Chapter 11 Dinner and a Chat
Dinner and a chat
Lenzin
Despite the delays, we get home to an empty house.
That, at least, is normal. They’ve only been here a week, and we’ve already been gone most of it. No patterns yet. No expectations. Just overlap where it happens.
The Puck Pad is quiet in the way it usually is mid-afternoon. No toys underfoot, no cartoon noise bleeding through walls. Hank drops his bag by the door and checks the fridge on reflex.
“Bookstore shift,” he says.
“Makes sense.”
He then holds out his phone, and I see a picture of Lucy in what seems to be a lengthy text thread with Hildy. “She said she gets out at 5:30. Probably home thirty minutes to an hour later.”
I don’t respond, because if I do, I know it will come out cunty, and not just the normal aloof asshole they are used to. Hell, I’m not used to it either, but right now, I am pissed that Hank and Hildy are clearly growing close.
“You good?” He asks, sounding a slight bit amused.
“Always,” I lie as I grab a box of pasta from the pantry.
Chicken, pasta, vegetables, something simple. I chop.
“I’m heading out later,” Hank says eventually. “Staying with Bernie for a few days.”
I nod. “Figured.”
“I wanted to wait till Lucy got back.”
“Of course you did.”
He grins, unapologetic.
I cook in silence as he goes to pack a bag.
“Hello!” Lucy shouts the instant she’s over the threshold. She’s still in her winter coat, the sleeves too long, face half covered because she’s all zipped up. She’s dragging a rolling backpack, which she promptly abandons in the middle of the living room.
Hank is on her level before I can even turn around. He crouches, arms wide, and she barrels into him like a missile, all momentum and warmth. He lifts her up, spinning her once, and she giggles, shrill and contagious.
“Hank,” she says, as if the word itself is a reward. “You’re here!”
“You are too,” he replies. “I thought you would forget about us.”
She shakes her head, red curls bouncing. “Never.”
Behind her, Hildy lingers in the doorway, taking a measured scan of the room.
She looks tired, but not done—more the air of a marathon runner at mile twenty, calculating exactly how much effort is required to push through the last stretch.
She clocks me and Hank immediately, eyes tracking the movement in the kitchen, the half-prepped dinner, the mess we’ve already made.
She drops her own bag inside the door, as Hank sets Lucy down, and then crouches to unlace Lucy’s boots with practiced efficiency.
“You didn’t have to make dinner.”
“We wanted to,” says Hank, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. “You’re good. Go sit.”
We?
I raise an eyebrow at this, but Hildy just nods, brushing an errant strand of hair out of her face. “Thank you,” she says, and for a second there’s a softness to it, a crack in the shell she’s been wearing since arriving here. I don’t know how to respond, so I busy myself draining the pasta.
Lucy, meanwhile, is inventorying the shopping bags we left on the counter. Her eyes go wide when she sees the bright colors and unfamiliar shapes.
“You get more cheese?” she asks.
Hank grins, digging into the first bag. “No, but we will. This was from Florida. Look at this.” He pulls out the two stuffed animals, a dolphin and a lopsided turtle, and holds them up, one in each hand.
Lucy gasps and grabs both, cradling them to her chest. “They’re friends,” she decides instantly.
“I thought so,” says Hank as he hands them to her. “Now you’re their friend too.”
I dry my hands on a dish towel and reach for the other bag, the one containing the gift I picked out with more care than I’d like to admit. I pass it to Lucy, who hugs it instantly, as if she’d been waiting for it all her life.
“He’s cold,” she says, pressing the plush to her cheek.
“It’s an axolotl,” I tell her.
She considers this, then giggles. “That’s a silly name. He’s my favorite.”
Hank blinks, momentarily thrown. “What?”
Lucy lifts her chin and declares, “You’re one of my favorite people,” with the solemnity of a judge issuing a sentence.
He clutches his chest in mock anguish. “Crisis averted.”
I resist the urge to smile, but only just.
We eat together at the table, not the kitchen island. The meal is basic—chicken, pasta, jarred sauce with added vegetables, and cheese — on Lucy’s, who treats it like a feast.
Lucy tells us about her and Hildy’s job, with all the books she’s gonna read when she learns. Hank eats quickly. Hildy is quiet, polite, and present. Nothing tense. Nothing warm either. Just… here.
After, she stands and starts stacking plates. “I’ll do the dishes.”
“It’s fine,” Hank says. “We got it.”
“I want to,” she replies, already at the sink.
I don’t argue.
Hank checks his watch and shoulders his bag. “Okay. I’m out.”
Lucy hugs him hard. He promises to be back soon, ruffles her hair, and leaves.
The house seems to shrink.
Lucy looks at me, axolotl tucked under her arm. “Will you watch a cartoon with me before my bath?”
I glance toward the kitchen. Hildy’s back is to us, water running steadily.
“Sure,” I say.
The cartoon starts. Loud colors. Impossible physics. I never liked them as a child. I still don’t, but she does.
“That wouldn’t work,” I say mildly.
Lucy looks at me. “It’s a cartoon.”
“I know.”
She holds up the axolotl. “Stuffed animals are like cartoons.”
“They are?” I ask, curious as to her logic behind it.
“They’re not real,” she says patiently. “But you still like them.”
“I never said—”
She cuts me off. “You brought me one. Why would you bring me something you don’t like if we’re friends?”
I don’t answer right away, taken aback by how her brain works faster than half my teammates.
