Chapter 15
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Wesley
I stood in my kitchen at five thirty and stared at the ingredients laid out on the counter—chicken breasts, fresh basil, mozzarella, cherry tomatoes, balsamic vinegar.
What am I doing?
Not the cooking. I could make caprese chicken in my sleep. The question was bigger, more terrifying, aimed at the choice I’d made the previous night when I’d kissed Griffin and agreed to this impossible arrangement.
Yet here I was, chopping basil for a man who couldn’t publicly acknowledge our relationship. A man whose agent and mother pressured him to stay closeted. A man whose career depended on maintaining the perfect image while hiding fundamental truths about himself.
I set down the knife and gripped the edge of the counter, forcing myself to breathe through the spike of anxiety.
I reminded myself this was my choice. Not manipulated through false promises. Mine.
The doorbell sounded at exactly six o’clock, Griffin’s punctuality both reassuring and amusing.
I opened my apartment door. He stood tall and broad-shouldered in jeans and a navy Henley that highlighted his intense, ice-blue eyes. He carried a reusable shopping bag and scanned his surroundings, being cautious, protecting us both.
“Hey.” His smile was warm, genuine, the expression he wore when he didn’t have to project his strong image. “No one saw me.”
“Good.” I stepped back to let him enter and caught the scent of his sporty body wash as he passed. The same scent that had been driving me crazy for weeks. “What’s in the bag?”
“Beer. Dessert. I didn’t know what you were planning for dinner, so I covered the extras.” Griffin set the bag on my counter and pulled out a six-pack of IPA from Cascadia Craft Brews and a bakery box. “Tiramisu from that bakery on Mabury Street.”
“Perfect.” I opened the box. Beautiful layers of espresso-soaked ladyfingers and mascarpone cream nestled inside. “Though I’m impressed you found their bakery. It’s kind of hidden.”
“I did some research.” Pink stole up his cheeks. “Wanted to contribute something besides my awful cooking skills.”
The thoughtfulness of it—the effort he’d put into picking up beer and dessert—made warmth expand in my gut. This was what I’d been missing with Charles. The reciprocity. The sense that I mattered enough for someone to try.
“I appreciate it.” I gestured to the ingredients laid out on the counter. “Ready to learn how to make caprese chicken?”
Griffin eyed the array of food with obvious apprehension. “I told you I’m terrible at cooking. Like, genuinely bad. I once burned scrambled eggs so badly I had to throw out the pan. The smell…” He shook his head.
“How is that even possible?” I couldn’t help laughing. “Scrambled eggs are easy.”
“Not when I make them.” He rolled up his sleeves, revealing muscular forearms, and washed his hands. “But I’m willing to try if you promise not to judge too harshly.”
“No judgment. Just instruction.” I handed him a cutting board and the mozzarella. “Start by slicing this into thin rounds. About a quarter-inch thick.”
Griffin picked up the cheese with the careful concentration of someone approaching a complicated play. He positioned the knife, pressed down, and produced a slice that was more like a half-inch wedge than a thin round.
“Like that?” He held it up hopefully.
“Thinner. Here—” I stood beside him, close enough that our shoulders touched. Close enough to guide his hands without it seeming too deliberate. “Hold the knife at a slight angle and use a gentle sawing motion instead of just pressing down.”
Griffin tried again, his brow furrowed with focus. This slice was better—still too thick but heading in the right direction. “How’s this?”
I suppressed a grin. “Getting there. Keep going.”
I moved to preheat the oven while Griffin massacred the mozzarella with intense concentration. When I glanced over, he’d produced several slices of varying thickness, arranged on the cutting board like a topographical map.
“Those look… interesting,” I said diplomatically.
“They look terrible. I told you I was bad at this.” But Griffin was smiling, not actually discouraged, and I couldn’t help smiling in return. “What’s next?”
“Halve the cherry tomatoes.” I handed him a pint container. “This is easier. Just cut them lengthwise.”
Griffin picked up a tomato, positioned it carefully on the cutting board, and brought the knife down. The tomato squirted across the counter, shooting seeds and juice in three directions. He stared at the mess with obvious dismay. “I promise I’m better at hockey than this.”
I laughed—a real, genuine laugh that felt like release. “The key is holding it steady and slicing. Not squishing. Like this.” I placed my hand over his on the hilt and carefully guided the blade across the tomato. My breath hitched at the intimacy.
Griffin tried again with exaggerated care and successfully halved a tomato on his own without casualties. “Success!”
