3. One of Those Kitchen People
3
ONE OF THOSE KITCHEN PEOPLE
Beck
You can learn to teach a dog to high-five from a YouTube tutorial. You can figure out how to tie a bow tie with a video. Hell, you can even learn how to throw a football in a few simple steps courtesy of an amateur coach on Instagram.
But fuck if there’s anything useful on the Internet about how to act when your crush invites you to his home, where you’ll be surrounded by his and your teammates.
It’s a quandary. But I’m not going to the barbecue to hit on Jason. I’m going because I desperately need a favor, and Jason McKay’s the only one I can ask.
After I change into shorts and a T-shirt at the team hotel, I stop by the nearest Whole Foods on my way to Pacific Heights. I text my friend Rachel as I cruise the aisles. What do you bring to a last-minute barbecue?
She replies quickly. You can never go wrong with potato salad. Also, who the hell invited you to anything ?
I roll my eyes and type, Shocking, I know .
Um, you didn’t answer me.
I reply, Don’t read anything into it, Rachel. Just another football player.
Then I go to the deli counter and ask for a pound of some gourmet salad with purple potatoes and fancy pickles. No idea if Jason likes potato salad.
Why would you know, dipshit?
Maybe I should bring beer. That’s what you can never go wrong with—beer. It’s too late to kibosh the salad, but when the woman at the deli counter hands me the tub, I say thanks then head to the beer aisle.
I can bring both beer and salad, right? That’s not too much, is it? I suppose I could ask the Internet, but the World Wide Web has already proven useless today.
Quickly, I track down a local wheat ale that sounds delish, and I grab a six-pack.
There.
I zip through the self-checkout, then order a Lyft, inputting Jason’s address. Once I’m in the car, I peer at my reflection on my phone. Run a hand through my hair. Check my teeth. Consider my scruff.
Then I roll my eyes. It’s a barbecue, not a date.
When the Lyft turns down Jackson Street, I gawk at the sweet homes. Swank townhouses line the block, their three-and-four-story facades signaling “you need money to live here.” Must be nice to go in the first round of the draft and land a fat signing bonus.
The car arrives, and I thank the driver and climb out, then draw a deep breath as I face the townhouse. I can hunt wide-open receivers under pressure, but walking up the steps to this guy’s home makes me more nervous than anything on the field.
I do my best to slough off the nerves.
Jason doesn’t know I think he’s hot. That I’ve admired him from afar. That I sometimes wonder what makes him tick. He’s not going to find out either. Those are the benefits of having an excellent poker face and a propensity for saying little.
I bound up the steps and rap on the door, then peer through the bay window and into his living room as I wait. A big U-shaped couch fills the space, and there’s a huge screen on the wall. No one’s walking around inside, but I wait patiently.
It’s been a minute, and no one has answered.
I hit the doorbell. A loud chime rings, and moments later, footsteps echo from inside. The door swings open.
Jason fills the doorway, all good guy charm and welcoming blue eyes. With that grin and that dimple, you could put the All-American guy on a cereal box, and Cardboard Crunchies would sell out of groceries stores across the country. His gaze lands on the potato salad and beer in my hands. “Good choices. I’ll allow entry,” he says drily.
His humor relaxes me the slightest bit. “Good thing I didn’t come empty-handed,” I say.
I step inside, and he closes the door. “I would have let you in even if you had. No one else brought anything. The fuckers.”
Great. I listened to my friend and showed up with potato salad like it’s a freaking Tupperware party in 1967 Suburbia.
“Oh, really?” I hope it sounds casual, but I’m groaning inside.
Jason claps my back. “It’s all good, Cafferty. I should have told you earlier that I’d handle everything. But this is good beer. So you get a gold star.”
“Thanks,” I say, but I feel awkward. As I sometimes do.
I follow him as he heads into a state-of-the-art kitchen. He takes the salad and puts it in the fridge. As I set the beer on the kitchen island, I try not to gawk, but this kitchen is a palace. It’s all stainless steel and pristine appliances. The Sub-Zero fridge is a thing of beauty. The meals I could make here...
I pull myself back before I get lost in a cooking daydream. “Your fridge is to die for,” I blurt, then I want to kick myself.
Who the hell says that? You have a nice fridge ? Why don’t I just tell him he has a lovely-sounding doorbell too?
As he shuts the door, he shoots me a smile. “Are you one of those kitchen people ?”
Jason makes it sound like a secret club that believes aliens explored our prehistoric planet. When Kitchen People Walked The Earth. His exaggerated horror eases my “nice-fridge” embarrassment.
“Kitchen person in the house,” I declare, patting my chest, trying to muster some coolness, some chill. “I’m a card-carrying one.”
“Sweet. My brother is a kitchen person. I have zero skills in that arena, but I love good food,” he says.
I wave a hand around the room. “Why do you have all this kitchen bling then?”
He shrugs affably. I suspect he does everything affably. “Came with the place. What can you do?” The question is rhetorical, but he’s dropped his voice to a conspiratorial whisper, and his tone is just shy of sexy.
Which makes it all kinds of dangerous.
Jason points to the six-pack. “You want one of those wheat ales?”
“Sure,” I say, mostly because I need something to do with my hands.
With the smoothness I’d expect from an athlete, he snags a bottle opener from a drawer and pops off the tops of two beers. He hands me one, then tips his toward mine. “To destroying you tomorrow,” Jason says as we clink bottles.
This I can handle—football and the trash talk that comes with it.