Behind us, dishes clink louder, and I can guarantee Hildy is thinking the same thing I am; this child is very perceptive, but she does not turn around.
“Well, ” I say finally, “I never thought of it like that."
Lucy nods, satisfied, and leans against me, eyes back on the screen. The axolotl is tucked under her chin, casted arm resting on it.
I let the cartoon run. No more commentary.
“All right, Lucy,” Hildy says from behind us, voice steady and light, “bath time, story time, and then—”
“Bedtime,” Lucy finishes for her, already sliding off the couch. She grins at me. “Night.”
“Sweet dreams, little lady,” I say, giving her a wink.
She doesn’t move.
I wait a beat, then another. There’s a look on her face that tells me I’ve missed something obvious. I run through possibilities quickly. Wrong tone. Missed cue. Unspoken rule.
I hold out my arms. “Bring it in.”
She steps forward immediately, small arms wrapping around my middle with surprising force.
“Thank you for Axel,” she says, muffled against my shirt.
“You’re very welcome,” I reply, careful not to make it a big thing.
She pulls back, nods once like the exchange is complete, and trots down the hall toward her room.
Hildy follows without looking at me.
I pick up the remote and switch the TV over, skipping past streaming menus and landing where I always do.
International news. English subtitles. Clean anchors. No opinion panels shouting over each other. This is how I decompress.
I flip through channels methodically. European markets first. A segment on currency fluctuations I half-watch, half-listen to. Then Middle East coverage, conflict updates scrolling calmly across the bottom of the screen. Nothing surprising. Nothing urgent.
I’m not looking for spectacle. I’m looking for a pattern.
I pause on a report about infrastructure talks somewhere I’ve played exhibition games before.
The anchor’s cadence is familiar. Reassuring.
Facts presented without drama. I let it run while I stretch my legs out in front of me, rolling my shoulders to ease the tightness still sitting there from the game.
This is normal. This is grounding.
My eyes drift toward the hallway, and I quickly refocus on the screen.
Another channel. Asia-Pacific. Trade negotiations. A weather map that looks nothing like Florida. Good.
I check headlines the way some people check scores. Not because I need to, but because it keeps me oriented. It reminds me there is a world operating on systems larger than whatever’s happening in this house. To stay current, I have a weekly call with my father and grandmother.
I’m tuned in, but still, I notice when the water in the bathroom turns off. When Lucy’s voice rises briefly, then settles. When Hildy’s tone shifts into a story-reading cadence, softer and more rhythmic.
I don’t turn the volume up.
A breaking news banner scrolls across the bottom of the screen. I read it twice, then a third time, making sure I’ve actually absorbed it. I have. It’s fine.
I switch channels again, not because I need to, but because movement feels safer than stillness.
I tell myself I’m just catching up. I tell myself I’m not listening for footsteps. Both things can be true.
I wake to the sound of a cupboard shutting, followed by the steady trickle of water running in the bathroom. The television hums softly in the background, the clock on the wall reading eight thirty. I sit up with a groan, stretching my limbs to shake off the remnants of sleep.
“Goodnigh—”
“I doubt we’ll find another quiet moment like this to discuss,” her gasp interrupts me, causing me to pause before adding, “The book.”
“Trust me, von Hohenwald, you might want to give me a few days to sort through everything I’m feeling about your little game.”
“I assure you, I am not a game player.”
“You literally play a game for a living,” she retorts, gesturing toward the kitchen island. “And instead of being upfront, you left a clue like some kind of puzzle, opting to disguise yourself and,” she raises her hands dramatically, “Catfish me.”
I cross my arms defensively. “I take offense at the sheer absurdity of that accusation.”
She sets the water bottle down on the island, mirroring my stance with her arms crossed. It’s unsettling how attractive I find her defiance. “You wear glasses?”
“I do not.”
“So that was indeed a disguise.”
“I—”
“You introduce yourself to friends as von—”
“I do not, because in that world, I am simply myself. In the one where I met you, I was fulfilling my duty as—” I pause.
“Oh, please continue, or don’t. I’ll save you the trouble. I looked you up.”
“That is within your rights.”
“Do you tell your other one-night stands your full name or—”
“I never would have guessed that a woman of your intelligence and education would be so upset over a consensual night with a man who gave her multiple… multiples to act wronged.” Her jaw drops, and I press on.
“Clearly, I was mistaken to think leaving an invitation would open the door to a conversation you were avoiding because you felt I was trying to be deceptive.”
“I wasn’t avoiding anything; I’m here doing what’s best for Lucy. How dare you imply otherwise? Had you been honest, I would have never taken you up on that invitation.”
“There’s no way you didn’t see me and recognize who I was. I suspected you were the Rothaarige at Thanksgiving and assumed you’d been warned away from me due to the friendship dynamic.”
“Were what?”
I ignore that and explain further. “I told Kilovac I thought you were someone I knew. He informed me that you were off-limits because you were Fairfax adjacent. I assumed you’d had a similar conversation with Sofie.”
Her expression shifts from confusion to anger, flickering briefly before solidifying. “So, this is a game to all of you?”
“Of course it’s not a game, don’t be ridiculous. You’re too smart to let emotions override logic and common sense.”
She presses her hand to her stomach and makes a face, as if I make her sick, as she turns away from me and heads down the hall.
“They care about you and Lucy. They don’t know. In fact, I lied to my best friend, claiming I was mistaken to ensure this wouldn’t become an issue.”
“I am not doing this with you today,” she says, before shutting her bedroom door behind her.
You have got to be kidding me.