“There you go. Keep at it while I season the chicken.”
We fell into an easy rhythm—Griffin painstakingly halving tomatoes with the concentration of someone defusing a bomb, me preparing the chicken breasts with practiced efficiency.
The kitchen filled with the smell of garlic and herbs as I worked, and I stole glances at Griffin, watching the way his shoulders moved under the Henley, the flex of his forearms as he worked the knife, the small smile that played at his lips when he successfully completed a task.
He looked relaxed. Happy. Nothing like the carefully controlled captain I saw at the facility, all performance and perfect image. This version of Griffin—incompetent in the kitchen but trying anyway, laughing at his own mistakes—felt real in ways that made my chest ache with possibility.
This could work. This version of us could actually work.
“Okay, tomatoes are done.” He stepped back from the counter and surveyed his work with obvious pride. The halves were uneven, some barely cut while others were nearly quartered, but he’d completed the task without injury. “What now?”
“Now we assemble.” I showed him how to create pockets in the chicken breasts, stuff them with the mozzarella and basil, then arrange the tomatoes around them in the baking dish.
Griffin followed my instructions with the same intense focus, his large hands surprisingly gentle as he tucked basil leaves into the chicken.
“Like this?” He held up a stuffed breast for inspection.
“Perfect. You’re getting the hang of it.”
“Liar.” But his smile suggested he appreciated the encouragement anyway.
Once the chicken was in the oven, I opened a beer while Griffin cleaned up the kitchen—wiping down counters with efficient strokes, loading the dishwasher in a logical pattern, returning ingredients to their proper places with the same precision he brought to organizing plays on the ice.
“You’re actually good at this part.” I leaned against the counter, sipped my IPA, and watched him work with pleasant surprise.
“Cleanup I can handle.” Griffin rinsed the cutting board and efficiently loaded it into the dishwasher. “It’s methodical. Logical. A clear process with defined steps and a specific end goal.”
“Unlike cooking, which requires some art.”
“Exactly.” He closed the dishwasher and surveyed the now-spotless kitchen with obvious satisfaction. “Give me a system to follow, and I’m fine. Ask me to finesse food, and suddenly I’m a disaster.”
“Good to know you have at least one domestic skill.” I raised my bottle in mock salute. “Your future doesn’t have to consist entirely of takeout and protein shakes.”
“Just mostly takeout and protein shakes,” Griffin corrected, moving to stand beside me. “With occasional supervised cooking attempts when you’re around to prevent kitchen fires.”
“That’s endearing.”
“Just what a captain wants to hear. He’s endearing.” He chuckled.
“Your other skills are more important.” I folded the dish towel and hung it on the oven’s handle. “Hockey, for instance. Leadership. Making speeches without passing out. Those actually matter in your job.”
“Fair point.” Griffin was quiet for a moment, then added softly, “This is nice. Just being here. Doing normal things.”
I turned to face him, recognizing the vulnerability in his expression. “When was the last time you did something like this? Just cooked dinner with someone?”
“Honestly? I don’t think I ever have. Not like this.” Griffin’s gaze held mine. “I’ve had off-season hookups. Brief encounters in anonymous hotel room in cities without NHL teams where no one would recognize me. But nothing that felt like… this. Domestic. Real.”
The admission made something protective flare in my chest. Sixteen years of hiding. Sixteen years of stolen moments and anonymous one-night stands. No wonder he looked so relaxed in my kitchen—this simple act of cooking dinner together was something he’d never allowed himself to experience.
“Well, you’re doing it now.” I turned to him, close enough to see the flecks of gray in his light-blue eyes. “And you’re not completely terrible at it, despite your best efforts with the mozzarella.”
“High praise.” Griffin’s smile was soft, intimate. “Thank you. For this. For being patient with my incompetence.”
“Anytime.” I wanted to kiss him—wanted it so badly my lips tingled with anticipation. But the timer on the oven showed only another twenty minutes, and I had vegetables to sauté. “Come on. You can attempt to help me with the green beans.”
Griffin’s attempt to help involved him hovering uncertainly near the stove, holding a wooden spoon like it might bite him, while I did most of the actual work.
But his running commentary—observations about how the beans changed color, surprise at how quickly garlic could burn, general amazement that food could be transformed through the simple application of heat—kept me laughing.
By the time we sat down to eat, I felt lighter than I had in months. Maybe years. The kind of easy happiness I’d almost forgotten was possible.