Chapter 3 Emma
THREE
EMMA
FEbrUARY
I had a sixth sense, and it wasn’t seeing dead people or being able to predict the future.
Well, it sort of was.
It was knowing when Harlan Royce was about to bother me for something. Some kind of hum in the air or barometric pressure change signified his impending presence.
“Chef,” he said, sauntering in with his hands in his shorts pockets and a stretchy headband holding his floppy locks back from his face.
His skin was a little more tan than before the All-Star break, probably fresh off some tropical getaway.
I shoved down the thought that the little kiss of sun suited him.
Did I objectify the players? No. I saw them with their shirts off too often to really be bothered anymore.
Plus, my son played hockey. I had a special affection for hockey players, but it wasn’t romantic affection.
I had a running theory that 80% of hockey players were sugarplum goofballs with an aggressive streak, and 20% were genuinely terrifying.
The 80% were what made my job fun and had turned this into the best gig I’d ever had.
One of the young guys, Owen, had even sent a card around before the holidays so the guys could pitch in for a bonus for me and Miguel.
It was really sweet, and very much needed since I had an emergency roof repair that made me have to dip into Liam’s college fund. Owen was a confirmed part of the 80%.
Harlan Royce fell into the 80%, but he had his own graph for being annoying. Those measurements were off the charts.
“Rules, Royce.” I hit him with a sharp glance.
He put his hands up. “I’m not past my floor tile,” he said, the toe of his shoe indicating the boundary I’d put in place.
A thin strip of kitchen tape that had been eaten up by time and mopping read, “NO ROYCE LINE.” He wasn’t allowed to come more than four floor tiles into the kitchen, and he couldn’t block doorways.
That might sound like an overly strict rule, but he had tried to step in as chef too many times.
I was happy to make things according to the players’ likes and dislikes, but Royce always took it a step too far.
He treated my prep line like a buffet, taking ingredients like they were his to take.
One time, I returned from the dining room to find him at the cooktop, using a weight from the weight room as a panini press.
In short, he’d lost his privileges as someone who was allowed in my space.
“What brings you into my kitchen today?”
He crossed his arms and leaned a hip against the stainless steel counter. “I just wanted to see what’s up.”
I stopped chopping tomatoes for the ever-present and always necessary guacamole and narrowed my eyes at him.
He had on training clothes: a Rusties T-shirt with the sleeves cut off and a pair of soft athletic shorts that showed off his foolishly muscled and flexible lower half.
Not that I was looking, of course. I’d learned to be suspicious of his questions, though.
They usually led to critiques. “Not much?”
“Yeah?” He cocked his head to the side. “How have you been? You know. Since the accident.”
Terrible, actually. The scrape on my back had mostly healed, but there was still residual pain.
I wondered if maybe I’d damaged my vertebra, but never went to get it checked out.
But he didn’t need to know that. “Fine.” I examined him, trying to figure out where this was going.
My words were slow and careful. “How are you?”
He bobbed his head and stuck his lip out. “Can’t complain. Happy to be alive, thanks to you.”
Why was he sucking up so much? I returned to my chopping. “Don’t mention it.”
“Hey, so I was wondering if you know of any good cooking classes?”
I lolled my head toward him. “Why, because I need them?”
He laughed. “No. God, am I that bad to you?”
“Do you want me to answer that?” I asked.
“Heard, Chef.” He tucked his tongue into his cheek like I’d punched him there. I felt bad for being rude. He was trying. “No, I, uh, want to improve my skills. I’ve been looking at those classes from Culinaire, but I don’t know if they’re any good.”
Fuck. That’s where I taught. Culinaire was my one last space that was hockey-free.
I loved the sport. Loved what it did for my son and the way I’d watched the Rusties grow and change over the last few years.
But between work and Liam’s games, I was running out of things that were just mine. Cooking school was mine.
So while Royce seemed to be trying to be nicer to me, I wasn’t ready to risk him of all people invading my hockey-free world. “I’ve never heard of it,” I lied. “I’ll ask around.”
“Thanks,” he said. “Hey, what are we having for the gala on Thursday?”
Here we go.
“Do I need to run the menu past you for approval?”
He snorted. “Easy, princess. I just want to get excited about what we’re having.”