I give him my best dirty glare. Channeling my in-the-huddle glower makes me feel like I can manage anything, including this mix of lust and admiration. The gridiron is the one spot where I feel completely comfortable, where I don’t overthink or worry. “To you eating your words,” I toss back.
“Damn, those are fighting words, Cafferty,” he says with an appreciative smirk. “But I bet they’ll taste as delicious as this beer when you have to congratulate me on my win.”
“I’m feeling a friendly wager coming on,” I say, and I fight like hell to rein in a smile. This is so much more enjoyable than the press scrum earlier.
“You like to gamble?” Jason asks, taking a drink of his beer.
“Well, not on my own games. Or any football games, for that matter.”
Jason chuckles. “Obviously.”
“But anything else...” I trail off then give an easygoing shrug for my answer. “I do.”
“Good to know.” It’s kind of a throwaway comment, but I want to pounce on it, ask what he means, why he said it.
Except, that’s not why I’m here.
Lively music and laughter drift in from the yard, along with the mouth-watering smell of grilled chicken. A get-together unfolds beyond this room, but Jason hardly seems like he’s missing it. For a few delirious seconds, I let my mind wander to the idea of just him and me, here on a date.
Then I stop that bullshit.
As tempting as hanging here in the kitchen with him is, I may not have a better opportunity to ask my question.
But a blur of black and white leaps onto the counter, skidding across the black island, then stopping short at a butcher block cutting board.
Holy shit.
The tuxedo kitten is here.
I point. “That’s Bandit!”
In case he doesn’t know.
“Yeah, he’s pretty cool. He adopted me earlier. Evidently, he can also jump onto the stool and then onto the counter. But he isn’t supposed to be in the kitchen.” Jason scoops up the kitten. “Dude, who let you out?” he reprimands the critter, but he doesn’t sound the least bit mad.
More like... smitten as he scratches the animal’s chin.
“You took him home?” I ask, still a little shocked that he opened his home to a pet just like that. Jason moves fast.
“How could I resist him?” The question is almost a statement. And I suppose it fits his roll-with-it personality. Jason’s the guy who adopts a kitten on a whim, hosts a team barbecue and invites the rival players, and owns a fridge fit for a chef even though he doesn’t cook. I could see him teaching himself to cook someday just because he feels like it.
Also, he charms cats, judging by how Bandit rubs his head against Jason’s chest. “You’re supposed to be in the guest room,” Jason chides him.
“I know,” a pretty voice calls out from the hall. A brunette pokes her head into the kitchen. “I’m sorry, Jaybird! I was looking for the little girls’ room, and I opened the wrong door.”
“No biggie, Lucy. I’ll take Bandit upstairs,” he says.
“The off-limits area,” she says playfully.
“You know me so well,” he says.
“Yes, yes. No one goes upstairs at your parties,” she says.
“Rules are rules,” he replies.
As Lucy leaves, Jason turns to me, blue eyes twinkling. “Think you could teach Bandit to sit quietly in his room while guests are over?”
I smile. “That might be out of my realm of expertise,” I say, though I wish I could. It might be easier to ask for a favor if we could make a fair trade.
But, for now, I’ve missed the opportunity to ask. Instead, I say, “I’ll go outside.”
“Grab some grub. Orlando makes the best barbecue,” he says. “Since—as I may have mentioned—I don’t cook.”
Kitten in his arms, he heads down the hall, turns up the staircase, and disappears.
I go outside, joining some of the guys I already know. Travis is here. He’s one of our receivers and a favorite target of mine. Our kicker’s here too. So is Nate, the top receiver for the Hawks and one of a handful of openly gay players in the NFL. Lucy, the woman who let Bandit escape, turns out to be Orlando’s girlfriend. A bunch of Renegades—the city’s other NFL team—are here as well, and I say hi to Cooper, the quarterback, and Harlan, the just-retired wide receiver. The crew welcomes me, introducing me to people I don’t know as we chat and down beers and soda.
For the next few hours, we eat and talk, diving into barbecued chicken and gourmet burgers, chowing down on kale salad, potato salad, and corn on the cob.
The afternoon is laid-back, with Jason floating among the guests, making sure everyone has a drink, a bite to eat, some dessert.
Eventually, the sun sinks in the sky, and the guests filter out. Harlan claps me on the shoulder. “Do your best to kick ass tomorrow, rookie. The Hawks are our biggest rivals, and I’d love nothing more than to see them lose every single game.” He winks at Jason as he says it. Because the message is really for him, Renegade to Hawk.
“I’ll try my hardest,” I say with a small smile.
Jason flips Harlan the bird. “I get it, Harlan. It’s tough being second best to the Hawks.”
With a roll of his eyes, Harlan takes off.
Nearly everyone is gone. I hang back, gearing up to make my request. I can’t keep being Mr. Awkward with the press now that the starting job is mine to lose.
Nate and I are the last to leave. After he says goodbye, it’s just me standing in the doorway with Jason.
Now or never. “Can I ask you a question?”
Jason’s expression goes serious, his gregariousness vanishing. “Sure.” He sounds like he has his guard up.
I want to reassure him that my favor is nothing too personal. For him, at least. I’m the one who needs help. “You might have noticed I suck with the media. Any chance you could give me some pointers?”
His face clears, and he’s back to playing the gregarious host. With a smile, he gestures to the living room. “Let’s do it, Cafferty.”
When Jason shuts the door, the two of us are alone in his home. Something I’ve imagined more than a few times.
But I can’t go there now. I’ll get flustered, and I desperately need his help with the media. Not with my crush.