Chapter 45 Breakfast at the Cherokee （Nate）
brEAKFAST AT THE CHEROKEE (NATE)
We were up for hours. Eating, talking, fucking, until sleep finally dragged us under.
Morning comes soft and gold. I wake first. She’s sprawled on her stomach, hair fanned across the pillows, one arm thrown over my side of the bed.
For a second, I just look. Then I ease out, pull on boxers, and take in the battlefield: my suit in a heap, her jeans and underwear scattered across the floor.
In the kitchen, I start the coffee, rinse yesterday’s pans, and load the dishwasher.
Sunlight streams through the tall windows, spilling across the hardwood, lighting up the quiet courtyard below—ivy climbing brick, a couple of pigeons strutting along the fire escape.
From the fourth floor, the world looks calm.
By the time Eden pads in, hair mussed, drowning in my shirt, I’ve got coffee poured, grapes scrubbed clean, and eggs on the stove. She leans in the doorway, arms folded, smile soft and sharp all at once. It hits me right in the chest.
“You look…settled,” she says.
I flip toast onto a plate. “I adjust well.” I nudge the bowl of grapes toward her. “Still team green?”
Before she can answer, the front door bangs open. Liz tumbles in, scrubs under her parka, hair sticking in every direction. She stops short when she sees me in the kitchen, eyebrows up.
“Well, well. The famous Nate Russo. About time I caught you here.” Her gaze sweeps me head to toe, then flicks to Eden. “You didn’t exaggerate one bit.” She smirks, turning back to me. “And I see you are a cook?”
She drops her bag with a thud. I hand her a steaming mug. She takes a sip, blinks. “How do you know how I take it?”
“I’m a goalie. Observation’s the job. Oat milk in the fridge, no sugar anywhere in the cabinets—it wasn’t a stretch.”
Her grin spreads. “I like you. Eden, can we keep him?”
I slide a plate across the counter. “Don’t worry, Liz. I plan on staying.”
Eden groans, right as her phone erupts on the counter. Then mine. Buzz. Buzz. Buzz. A flood, and it’s barely seven.
She checks hers, winces, and answers on speaker. “Jess?”
Jessica’s voice fills the kitchen, scratchy with sleep but buzzing with glee. “You and Nate are trending. Front-row jersey cam. Warm-ups glove-to-glass. Tunnel hug. And the shot where you’re wrapped around him? It’s everywhere.”
Eden covers her face. “You’re kidding.”
“I’ve already had two reporters ping me. And the fan accounts? They’ve turned your tunnel hug into a highlight reel.”
“You’re on speaker, by the way,” Eden mutters.
Jess just cackles. “Figured. Russo, your hashtags are multiplying by the second. And for once, it’s good press. People are calling it the league’s fairytale—goalie finally drops the mask, lets the girl in. Media loves you two.”
Eden groans. “Let them have their fun. It’ll blow over.”
“Sure,” Jess says, “but until it does, you should ride it. This is the kind of story fans eat up.”
I arch a brow at the phone. “See, this is why I don’t try to understand social media. It’s just chaos with better lighting.”
Liz, perched on a stool with coffee, chimes in, “Chaos that benefits you two? We’ll take it.”
There’s a beat before Jess bursts out laughing. “Is that Liz? Oh, of course she’s there. Morning-after debrief?”
“Front row seat,” Liz says smugly. “And he cooked breakfast.”
“It was scrambled eggs,” I mutter.
Liz waves her fork at me. “Scrambled eggs and steamed sweet potatoes. At seven a.m. Who does that?”
“Professional athletes.” Jessica snickers. “Pretty sure it’s in their contract.”
“All right, ladies, I’m out,” I say, standing to stack the dishes.
Liz leans into the phone. “And he’s cleaning. Did you hear that, Jess? He cooks and cleans.”
