Chapter 7 Stay Locked In
Stay Locked In
Claire
Iwent to my room and shut the door.
I stayed there, hand still on the knob. Then I leaned my forehead gently against the wood and let out a breath. I missed the light switch and found it on the second try.
I only asked him for a pizza place recommendation. Not a home-cooked meal. Not a cooking class. Not built-in babysitting. And definitely not company.
He’d gone out of his way tonight, for Nolan’s nieces. For Nolan’s sister. It was generous. And maybe a little too much.
I hoped he didn’t think he had to go out of his way just because we were his coach’s family.
I loosened my grip one finger at a time, pushed off the door, straightened my shoulders, and crossed to the dresser.
I’ll just be extra considerate. Keep the balance even.
I set an early alarm and killed the light.
Balance.
The 6:00 alarm went off. I love powering through my emails early, before the city really wakes up. There’s something satisfying about checking off replies before anyone else starts making demands.
This morning’s batch included a misdirected LinkedIn message, a dentist reminder I didn’t need, and an update from my favorite spreadsheet software. Riveting.
I was halfway through flagging a billing error when a scent cut through my focus.
Coffee.
It was faint, but distinct. Which meant Liam was up.
I paused, checked the clock, then moved toward the door. I didn’t need to say anything. But I had planned to run a few errands and figured I could offer to pick something up for him. Practical, friendly, normal.
He was in the kitchen, pouring coffee into a mug. My mouth went dry.
Barefoot. Hair damp. Wearing a t-shirt and gym shorts. Lean frame, not bulky. His arms had that kind of definition that says you burn more calories than you store. Efficient.
"Hey," I said, keeping my tone light. "I’m heading out later, thought I’d see if you needed anything."
He looked up. One brow ticked up. "And risk you picking up dried basil?"
I blinked, then laughed. "You’re never going to let me live that down, are you?"
He set the mug on the counter. "Hey, I learned a lot about you during our first fight."
Our first fight?
"Fight? That wasn’t a fight." I crossed my arms. "You must not have any siblings."
"I do," he said, reaching for the coffee pot again. "One. A sister."
He chuckled to himself, clearly revisiting some internal reel of knock-down, drag-out family arguments. "You’re right. That wasn’t a fight."
He gave a slight shrug. "I stand corrected. I learned a lot about you during our disagreement."
"I like to think of it as a difference of opinion," I said.
"Do you always get the last word?"
"Absolutely."
He handed me a clean mug without asking if I wanted one. My hand brushed his as I took it. Warm.
"Seriously, though," I said, pouring coffee. "Do you need anything?"
He hesitated, then scratched the back of his neck. "I noticed you were running low on almond milk. I was going to pick some up."
I gripped my mug a bit tighter.
“I could just finish the other milk,” I offered, already wincing at how unconvincing it came out.
He didn’t miss a beat. "Claire, you clearly enjoy the almond milk."
I stirred the coffee slowly, avoiding eye contact.
He noticed?
Was that a goalie thing? Constant observation? Pattern recognition? Maybe you just can’t turn that kind of focus off.
"Don’t worry," he added. "I already looked up recipes that use the other three."
I glanced at him over the rim of my mug.
He wasn’t smiling exactly. But his eyes said he was pleased with himself.
Comfortable. Natural.
I took a sip and nodded. "Alright then. I’ll pick up the almond milk."
"Deal."
I guess this is starting to work. No awkward silences. At least I don’t feel like I have to tiptoe around, trying to prove I respect his privacy, or that I’m grateful to be here. I haven’t forgotten it’s temporary. But we’re finally comfortable enough to joke about thyme and almond milk.
It was nearly noon when I returned to the apartment, arms full. Almond milk. Another pack of that ridiculously good coffee he brewed. And a new sponge for the kitchen. His had seen better days.
The apartment was quiet. I paused just inside the door, letting my eyes adjust. The cool air hit my skin, he must’ve cracked a window again. No sound. No clink of dishes. No distant music. Liam must be out.
I dropped the sponge on the counter, pulled the almond milk from the bag, and then held up the coffee. Now, where did he keep—
"Pantry. Second shelf. Left."
I jumped so hard I nearly dropped the bag.
"Liam," I gasped, hand to my chest. "You scared me."
He laughed, not even trying to hide it. "Sorry. Didn’t mean to sneak up."
