Chapter 4 Harlan
FOUR
HARLAN
FEbrUARY
No wonder people say goalies are weird.
I just had her fingers in my mouth.
That woman saved my life, and I put her fingers in my mouth. Because they were burned and I felt like I was uniquely qualified to manage her pain.
By sucking on her fingers. And blowing on them. Because, you know. Cool water on burns or whatever.
Now, I was hot on her heels following her back to a steaming kitchen. “I tried one of the crisped red beans and rice balls. A little overseasoned.”
Her eyes shot daggers at me and a muscle in her jaw twitched. “Thank you for your feedback, Mr. Royce,” she said robotically.
She stopped at the handwashing sink and started checking in with the other four people working the kitchen.
While she wasn’t in motion for once, I had a good chance to look her over.
A chef’s coat with the sleeves rolled, a colorful scarf tied like a headband with her short blonde hair pulled into a mini-ponytail.
She’d even stuck to the night’s theme with her scarf, decorated in purple and green with little gold fleur-de-lis sprinkled all over it.
“How are we coming on the mushroom caps, Chef?” she called out.
“Do you need help back here?” I asked.
She held up her hand to silence me while she dried her hands and tossed the paper towel. She stepped to a bubbling pot and stirred it.
“Two minutes, Chef,” a voice called back.
She leaned back and her eyes scanned the long, stainless prep surface.
I’d never worked in a kitchen myself, but I loved to cook.
I’d done a few things in this kitchen, until Chef caught me and banished me to no more than four tiles into the kitchen.
But I had skills. Most of my free time was spent watching food competition shows, trying new techniques, and browsing recipes.
“Do we not have any other meatballs in the works?” she bellowed, not angrily but at a volume I found hard to believe.
She was such a tiny woman, but watching her command this bustling room stirred something up in me.
“No, Chef.”
She closed her eyes for a second and took a shallow breath. “Okay, fire meatballs, on the fly. A full order.”
“Heard, fire meatballs, flying.”
Though I wanted to giggle about images of flying meatballs, I knew better. It was just kitchen lingo that meant “right fucking now.”
“Thank you, Chef,” she said, grabbing a spoon from the clean side of the commercial dishwasher and dipping it into the pot.
She took a taste of what looked like a soup and wrinkled her brow.
She picked up a small bowl, took a pinch of salt, and sprinkled it over the pot.
She turned her attention to me. “The rules?”
I gestured to the room. “Fuck your rules, princess. You clearly need help. This is how I could pay you back.”
She raised her eyebrows. “With all due respect, you can’t provide the kind of help we need.”
“Which is?”
She returned to her cruising velocity of light speed and arrived at her destination in a storage galley.
She went up on tiptoe and stretched for one of those long catering pans, then grunted and clutched her mid-back. “Shit. Can you?” She flicked her head toward the shelf with a pained expression.
“Yes, yeah, yes, of course.” I leaned over her, pinning her to the counter with my hips for a second. She let out a surprised sound, somewhere between a squeak and a moan. “Is your back bothering you?”
“No,” she said with enough force that I knew to drop it. I probably had seconds before she physically kicked me out.
She laid the pan on a cooktop and stopped to open the oven door below it. She cussed under her breath, picked up a long ladle, and stirred a pot. She leaned to grab a spoon from the clean silverware rack.
I peered into the pot. “Is this soup?”
“Looks that way,” she said.
I copied her, getting a spoon from the dishwasher’s clean side and dipping it into the pot. I blew on it for a second, then tasted the soup. Flavors exploded in my mouth and the textures were perfect: a thick, smoky stew with Creole seasoning.
“Wait, you actually made my gumbo?”
“Your gumbo?” she questioned.
“Where is this out there? This is incredible! I want to eat this the rest of the night.”
Her lips quirked up and her reluctant glance met my eyes. I saw it: a touch of pride. “It’s not out there.”
I spotted a set of plastic to-go bowls for sauces and soups and snatched one off the top. I ladled soup into half the bowl and blew on it, keeping hold of my spoon.
“I use the extra food from here to make something to take to the shelter on Main.”
“Oh, shit,” I said, fighting the instinct to dump my portion back into the pot. Even as an amateur chef, I knew that was a hygiene no-no.
She snorted a laugh and I was pleased by her softening. “It’s okay. Enjoy it. This one’s on the house.”
I opened my mouth to thank her, but was interrupted by a shout.
“A lot of the trays are empty out there, Chef.”
“Heard, Chef.” Emma visibly shrank, which was not something I saw often. She was frustrated, and she wouldn’t even let me try to fix it. She and her staff were floundering while trying to keep the food flowing. I wanted to find some way to calm her down. She fanned her face and gritted her teeth.
“Are you going to let me help you, or are you going to keep being a stubborn little brat?”
“How you can help me is to get the hell out of my kitchen!” she barked, but her eyes lit up when they landed on something behind me. “Wait. Actually.”
She slipped her arms under a tray of king cake slices. “Leave and take these out with you.”
