9. Chapter 9
Saint
Our game is early that Sunday. We lose. The mood is heavy with dejection afterwards, even if it's only the first loss of the season. For a late-November contest, it's a pretty good record. Still, the plane is relatively quiet on the way home.
We return to Seattle earlier than usual, but still deep into the evening. It's almost nine by the time we're back at TD from the airport and I'm in my car on the way home. Just in case, I open the door to my condo quietly, and kick off my shoes as I peek inside.
I take a slow, deep breath.
Light. Sound. Warmth. They welcome me home. They soak through my feet and travel up my body, until they reach a part of me I hid away years ago. The part that would have dreamed of a thousand moments just like this. Coming home from a game, to find someone waiting for me.
Not that Ames is waiting for me.
A couple of lights are on in the living room but, from the looks of it, most of the action comes from the kitchen. I make my way there, leave my bag on a kitchen island chair, and study the scene .
Ames' back is to me. Music plays on the speakers, something I don't recognize.
If my ears have it right, she's mumbling the lyrics to herself.
She's washing a few mixing bowls and pots, while the dishwasher runs nearby.
Both oven timers are on. I take a whiff of the air, and the smell of a full hearty meal makes my mouth water.
"What did you make?" I ask.
"Ah!" Ames jumps. The clank of metal fills the space. She dropped one of the bowls.
"Oops." I round the kitchen island until I'm standing next to her. "Sorry. I didn't mean to scare you."
Her hands press against her chest. "I didn't hear you come in."
A soft blush darkens her light brown skin. It's a beautiful mixture of melanin and dark pink, that I wouldn't get to see if I weren't so close. Without thinking, I lift a hand and trace a reddened cheek with a thumb.
"Cute," I say.
So adorable, I forgot myself for a second, and touched her.
I pull my hand away. Ames' family is from Uruguay, and sometimes we say hello with a kiss on the cheek like they do over there. Rarely, we hug. Otherwise, touching is not a language we speak.
She blinks a couple of times, but gives me no other response.
"Sorry." I take a step back and busy myself by shutting down the faucet. Water had been running the whole time, and neither of us had done anything about it.
"No, I'm sorry," she says, "but my heart is still trying to recover."
"Why are you apologizing? I came in with no warning."
"It's your home. I'm pretty sure you can do whatever you want. I'm the intruder."
I shake my head. "It was nice coming in and having you here."
"You're being way too sweet."
"I'm sweet." I grin, letting my dimples do my work for me.
"Sweeter than I knew. I have not earned this generosity. "
"You don't have to earn anything. Don't tell me that's why you cooked? What did you cook, by the way?"
A small smile appears at the corner of her lips. "Who says it's for you?"
Not that I'm staring too closely.
"You're not going to share?" I ask. "Wow. If I were the kind to keep a score, you would have lost several points at once."
"Oh yeah? How many points?"
"Ten."
She grins. "How many points can I lose before I get the Bake and Bye treatment?"
"You can't get the Bake and Bye treatment. First, we would have to fu—"
Her eyes open wide.
"Date," I correct at the very last second.
Damn. That isn't much better, because that's not something I can ask of her.
I can't ever just fuck her. It's not in the cards.
Not when she is a serial monogamist and I'm the serial dater.
Not when being with her could open doors I closed a long time ago.
I would start thinking about a future, an us .
But I'm just a good-times player. Failing at love means I hurt people, and I can't do that to Ames.
Ruining my relationship with her would be the biggest mistake of my life.
I would lose her and her brother, too, most likely. So I can't date her, either.
What am I doing, playing with those thoughts in my mind? Using them as a joke?
"Fu-date?" She says it like one word. A fuck-date fucking portmanteau. "Is that what you call what you do? Fu-dating ."
She laughs, treating it as simple banter. I breathe in her words, but they're a cloud of cement. They turn into concrete right there in my lungs. Heavy and gray and damp.
"I don't call it anything but simple, casual fun," I say.
"I think I'll call it fu-dating that ends in baking pies. "
She grins but I don't get to reply. The beep of one of the timers breaks the conversation.
