Chapter 7 #2
“Oh my god. Seriously? You’re a stereotype.”
She shrugged, then smiled. “Pumpkin Spice Lattes are delicious, and you have zero room to judge, vanilla boy.”
“Oh, is that so?” I said, winking.
Bianca laughed again, her smile almost contagious.
This was the most relaxed I’d felt since before the injury at the end of last season.
For the first time, I wasn’t worried about the coaching staff or my teammates walking on eggshells around me.
This was just coffee and conversation with someone who was feeling like less of a threat and more like…
what? A friend? Or could there be something more between us?
“Can I ask you a question?” Bianca asked, her tone of voice shifting from playful to serious.
“Shoot.”
“Why did you seem so angry when I moved in? Please don’t say you weren’t, because we both know that wouldn’t be true.”
“It had nothing to do with you,” I said, tracing the rim of my cup as I chose my words carefully. “It’s a story for another time, but I am sorry for making you feel unwelcome and for being so defensive and angry. You didn’t deserve that.”
“No, I didn’t, but I get it. Having someone in your space, especially given that I’m the daughter of the coach, you were probably worried I’d report back to him on your every move.”
“Whoa, for the record, I didn’t think of you as a spy,” I said.
“I think at first you did. It is human nature. I’d have felt the same way.”
“Okay, fine, but I don’t feel that way anymore,” I said, giving her a smile.
“Good.” She smiled as she took the last bite of her muffin. “So what now? Do we just try to be roommates who don’t hate one another?”
I drained the last of my coffee and shrugged. “Perhaps roommates who like each other? Eventually. Actually, I have an idea. If you are free tonight, that is.”
“I am listening,” she said, crumpling the piece of parchment her muffin came on.
“Well, I thought we could grab some groceries, maybe cook dinner together? You know, an actual meal instead of whatever random stuff we’ve been scrounging from the pantry. Maybe make the apartment feel less like a war zone.”
“Do you cook?”
“I have some hidden talents.” I winked.
“I bet you do,” she said, smiling. “What did you have in mind?”
“Pasta? I make a decent marinara, and there is something satisfying about making your own noodles.”
Bianca raised her eyebrows. “You make pasta from scratch?”
“Yep, my grandmother was Italian. She had many opinions on store-bought items,” I said, standing, offering my hand to help Bianca up, a gesture that had always felt natural to me until I felt her palm against mine and a jolt of awareness shot up my arm.
The moment she was up, I released her hand and shoved mine deep into the pockets of my jeans. “So, what do you say?”
“I’m in. However, if we do that, we are making cookies too.” She smiled.
“You bake?”
“Since I was a kid. I too learned from my grandmother.”
I smiled. “What kind?”
“I’ve been craving chocolate chip cookies. That or peanut butter.”
“I think we can do that.”
As we walked back to the condo in silence, I felt good. We’d made progress. I’d taken my teammate’s advice and hoped that maybe this was the start of a friendship that might just make the next few months bearable and pleasant.
As we walked, I looked over at her, at the way she tilted her face toward the sun and smiled, and I ignored the voice in my head that kept telling me friendship wasn’t the right word for what it was I was feeling.
It was a little after four when I dropped the grocery bags on the counter and emptied them.
I went over the contents, making sure we had everything.
Flour, eggs, tomatoes, garlic, basil, chocolate chips, brown sugar, and butter.
Bianca had insisted on adding vanilla extract and sea salt to the cart, a little hidden smile on her lips as she dropped the vanilla in.
“Alright!” she said as she pulled her hair back into a tight ponytail. “You’re on pasta duty because you are apparently a noodle wizard, and I will handle the cookies.”
“Love it. Divide and conquer. Although, for the record, noodle wizard is going on my resume.”
“What, right under mediocre right defenseman.”
“Ouch!”
She looked over at me with a grin on her face as she checked her phone for a recipe.
“Excuse me,” Bianca said, reaching behind me for the measuring cups.
The more we moved around, the more I realized that my kitchen had been designed for a single occupant.
“Sorry, just…” I twisted sideways, trying to give her a little room, when my elbow caught the bag of flour. We both lunged for it. Bianca grabbed it first, but the bag tilted, sending a puff of white powder across the counter, along with my shirt and her hands.
“Shit.”
“It’s fine, it’s just…” Bianca stepped forward, trying to brush the flour off my shirt, which seemed to only make it worse.
“Are you making it worse on purpose?” I questioned.
“No, I’m helping.”