My phone buzzes again: Finn with fifteen ring emojis. Adam with Doc said no favorites but I’m special and a GIF that I hope the girls don’t catch. Then my mother: Finally. Bring her to Sunday dinner. The Carvers will be there too. No excuses, Nathaniel.
Eden’s screen lights again: from Mom: Leo sent photos. You look happy. Call me when you have a minute. Also, what is a ‘thirst trap?’ Aunt Paula asked.
Eden snorts. “Aunt Paula needs an internet filter.”
Liz points a finger at us. “Call your mothers. It’s the decent thing to do.”
We eat. We text our moms. My phone lights up with ten heart emojis from Ma. Eden groans, cheeks pink, while Liz steals a second helping of sweet potatoes and declares herself chair of the Russo Retention Committee—meetings to be held in this kitchen.
After breakfast, Eden ties her hair up and disappears into the bathroom. When she comes back, she’s Eden-in-the-world again: leggings, soft tee, zip hoodie, the little compass I gave her at her heart. My queen of careful hands.
“How’s your schedule today?” I ask.
“Two follow-ups, one eval. Lots of paperwork.” She kisses me lightly. “You?”
“Film in the afternoon, skate later. I’ll walk you.”
Liz salutes us with the coffee mug. “Bring her back in one piece, goalie.”
We cut through the stairwell, and the building exhales around us—old banister, the scuff of shoes, the smell of someone’s toast down on two.
Out on the landing, the courtyard is bright.
A kid in a Defenders jersey bounces a ball against the wall.
He freezes when he sees me, eyes huge, then waves so hard his arm might come off.
“Hey, bud,” I say.
“Did you win last night?” he blurts. “My mom wouldn’t let me stay up past nine.”
“We did,” I tell him, and he explodes into a hop that rattles the windows. A woman leans out of the kitchen door and mouths “thank you,” and Eden squeezes my hand.
“That felt good,” she says when the door swings shut behind us and we hit the street.
“Get used to it,” I murmur. “You’re public now.”
She lifts her chin. “I chose it.”
We walk the short blocks to her clinic, city air crisp, morning sun caging gold across the sidewalks. She unlocks the door; the bell gives a small ring. The place smells of eucalyptus and clean linen. She drops her bag behind the desk and turns to me. “You need ten minutes on the table? Hips?”
“You offering?”
“I am.”
I toe off my shoes and stretch out. She warms her hands and settles them on me, fingers sinking into tissue, reading, adjusting.
There’s nothing performative in it—no audience, no lights, just her knowing exactly where I’m tight and what to do about it.
She works through my adductor, clears my hip flexor, resets the angle on my ankle with a practiced glide. I breathe. The room holds.
“Better?” she asks.
“Always,” I say, because the truth is simple.
She helps me sit up. I catch her around the waist, press my forehead to hers. “Proud of you,” I tell her. “For last night. For this place. For choosing us.”
Her eyes shine. “Proud of you for letting me.”
I kiss her there in the front room, no one watching, no one needing to. It’s not a claim, not a show. It’s a quiet yes. Ours.
Her first client arrives in ten minutes. I set a fresh bottle of water on the front desk and step back.
“I’ll restock your pantry tomorrow,” I say. “Consider this fair warning.”
She smirks. “What’s on the list?”
“Coffee. Oat milk for the menace. Everything else we’ll figure out.”
“Go,” she says, giving me a gentle push. “I’ll see you tonight.”
I point to my chest, then to her. She nods, eyes steady, then brushes her fingers down my jaw in a secret private stroke that could carry me through even a two-a-day in camp.
Out on the sidewalk, the city opens up. I tuck my hands in my pockets and start toward York, already planning dinner, already counting the hours.
My phone buzzes again—Leo: Beer run. Thursday.
Also, I’m sending a crib to your place just to watch you panic.
I grin and type back: Send fresh artichokes, then slip the phone away.
I glance back toward her clinic, a quick flash of a wave before she disappears into her day.
And just like that, it feels real. Solid. A life we can build.