I nodded slowly and resumed my chopping. “It’s Mardi Gras themed, as you know, so those kinds of staples. I’m working on some king cake cheesecake bars. Shrimp cocktail. Crisped red beans and rice balls.”
Royce’s eyebrows lifted. “No gumbo?”
“Hard to serve soup to people in cocktail attire.”
“It’s a Louisiana staple, though,” he whined. “It’d be so simple, you’d just put it in little ramekins—”
“No,” I said.
“Or little shooters—”
“Royce,” I sighed.
“You can’t call it Mardi Gras without gumbo!” I looked up to find him holding back a laugh. I stomped my foot and growled. “Dammit, this is another one of your stupid games! Out!”
He jumped just past the doorway and stuck his head in. “I’m not in!”
I tossed a wad of plastic wrap his way, but it hit captain Colton Jones square in the face as he walked in.
“Trash is over there, Chef,” Colton said, throwing the ball away. He clapped his hands and rubbed them together. “Did I hear something about cheesecake bar samples?”
“Yes, you did.” I pulled out the pan from the refrigerator under the counter. “Come here.”
“Hell yeah, free samples?” Dylan Sorrento walked in with Owen on his tail.
“Yeah. Let me know what you guys think. It’s for the gala.”
I pulled down three to-go bowls and sliced a cheesecake bar into three parts, dropping a piece in each. Cap tossed his back like a shot, Sorrento delicately pried the piece out with his fingers, and Owen found a spoon to scoop out his sample.
A fourth hand reached into the pan, one of bear paw-sized proportions. Royce had snuck in behind his teammates and tried to steal a whole bar. I swatted his hand. “Not for you!”
Royce staggered backward like I’d shot him, a hand over his heart. “But Chef!”
I ignored him, covered the pan again, and slid it back into the fridge. “Well, fellas, what’s the verdict?”
“Twelve out of ten,” Sorrento said.
“Eleven stars,” Cap added.
Owen didn’t say anything, pensively chewing. “It’s good, but what about real king cake? I love how sweet and bready it is. And you can hide the baby in it.”
“Baby. What baby?” Cap asked.
“You know, they put a little plastic baby in the cake. If you get the baby in your slice, it’s good luck for the year,” Sorrento said.
“I thought it meant you had to buy the cake next year,” Owen said.
“I’ve seen both.” I tipped my head. “I’ll think on it.”
There was a shout that sounded like their coach, and the four of them scurried off. I swept the chopped tomatoes onto the top of the guacamole and turned to walk the cutting board to the sink.
When I turned back around, a figure was hunched by the counter. A flash of purple, green, and yellow disappeared into a mustachioed mouth.
“Royce!” The steel lid clattered back onto the tray as he slid it back into the fridge. I rushed his way. “OUT!”
He turned with a smudge of cheesecake on his upper lip and mustache. “I love the way you say my name,” he said before shoving the rest of the bar in his mouth.
I made it over to him just in time to extend my leg and shove my foot into his butt as he ran away. Christ, was that thing made of Teflon? I almost hurt myself on how hard my foot bounced back.
Just when I thought he was gone, he poked his head back in one last time. “But Owen’s right. Real king cake is better.”
Miguel huddled in the corner of the kitchen, having a hushed phone conversation with his wife.
Normally, I was included in those conversations, performed loudly on speakerphone.
She’d even address me, knowing I was listening.
But today was different. His mother-in-law was in the hospital, and I was going to be in a pickle because of it.
I really needed Miguel for that night’s gala, but I’d never ask him to be away from Veronica when she was in need. And I knew for a fact he adored his mother-in-law.
I’d have the backup catering staff, but who knew how much kitchen experience any of them had? Hell awaited me.
I needed to put on a brave face so Miguel didn’t feel guilty about leaving me to fend for myself.
I ground my teeth, a pain that radiated into my back. My back that hadn’t been the same since I saved the team’s goalie from imminent death.
So tonight, I’d be working in an extremely short-staffed kitchen trying to cater an event for the team and all the season ticket holders who wanted to schmooze with said team.
Miguel ended his call and sauntered back over to where he’d been expertly slicing fruit for a platter that would tower well over both of us. “I can stay until 7,” he offered, and I could see how much it pained him to say it.