“Uh, Bianca, this is the opposite of helping,” I said as her hands brushed against my abs.
Her cheeks turned a slight shade of pink as she looked at the mess of flour on my shirt.
“Right! New plan? We live with flour.”
While I made the dough, Bianca worked on the cookies. When I looked over at her, I saw her biting her bottom lip as she concentrated.
“How is it going over there?” Bianca asked, glancing over at me as the smell of garlic filled the air.
“Great, the dough is almost ready to rest,” I said, and showed my hands, which were coated in sticky dough. “This is the messiest part,” I added.
“Says the guy covered in flour.”
“You’re one to talk. You have flour in your hair and on your cheek.”
She giggled, then swiped at her face. “Did I get it?”
“Other side.”
I watched as she tried again, missing it completely as I dried my now clean hands on the kitchen towel.
“Here, come here,” I said, reaching out without even thinking, my thumb brushing the flour from her cheek. I still had my hand raised, my thumb barely touching her skin as she looked up at me with those eyes. I could see the pulse at the base of her throat and felt my heart kick against my ribs.
“There, got it,” I said, my voice coming out a little rougher than I’d intended.
She swallowed hard, a pink hue covering her cheeks. “Thank you,” she said, staring at me a little longer before she turned back to her cookies.
I turned back toward the pan, stirring the garlic to keep it from burning as I willed my pulse to settle. It was only a friendly gesture; it wasn’t as if I’d kissed her. Except the air felt charged and things felt weird between us now, unlike when we’d been at the coffee shop.
“Okay! Cookies are ready for the oven. What do you need me to help with next?” she asked, washing her hands.
“Um, watch the sauce. Stir it while I roll out the pasta?” I asked, just as I dumped the rest of the ingredients into the pot.
“Sure, I can do that. God, this smells incredible. What is in there?” she asked, giving the pot a stir.
“Crushed tomatoes, garlic, basil, a bit of wine, and a few secret ingredients.”
“Um, you can’t say secret ingredients and not elaborate.”
“If I told you, they wouldn’t be secret, now would they?”
“Callahan, this isn’t how friendship works.”
“The air of mystery is very important,” I said, winking.
“Come on, tell me,” she said, moving beside me, giving me a gentle hip-check.
“Alright, fine, there is a pinch of sugar to cut the acidity and red pepper flakes to add heat. The real secret, though, is the parmesan rind.”
“Oh, wow, your grandmother taught you well.”
“She’d be happy to hear that,” I said as I ran the first piece of dough through the roller.
“That’s neat. I’ve never watched anyone make pasta from scratch before.”
“Would you like to try?” I asked.
“Are you going to judge me if I am terrible?”
I chuckled. “I promise nothing.”
Bianca nudged me aside and took the crank while I guided her hands, helping her with the speed and tension. I loved watching her as she concentrated, taking her time as she rolled the pasta.
“You’re a natural,” I said.
She looked up at me, locking her eyes with mine. “Maybe you’re just an excellent teacher,” she muttered.
“Maybe I am…” I whispered as I stared into her eyes.
God, what I’d give to feel them against mine, I thought to myself, and almost went in to find out when the oven timer went off.
“Cookies are ready,” she said, tearing her eyes from mine and grabbing the oven mitts.
“Okay, I have a confession,” she said, watching me dump the fresh noodles into the water. “I’m a bit of a disaster at cooking.”
“Is that why you’ve only made things in the microwave?” I asked.
“Yes, because I once set off the fire alarm while making scrambled eggs.”
I couldn’t help but let out a laugh. “How is that even possible?”
“I got distracted. I was reading something, and suddenly there was smoke and my roommate was screaming. It wasn’t my finest moment.”
“What were you reading that was so all-consuming that you forgot your eggs?” I asked.
“It was a research paper on ACL recovery protocols.”
I looked at her, shaking my head. “You are such a nerd.”
“Uh-huh, okay, pasta guy.”
“Um, that is a skill. Can you grab some plates?” I asked.
I was about to turn around to grab something at the same time Bianca went to reach for the plates and we collided against one another, her back right against my chest. Immediately, I reached out to steady her.
“Sorry,” we both said simultaneously, only neither one of us moved.
I could feel the warmth of her through my shirt; I could smell the scent of her shampoo, something citrusy, and I loved the way she fit perfectly in the space between my arms. My hands rested on her hips, holding her steady.
