstation. She then climbs it and submerges her tiny hand into the flour on the counter. Sam adds water to the powder before Ellie gleefully spreads it across the workspace. They must have done this a hundred times because Ellie knows the drill.

Ellie is rather zealous with her mixing and as her hands toss the dough, flour flies through the air like confetti. I had no idea flour could fly that far. Ellie is impervious to Sam’s dour face, and I’m intrigued by her smirk.

I wonder over the dynamic between them as Sam seemed uncomfortable with the mess.

I join them, putting my hands into the mix before me and I end up creating a mess of my own. Ellie giggles but Sam’s look implies I’m a novice and I hope she’s not upset with me. Ellie rubs the end of her nose and the flour coats it white.

I chuckle and wipe it off with the end of my apron. Ellie then swipes flour onto my nose and her impish giggle is refreshing and cuts the stuffy air.

“Ellie,” Sam’s stern voice intervenes. Ellie proceeds to pound the dough and flip it over before she shapes it into a ball.

Sam visibly flinches as flour settles on the floor and coats my sneakers.

“It’s fine,” I say, nudging Sam’s shoulder. “It’s just flour. It’s supposed to be messy.”

She glares at me. “Not in my kitchen, it’s not. She’s usually more on point. I think she’s showing off for you.”

“Aww, live a little, Sam,” I tease, picking up a pinch of flour and sprinkling dusting the end of her button nose.

Her eyes narrow with disapproval, but I catch the faintest twitch of her lips like she’s fighting the urge to let go and have some fun.

“Auntie Sam, look!” Ellie says, holding up a lopsided ball of dough. “Can I roll it now?”

Sam clutches the dough like she’s resisting the urge to fix the mess Ellie’s made.

“I think it’s perfect,” I say, stepping in before Sam can. “You’re a natural, Ellie.”

Ellie beams, grabbing a rolling pin and attacking the dough with enthusiasm which causes more flour to fly—on the counter, on the floor, and somehow on my apron and shirt—but I don’t care.

Sam cares, though. I can see it in the way her eyes dart toward the mess, her jaw tightening as she reaches for a rag.

“Leave it,” I say, my voice gentle but firm. “We’ll get it later.”

She hesitates, her hand hovering over the towel at her fingertips before she reluctantly steps back.

“You’re impossible,” she mutters, but the tone is one of resignation.

“I like to think I have my moments,” I say, flashing her a grin.

We all have a ball of dough, and working mine into a ball has become therapeutic. I can see how one can get so lost in a project that makes the world fade away. I discover that I’m not stressing over my injury. I’m distracted by Ellie’s vivacious and exaggerated personality, but I enjoy seeing Sam as a mother. And I love what I see even if she is uptight at times.

Ellie is concentrating on the rolling pin but as she rolls the dough, it sticks to it and she frowns. “Ahh,” she groans .

Sam steps in to save the day. The staff, who started out sneaking glances at me like I was some kind of celebrity, are now watching the scene unfold with quiet amusement as they work.

I roll my ball of dough and place it on the dusted pizza pan. I notice Sam has everything perfectly sliced and diced in tiny cups. She lines them up before us and walks to the stove where she grabs a saucepan and spreads it on each pie.

“Now it’s time for the toppings,” Ellie exclaims. She looks at me. “This is the fun part,” she announces as her small hands grab slices of pepperoni. She methodically places them on her pizza and when she leans over to put some on mine, a few fall on the tiled floor.

“Uh, oh,” she moans and looks sheepishly at Sam. “Sorry Auntie Sam,” she says.

I get the impression that Sam is a drill Sergeant in the kitchen. I look at Sam and am relieved that she’s trying so hard not to criticize and finally, she cracks a smile.

“It’s fine, sweetie,” she says. Ellie nods and reaches into the bowl of shredded mozzarella.

“You know,” I say as I spread sauce over my dough, “your pizza looks amazing.”

“I’m a professional. No one in my class knows how to make pizza,” she says jutting out her chin and puffing her chest. She’s proud of her masterpiece. She confidently spreads the cheese evenly. When she finishes, she stands tall and observes the outcome. “There. Isn’t it pretty Aunt Sam?”

“It’s incredible,” Sam says as she moves behind her and hugs her, placing a kiss on the top of her head.

I laugh in relief that Sam seems to have forgotten the pepperoni incident. I give Ellie the thumbs-up. “You did a great job!”

“Well,” Sam says, returning to her pizza and sprinkling cheese on top of sausage and veggies. topping the veggies, “I guess these are ready.” She looks at my pizza and for a novice, I hope mine passes her scrutiny. Sam smiles at me before wiping her hands on her apron. “Let’s get these in the oven.”

Sam slides the pizzas into the hot oven and hits a magnetic timer attached to it. Ellie proceeds to chatter away jumping from one topic to the next. I can’t help but notice the way the staff is completely smitten with her—and Sam.

The kitchen settles into a comfortable rhythm behind us and Ellie chatters away. But I catch Maggie sneaking glances at Sam—then me—and then smiling like she’s holding a secret. It makes me wonder if they’ve ever seen her with a man before. If I were a betting man, I would say she’s never shared pizza night with a man before tonight.

“She’s amazing,” I say quietly, nodding toward Ellie as she explains the “secret ingredients” in her pizza to one of the servers.

Sam glances at me, her expression softening. “She’s... everything.”

The way she says it—the quiet reverence in her voice—hits me harder than I expected.

“You’re doing a great job,” I reply.

She looks at me, and for a moment, I think she might actually believe me. But then she shakes her head and shrugs. Her walls are up again.

“It’s just pizza night,” she shrugs, brushing off the compliment.

I’ve already seen her crack a smile, but one isn’t enough. “It’s family pizza night and that makes all the difference in the fast-paced world we live in,” I reply.

She nods in agreement. In my first hour here, I see a glimpse of their life away from the camera, and social media. She’s giving Ellie a wholesome world with structure and values that I admire.

I grab a rag and help to clean the workstation. When the timer buzzes, and the pizzas come out of the oven, Ellie insists on sitting between us at a small table in the break room. She chatters nonstop as we eat, dipping her crust in marinara sauce and wiping her sauce stained on the white cloth napkins.

Sam looks tired. She’s been running at full speed all day and now she’s lost steam. Her energy level is like a star that fades out in a few seconds— withering quickly, and her bright face fading into one of fatigue. The exhaustion shows around her eyes as her eyelids droop.

“Hey,” I say quietly, leaning closer so Ellie can’t hear. “You okay?”

Her eyes search mine before she nods. “I’m fine.”

But she’s not. Not really. I wonder if she’s wishing her sister were here, but I don’t push it. Instead, I focus on Ellie, letting her guide the conversation as she tells me all about her favorite stuffed animal, which is a unicorn.

By the time we finish eating in the dining room, it’s late and it appears the kitchen staff is talking more and working less so I assume the rush of the evening is over. Ellie stifles a yawn, her head leans against Sam’s arm.

“I think someone’s ready for bed,” I mumble.

Ellie pouts. “But I don’t want it to be over,” she says with a voice that defies all logic. The kid has my heart in her hands.

“Don’t worry, kiddo,” I say, ruffling her hair affectionately. “We’ll do it again.”

Her face lights up, and she looks at Sam. “Can Jake come back tomorrow?”

Sam hesitates, her eyes quickly glance at me, then she stands to pick up our plates.

“We’ll see,” she smiles.

It’s not a yes, but it’s not a no either.

And for now, it’s enough.