I flattened my lips. “No. You need to be there. Don’t worry about me. Go be with them.”
“I mean, she’s going to be okay,” he tried.
I leveled him with a look. “When have you ever asked for time off?”
“Never on a gala night,” he said. “Because I know better.”
“Veronica needs you. Even if Mamita’s going to be okay, your wife is stressed out. Go be a good husband.”
Miguel groaned. “I’d almost rather be here,” he said with a little chuckle.
“Lies,” I said, popping his arm as I walked past him. “I’ll call in some favors. I can get some folks up here to help me out. It’ll be a fun challenge.”
“Just promise you won’t curse my name while I’m gone.”
“I could never.”
“Corner,” I bellowed as I rounded the corner from the kitchen to the hallway.
The potholders in my hands were starting to thin, something I’d been meaning to reorder for weeks.
The heat pushed through the scraps of fabric, searing my fingers.
My hands were pretty well toughened from years in kitchens, but every now and then my invincibility was put to the test.
I set my sights on the pan of hot water that was my destination. Maybe twenty more seconds of suffering. I fixed on a smile as I got into the crowd, flicking my eyes up to make sure I didn’t run into any of the gargantuan athletes I was serving.
“‘Scuse me, coming through, hot pan.”
This is why, under normal circumstances, I was back of house. You don’t have to put on a pleasant face for back of house. You can cuss and sweat and scowl all you need to. Front of house? Tap dancing while doing grueling work with a smile? No thank you.
I shot a wink at Mara Leroy, one of the player’s wives who had become a friend.
She’s a wild one, but you’d never know it looking at her.
We met when she cold-called me in the employee directory and asked if I could alter her husband’s meal plan for a few days.
Not because she was a tyrant trying to control his weight.
No, it was to help with some BDSM punishment she was giving him.
Jack Leroy had never done me any harm. I liked to think we had a “game recognize game” understanding that neither of us was interested in pleasantries.
But Mara promised Jack’s punishment was consensual and that he “lived to please,” so I took her word for it and made it happen.
From there, she started inviting me to hang out with her and a few other team partners now and then. I often had to decline because of Liam’s hockey schedule, but they were nice people and I was honored they tried to include me.
Okay, now my fingers were really screaming under the sharp, hot edges of the pan. “Fuck,” I said, much louder than I’d like to have. “Come on, come on.”
A mischievous smirk under a dark mustache turned more serious upon seeing my panic. Not now. The pan was slipping, and all these chicken meatballs were about to be floor meatballs in a matter of seconds.
Until.
A large hand slipped under that edge of the tray, surrounded by a fistful of bar napkins. “Got you.”
With a wince, I let him help me nestle the pan down into the chafing dish.
As I pulled my hand away, a throb of pain surged into my fingers.
A ragged breath escaped my lips and I clamped my jaw so I wouldn’t scream.
I couldn’t stop myself from blowing on my fingertips, an instinct that probably provides no real relief.
But suddenly, that hand was lifting up, up, until it was surrounded by wet warmth.
My gaze, much like my hand, lifted up, up, until it crashed into Harlan Royce.
My fingers were in Harlan Royce’s mouth, his tongue tracing over the raised burned spots.
Then, he extracted them and blew on my fingertips.
Harlan Royce, star goalie of the Ohio Rusties, was blowing on my boo-boo. His lips formed this pretty round “O,” which was surprisingly distracting. I had read stuff in Violet’s book club choice about guys blowing on a girl’s—
Terrible mental track. I couldn’t think about Royce like that.
And yet, my body betrayed me. A gush of wetness hit my core, and thank god for the sturdy material of a chef’s coat, because my nipples hardened through my floppy excuse for a bralette.
But rather than getting embarrassed, he examined my fingers for damage and delivered another stream of cool air.
“What are you doing?” I blurted out.
He looked at me like I was the weird one, his tone annoyed. “Making you feel better?”
I wrinkled my brow while he glanced down at my injured fingertips again. “Why?”
A light smirk curved under his dark mustache, and those stormy blue eyes gleamed. “Evening the score. You save me from a bus, I suck your fingers.”
What the hell do you say to that? I focused on the bigger task at hand. “I have to get back to the kitchen.”