Without hesitation, Ames takes out a tray of what looks like buns with a creamy filling and glazed blueberries on top. She sets them up on a cooling tray, only to turn back to the oven and take out a large dish. Chicken and potatoes, carrots, parsnip, all bathed in herbs.
I lick my bottom lip. "Please tell me you were joking before and I will get to taste all of this."
"Of course!" She bastes the chicken. Oil and a dark liquid— balsamic vinegar, maybe— drip down the bird's skin. "I was too stressed watching the game. I thought we could both benefit from my stress-cooking."
"You watched the game?"
Those butterflies I feel? Not welcome. Especially since I fumbled the ball not once, but twice. Shameful mistakes that won't help me convince the GM to let me stay. Nothing but a ring and top-tier, MVP-level playing will keep me here.
I take off my hoodie and throw it across the island to land on top of my bag. Embarrassment heats up my insides, and I hide it by washing the couple of dishes still in the sink.
"I'm sorry about the loss." She puts the chicken back in the oven. "I have no idea how you guys do it. You were so close, too. Those last three minutes… ugh. I had to distract myself by making an emergency grocery list."
The sound prompts me to steal a glance at her. She shudders.
"Wait." I put the large metal bowls on the rack to dry, and use the kitchen towel on my hands. "Is that why you never went to watch Pablo's games in college? You get too nervous?"
Back then, Ames' attendance at a game was extremely rare. Pablo never complained, and I never asked. I assumed it was disinterest.
Ames shrugs. "I can't stand it. I hate seeing people lose."
"Meanwhile, I love winning. "
"I can't fix the disappointment of today's game, but I can feed you roasted balsamic chicken and veggies, and finish it up with blueberry Vatrushka buns. I was going to make pasta frola but I couldn’t find quince."
"It sounds incredible. Quite a treat."
"The least I can do. I know it's very late, and I don't know how early you need to be at training tomorrow—"
"I'd love to have dinner with you."
Half an hour goes by. We sit at my dinner table, the twinkle of the city out the window, and the warm yellow light above us. We talk about being an athlete and being a chef, and the things we want out of it all.
"It's so clear you love cooking," I say. "And that you're amazing at it. Wow. This is incredible, Ames."
"Thank you." There's no false modesty on her face. "But you have been eating my food for a long time. Hadn't you noticed?"
I chuckle. "Of course I had noticed, but this meal is particularly good."
"Because I made it to lift your spirits?"
I nod. "And because it got you back into cooking. You hadn't been doing it much."
I stuff my mouth with a bite of chicken and parsnip. It melts in my mouth, a mix of acid and sweet and herbs that could make me moan.
"Which is silly, isn't it?" She says, oblivious to the sound I bite back. "It makes me happy to cook. I love doing something like this for you. So why did I stop?"
"We both know why."
"Okay, fine." She wrinkles her nose like she doesn't want to admit it. "The important part is I'm coming back now. You won't mind if I perfect a couple recipes here in your kitchen, will you?"
I raise an eyebrow and smile. "As long as you share."
The light above us shines on her hair. The lamps behind me in the living room glint in her eyes. It wouldn't take much to imagine we're dining in the candlelight, if I let myself fantasize about it .
She grins. "All right. It's only fair. I do have a generous spirit."
"Excellent. Extra special, because I'm getting my smiles now, too, Amy. Just look at that."
Uff. Someone could read a lot into those words, or the wistful tone with which they come. Like how much I want her happiness. With a little imagination, they would predict her smile still pulls at me like day one.
She doesn't.
She laughs. "Careful asking for smiles, Gael. We already had that conversation."
"I'm just pleased you're doing better." I purse my lips. "Right? You are?"
"Slowly getting there. I'm still confused and whatever I feel in the morning might totally change by the evening. It's better, though. I think."
She casts her eyes to her plate and gets busy making precise cuts on her chicken.
I suck on my bottom lip. "Come to the TD. Remind my friends you're incredible and are accepting clients. It will help."
She doesn't look up at me but nods.
Later, as I lay down alone in my bed, I can't help but think that having Ames around is tempting me with things I taught myself not to want. Knots are getting untied, and it scares me to think of what happens next.