I reached out instinctively and grabbed his upper arm for balance. His breath hitched. Just slightly.
I bent over a little, catching my breath, and then started laughing. "I seriously thought I was alone."
He took the coffee from my hands. "I’ll put it away while you recover.”
I watched him as he moved, broad shoulders, long lines, his t-shirt stretching as he reached into the pantry. His track pants sat low on his hips. He looked effortless.
He turned back around and studied my face.
"Well," he said, amused. "Color’s back in your cheeks."
Then, with a teasing edge, "So does this mean you want me to make you coffee every day?"
My brain short-circuited.
Wait, what?
No. I just wanted to be nice. This wasn’t… that.
I opened my mouth. "No, well, I mean yes. The coffee’s great. And your machine’s sort of intimidating. I’m always afraid I’ll mess up the settings and you’ll walk in and see me mid-disaster."
His mouth started to curve.
"And now you’re making it for two, so I thought maybe I could… it just seemed fair…"
Both his hands came up in surrender. "Claire. I was joking."
I narrowed my eyes. "Jerk."
He grinned. I couldn’t help but smile back.
Then his face shifted.
"Claire."
I looked up.
"You can relax. You’re being very considerate."
I’m glad he noticed.
I shrugged, a little embarrassed, and tucked a loose piece of hair behind my ear. "I’m trying."
He held my gaze. "I know."
I retreated to my room, needing to cross a few things off the to-do list before the day got away from me.
A few work emails. Two quick teleconferences for a continuing-education module for clinicians.
One invoice with six line-items I had to track down.
The light filtering through the window had shifted, a muted amber. Afternoon was settling in.
Then I opened a browser tab and typed "indoor and outdoor activities for young kids in the city." Rainy day options. Sunny day options. Free events. Ticketed ones. I created a spreadsheet with tabs. Obviously.
Somewhere around listing out travel times for each attraction, I heard a sound from the kitchen.
Pots. Pans. Cabinet doors.
I checked the clock. Five-thirty. Right on cue. I smiled, just a little.
Then came a sharp noise.
A crack that startled me just enough to make me look away from my spreadsheet and look at the door. It came again, lower this time, like something snapping against wood. I headed to the kitchen, pulled by curiosity more than concern.
Liam was at the counter, focused, hand hovering over a cutting board littered with thin white husks. He looked up as I lingered in the doorway.
“Sorry, was that too loud?” he asked, voice apologetic.
I smiled. “Not at all. I was just curious what food group managed to get you so angry.”
He snorted. “Not angry. Just prepping the garlic.”
Prepping. Right. That sounded chef-y enough to make me feel completely out of my depth. I leaned on the counter. “Wait, can I ask? I’ve always wanted to know how to use fresh garlic. Like, properly. What do you do?”
He turned, one brow raised. “Don’t tell me you use… dried garlic.”
I gasped theatrically. “Never! I use that stuff in the little glass jars.”
He made a wounded sound, clutching his chest. “Tragic.”
I laughed. “I know, I know. Teach me better.”
“Come closer,” he said, beckoning me with a nod. “I’ve got two more to peel. I’ll show you.”
I stepped up beside him, eyes on the cutting board as he picked up a plump clove, still wrapped in its papery skin.
“Okay,” he said, settling the clove beneath the wide flat of his chef’s knife.
“This part’s fun. You want to crush it just enough to split the skin, not obliterate it.
So—heel of your hand here—press firmly, like this. ”
He smacked the blade down with a practiced thud. The clove flattened, its skin cracking open like a shell. “Now the skin slips off easily,” he said, peeling it with a flick. “See?”
It looked so satisfying, I half wanted to try it myself. “And then? You chop it?”
“If you want it fine, you can mince it. But for something like a sauté, I usually just give it a rough chop. You want the flavor to bloom, not disappear.”
“I feel like I’ve just entered an elite culinary society,” I said.
Liam smirked. “The only requirement is rejecting the glass jar.”
“I always loved the smell of garlic and onions in a pan,” I said absently.
His voice was quieter. “So you used to cook?”
I waved my hands vaguely toward his setup. “Well, not like this. I mean, come on. You have a cast iron collection and a knife rack.”
“But yeah,” I added, shrugging. “I used to cook. I tried to, anyway.”