“You made the king cake! Not just the cheesecake!”
Her cheeks went a little pink. “It was because Owen suggested it.”
I grinned wide and winked. “Sure, princess.”
Her eye twitched when she looked at me. “Are you here to help or not? Why are you still here? Take this thing and get out!”
I stifled my smile when she laid it into my waiting arms, my hand still clutching the soup container underneath it. I wasn’t about to say shit about it, nor was I about to throw the gumbo out. It was too good.
“It goes on the dessert table,” she sighed, finally softening. “Thank you.”
I couldn’t stop smiling walking back out to the arena floor.
I dropped the tray on the dessert table, setting my soup down for a moment to arrange it more attractively.
A group of fans stood to the side, tittering as I concentrated on my task.
Perfect chance for me to ham it up, give them what they came for.
“Good luck getting the baby,” I said of the king cake. “That thing is mine.”
This delighted the fans. That was the whole point of this event, mingling with the season ticket holders to thank them for the support.
And it was a fundraiser for something or another.
I lost track over time. Puppies? Kids? It was always something, but rarely something that seemed substantial.
Our captain, Colton Jones, was always pushing for fundraisers that had more gravity: domestic violence support, sexual assault advocacy, LGBTQIA+ rights, immigration outreach.
Not that puppies and kids aren’t important, but they’re more palatable causes.
I stared down into my soup bowl, stirring it idly as I walked to find some of my teammates.
I felt like an asshole for taking from people in need, even if it was on accident.
That was really nice of Chef to do that for people.
I wondered if there was a way I could help her make that happen.
I’d been wanting to do something impactful since the accident last month.
Had she just started making soup for the shelter after our near-death experience?
No, she was probably already a good person.
I was the one who could do to make something of my life.
“Where’d you get the soup?” Yevgeny “Dottie” Dotsenko waltzed my way with his wife on his arm. Both were dressed to the nines, a glittering gold gown draped over her thin frame and Dottie in a coordinating deep purple suit.
I turned my nose up. “I’ve got a friend in the kitchen.”
“You had the balls to go bother Emma?” he asked, barely holding back a laugh.
Aside from taking soup that wasn’t for me, I didn’t get embarrassed by much. As a goalie, I lived a life of shaking it off. Goal got past me? Shake it off. Did something stupid? Shake it off. Weird Chef out by putting her fingers in my mouth? Help her out in the kitchen. Even stevens.
I shrugged. “She needed help.” I turned to his wife. “Lana, good to see you as always.”
Lana gave me a half-hearted smile and went to respond, but was drowned out by someone on a microphone. Feedback crackled through the space to a collective flinch from the crowd. I turned my attention back to my soup, scooping out another spoonful.
“. . . we’re proud to say we’ll use tonight’s funds for lifesaving research,” the voice droned on the microphone.
Lifesaving. Chef saved my life. I scanned the perimeter of the room until I found her.
She was stirring a pan of mixed vegetables, quietly tapping the spoon on the edge of it before stepping back.
Her eyes flashed to mine for a second before she turned her focus to the stage.
Did she know what impact she had on my life?
My attention was called back to the stage at a familiar name. “We’d like to welcome Dr. Violet Gennari to discuss what our fundraising efforts will do for the university’s research.”
Violet was Colt’s girl, and they were disgustingly in love with each other. Seeing him now, standing with a hand on the stage and his moon-eyed gaze locked on her, a pang shot through me. What was it like, to be loved that purely, for exactly who you are? To be supported and seen like that?
Violet’s olive skin had paled. Despite her smile, she looked like she might pass out at any moment. She was petrified. She needed a boost.
And I was just the one to give it.
“WOO! Dr. Gennari!”
Her cheeks went a deep crimson until other voices joined in.
“There’s our favorite doctor!” Sorrento belted out somewhere across the room.
“That’s our brainiac!” Mara, Leroy’s wife, shouted so loud that Leroy cowered next to her.
A feminine whoop sounded. “Go, Dr. Violet!”
My head snapped toward that voice.
It was Chef. Of course she was friends with my teammates’ partners. Because I bet if you were nice to her, she was nice back. I’d just never done myself the service of finding out.
And our little banter thing pushed all my right buttons.
Despite everyone’s encouragement, Violet’s knees were almost knocking. Colton’s support for her hadn’t wavered, not only showing up for her, but being front and center.
“I guess everyone’s really excited to hear about our research efforts,” she said breathlessly into the microphone.
Cheers came from around the room, the fans joining us in pumping Violet up. She launched into her discussion and it was over my head within seconds. Colt first dated Violet in college, and they went to an Ivy League. Her intelligence shouldn’t have been a surprise.
Violet was doing world-changing cancer research. Chef was making soup for people who needed it. What was I doing with my life? How could I leave the world a better place?
My life needed to change, and I’d start by registering for that cooking class I’d been eyeballing for months.
I sidled over to grab a piece of king cake off the dessert table while Violet carried on. I bit into it and hit something plastic.
I got the baby.