She turned her head slightly, her face inches from mine. Her lips parted as if she were about to speak, but no sound emerged. I watched as her eyes dropped to my mouth, only for a second, but I’d still seen it.
The oven timer let out a shrill beep, and the two of us sprang apart as if we’d been caught by her father.
“The pasta,” she cried.
“Right,” I said, waiting for her to move out of my way so I could drain the pasta.
“Should we eat here, at the island?” Bianca asked while I plated our pasta.
“Probably a good idea,” I said, feeling hyperaware of the space between us.
I sat on the far end, while she sat in her usual seat, with just enough space between us to allow things to calm down. We both twirled our forks into the pasta, each of us taking a bite at the same time.
“Oh, my god,” Bianca murmured.
“Good?” I questioned.
“Callahan, this is stupid good. Like an orgasm in my mouth. How dare you be a hockey player instead of a chef.”
I watched as she closed her eyes, my heart beating at her comment.
“I’m, uh, better at hockey than cooking,” I said, taking a mouthful myself, trying to erase the thought she’d planted in my head.
“That is completely debatable right now,” she said, taking another mouthful.
While we ate, Bianca told me stories about her university roommate who’d tried to make Thanksgiving dinner one year, while I shared with her the story of my rookie year when I’d attempted to make homemade lasagna for the boys.
“You just…assembled it with raw, uncooked pasta?” Bianca asked, giggling.
“Yep, and it wasn’t the ready-to-bake kind. What can I say? I was twenty and stupid.” I shrugged.
“What did your teammates say?”
“Nothing, they were being polite. They just chewed…a lot. Nightly finally asked me if I was trying to invent a new food—lasagna jerky.”
I watched as Bianca dissolved into laughter, the kind that made her eyes water. I loved listening to the sound of her laughter. Actually, I adored making her laugh. When we finished dinner, we attacked the cookies while they were still warm.
“These are perfect,” I said, taking a bite. “You might not cook, but you can bake.”
Bianca licked the chocolate off her fingers, causing me to look away. “It’s about following instructions. Baking isn’t intuitive like cooking. That is where I really struggle with the other.”
“I could teach you if you’d like.”
“Really?”
“Sure, we have months of living together. We can always spend the time we have together productively. Plus, maybe it will keep you from burning our apartment down.”
“Our apartment, huh?” Bianca repeated.
Somewhere between coffee and cookies, between flour fights and our first almost moment, my apartment had shifted from my territory that she’d invaded into something we shared.
“Guess it is. Your father asked me to make it easy on you, after all.” I winked.
We cleaned the kitchen together, falling into an easy and relaxed rhythm. Once we’d finished and put all the dishes away, Bianca turned to me.
“This was nice. I really enjoyed today.”
“It was,” I said, hanging the dishtowel on its hook.
“Well, I should probably hit the shower. I have some reading to do before bed,” Bianca said, watching me.
“Thank you for giving me a second chance after being such an asshole.”
“You weren’t,” she said, pausing. “Okay, well, maybe you were a bit of an asshole.”
“Only a bit?”
Bianca smiled as she made her way toward her room, pausing in the doorway. “Hey, Callahan.”
“Yeah?”
“I’m glad we are doing this. This truce thing. The friendship thing. Or whatever this is.”
“Me too.”
I watched as she disappeared into her bedroom, leaving me alone in the kitchen.
My phone buzzed against the counter. It was probably the boys checking in on me, or wanting to talk strategy like we normally did on a Saturday night.
I grabbed a glass of water and took it into the living room, where I flopped down on the couch.
As I sat there, I noticed the apartment felt different, warmer. It felt less like the space I was defending and more like somewhere I wanted to be. Bianca’s presence had changed that.
I sat there thinking about our moment at the stove, at how perfectly she’d fit against me and how close I’d come to…kissing my trainer? Kissing my roommate? Kissing my coach’s daughter. The woman who held my hockey career in her hands if she found out about my shoulder injury.
Fuck, what the hell had the boys been thinking, talking me into becoming friends with her. Kissing her would have been a terrible idea for about six hundred different reasons. We two people who were learning to share a space and build trust.
That moment in the kitchen where she’d been pressed against me, that caused my heart to pound, was nothing more than the result of having an attractive woman in my space. It meant nothing else.
I took a long drink of water and grabbed my phone, pulling up some plays from earlier this week that I wanted to go over. My focus wasn’t on finding a relationship with anyone. Instead, I focused on hockey, on being the best player I could be, and on hiding the fact that my shoulder was fucked.