“I used to date someone who hated the smell of garlic and onions,” I said casually, reaching for another clove. “It’s hard to cook when you take those out of the equation. Every recipe seems to start with them.” I pressed the blade down and the clove flattened.
My mind flicked, uninvited, to an old kitchen. To a guy with a wrinkle of disgust on his face, waving away a pan of roasted garlic like it was poison. The same guy who once asked if I could ‘tone it down’ in the spice department.
The same guy who dumped me over brunch, between an omelet and the check.
He was a jerk. Didn’t even remember whether I used milk in my coffee.
I didn’t realize Liam had asked something until I looked up and saw him watching me.
“Sorry,” I said. “What was that?”
His expression shifted, flustered, like he thought he’d stepped too far. “Nothing. It’s okay if you don’t want to answer that.”
“Answer what?”
“I asked what happened with the guy who hated the smell of basic cooking ingredients.”
His fingers tapped the edge of the cutting board once.
I forced myself to maintain eye contact. “He was a jerk. We stopped dating.”
Not a lie. But not exactly the whole truth either.
He nodded once and turned back to the cutting board.
I exhaled slowly, heart still tight in my chest.
Oil hissed; the onions went glassy. The garlic bloomed for thirty seconds, then a splash of wine and a quick simmer. Steam fogged the range; the sauce tightened.
“There’ll be enough for leftovers,” he said after a beat. “I’ll portion them out, single servings. You can have them for lunch tomorrow.”
I blinked. “Liam, you don’t have to—”
“I have to save you from yourself.”
I smirked. “You’re that confident I’ll want it again?”
He didn’t even glance up. “Who said I’d let you have any tonight?”
“Jerk,” I muttered.
He laughed again. “That seems to be your favorite word today.”
I tilted my head, deadpan. “It’s efficient. Covers a lot of ground.”
He stacked the portions in the fridge and clicked off the light. “See you in the morning.”
“Good night.” I headed down the hall.
Somewhere out there, the city was stretching awake, but I’d been working for hours. My room was still dim, blinds half-drawn, laptop casting a faint glow across the duvet. The distant hum of traffic filtered in from the street below, the world just beginning to move.
I was catching up on a few project notes before my first call. I’d already drained one mug of coffee and answered all my emails before I realized I hadn’t heard a sound from the rest of the apartment.
I sat back, rubbed a hand across my face, and stretched. Just as I started to lean over to close my laptop, I heard it.
“Claire?”
Liam’s voice. A little closer than expected.
I stepped into the hall and found him at the end of it, near the door. Suit on. Roller bag upright beside him. One hand on the handle. The other adjusting his cuff.
He looked… good. Crisp suit, charcoal gray, tailored to fit. My eyes swept over him before I could stop myself. I suddenly became aware of my reflection in the hallway mirror.
Great. Should’ve brushed my hair.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I just wanted to let you know I’m leaving.”
I nodded slowly.
“We start our three-day road trip.”
“I know,” I said, smiling. “Brooke and the girls roped me into touring the city while Nolan’s gone.”
He nodded back, sheepishly. “Right. Of course, you know your brother’s schedule.”
My expression softened. “Thank you for letting me know.”
He lingered.
“Liam,” I said gently. My chest felt tight. I made myself breathe evenly.
His eyes flicked back to mine. His fingers curled tighter around the roller bag handle before letting it go.
“I want to wish you luck,” I hesitated, heartbeat ticking in my throat, searching his eyes, hoping I wasn’t pushing too far. “But I know how superstitious players can be. What can I say to you before games?”
He looked slightly caught off guard. His hand slid off the roller bag handle and into his pocket, but his eyes stayed on mine.
“My dad used to say…” he trailed off, eyes distant. “Don’t forget to thank the goalposts.”
I let out a surprised laugh.
He did too, slightly embarrassed.
“And what can I say?” I coaxed.
His gaze came back to mine, steady now. “Stay locked in.”
I turned to the hook by the door, pulled down his jacket. I let my fingers trail lightly over the lapel, thick wool, a faint trace of Liam’s cologne.
When I turned to hand it to him, he reached for it. For a second, we both held it, his fingers closing around the other side. He didn’t look away. Then I let go.
“Okay then. Safe travels, Liam.” I paused, then added, “Stay locked in.”
His eyes stayed on mine. He exhaled. Gently nodded.
Then he was gone.
I was still holding my breath.