Chapter 10
Mac
Mac had made a terrible mistake.
Not asking Rachel to dinner at his apartment; that part was fine. Great, even. Rachel had said yes immediately, suggesting they could have a quiet evening without the whole town watching them through café windows.
No, the mistake was telling Rachel he could cook.
"So," Rachel said from her perch on his kitchen counter, "how's the pasta coming along?"
Mac stared at the pot of water that absolutely, definitely, should have been boiling by now. "Great. Fantastic. Any minute now."
"Mac, I've been here for twenty minutes and you've looked at that pot exactly forty-seven times."
"Watched pots don't boil. That's science."
"That's superstition." But Rachel was smiling, that real smile she'd been giving him more and more lately. The one that made his chest feel too small for his lungs.
They'd been dating for two weeks. Two weeks of texts that made practice impossible to concentrate on. Two weeks of stolen kisses in library stacks and between bookstore shelves. Two weeks of Mac falling harder and faster than he'd ever fallen for anyone.
And now he was going to ruin it all with uncooked pasta.
"You know," Rachel said, hopping down from the counter, "there's no shame in ordering pizza."
"Pizza is admitting defeat."
"Pizza is delicious and reliable." Rachel moved closer, peering into the pot. "Mac, is this thing even on?"
Mac looked at the stove dial. Which was definitely, absolutely, pointing to the "OFF" position.
"...It was on. I turned it on. I specifically remember turning it on."
"Did you turn it all the way? Or just to the little click?"
Mac tested the dial. It clicked about three times before actually engaging.
Rachel burst out laughing.
"Don't laugh at me," Mac said, but he was grinning despite his embarrassment. "This is a crisis situation."
"You're a professional athlete. You've played in front of thousands of people. And you're defeated by pasta?"
"Those thousands of people weren't someone I'm trying to impress."
Rachel's laughter softened. "Mac, you don't have to impress me. I'm already impressed."
"By my inability to turn on a stove?"
"By your willingness to try." She reached past him, adjusting the dial properly. The burner clicked to life, flame spreading in a neat blue ring. "There. Crisis averted."
"You're my hero."
"I know." Rachel leaned against the counter beside him, her shoulder brushing his. Puck, Mac's gray tabby, had materialized on the opposite counter, watching them with cold feline judgment. "So this is Puck."
"That's Puck. He's an asshole."
"Mac!"
"He is! Watch this." Mac reached toward Puck, who immediately batted his hand away with one white-socked paw. "See? Asshole."
"He's perfect." Rachel moved toward Puck slowly, extending one hand. Puck sniffed it suspiciously. "Hi, Puck. I'm Rachel. I have a cat named Mr. Darcy who's just as judgmental as you."
Puck, traitor that he was, bumped his head against Rachel's hand.
"Are you kidding me?" Mac stared. "He never does that. He barely tolerates me and I feed him."
"Cats know good people." Rachel scratched behind Puck's ears, and the cat, who Mac had never, ever heard purr, started purring. Loudly.
"I've had him for three years. Three years! And he's never purred for me."
"Maybe you're not scratching the right spot."
"I've tried every spot. Trust me."
Rachel laughed, continuing to pet Puck, who had rolled onto his back in complete submission.
The water finally started boiling. Mac added the pasta with what he hoped looked like confidence, then turned his attention to the sauce he'd prepared earlier. Or rather, the jarred sauce he'd bought and planned to pretend was homemade until Rachel inevitably figured it out.
"So," Rachel said, leaning against the counter, watching him work, "what made you decide to learn hockey?"
"I was five years old. My uncle took me skating and I was terrible at it, kept falling on my ass, and he said 'Want to learn to play?' and I said yes." Mac stirred the sauce, trying not to burn it. "Never looked back. What about you? When did you fall in love with books?"
"Always loved them, I think. But seriously? When I was seven. My father left when I was young, and my mom didn't really know what to do with a sad kid, so she just... bought me books. Lots of them. I disappeared into stories for a year." Rachel's voice softened. "Books saved me, I guess."
Mac's heart clenched. "Rachel, I'm so sorry. I didn't know."
"It's okay. It was a long time ago. And honestly? Books are still saving me. Every time life gets too complicated, I just open a book and disappear for a while."
Mac wanted to ask if Brad had been one of those "too complicated" times she'd needed to escape from. But something told him not to push. Not tonight.
"My mom passed away in child birth, having me," Mac said quietly.
Rachel's hand found his, squeezing gently. "I'm sorry."
"Yeah. Me too." Mac squeezed back. "We don't have to talk about sad stuff. This is supposed to be a fun evening."
"Talking about real things is fun. Well, not fun, but meaningful. I like meaningful."
"Meaningful. I can do meaningful." Mac checked the pasta, which seemed to be cooking properly, thank God. "So, meaningful question: what's your cats deal? Mr. Darcy. Why'd you name him after the most famous romantic hero in literature?"
"Because he's grumpy and standoffish and secretly has a soft heart." Rachel smiled. "Also because I was reading Pride and Prejudice when I adopted him, and he gave me the exact same look Mr. Darcy gives Elizabeth at the beginning of the book. Pure disdain."
"I haven't gotten to that part yet. Or I missed it…"
"You're still reading it?" Rachel's face lit up. "Really?"
"Currently on Chapter Twelve. Mr. Darcy just visited Elizabeth while she was staying with the Bingleys, and I have no idea what he's thinking. Is he into her or not? Mixed signals, Darcy."
"That's the whole point! You're supposed to be as confused as Elizabeth!"
"Well, it's working. I'm very confused." Mac tested the pasta. It was finally done. He drained it, proud he'd made it this far without disaster.
Then he turned back to the sauce.
Which was smoking.
"Mac—"
"I see it!"
He grabbed the pan, burned his hand on the handle, swore, dropped the pan, and watched in horror as tomato sauce splattered across his stove, the counter, and somehow the ceiling.
There was a long moment of silence.
"So," Rachel said carefully. "Pizza?"
Mac looked at the destruction he'd wrought on his kitchen. Sauce everywhere. Pasta plain and sad in the colander. His hand throbbing.
He started laughing.
He couldn't help it. The whole thing was so absurd. He'd wanted to impress Rachel with a home-cooked meal, and instead he'd created a crime scene that would require industrial cleaning supplies.
Rachel started laughing too, helpless giggles that made her bend over, clutching her stomach.
"I tried," Mac managed between laughs. "I really tried."
"You destroyed your kitchen in ten minutes. That's almost impressive."
"Almost?"
"Okay, fully impressive. I didn't know it was possible to get sauce on the ceiling."
Mac looked up at the red splatter. "Neither did I, honestly."
Rachel pulled out her phone. "Tony's Pizza? They deliver."
"Tony's is perfect."
While Rachel ordered pizza, Mac attempted to clean up the worst of the damage. Puck had retreated to the bedroom, apparently done with the chaos.
Rachel finished the order and joined Mac in the kitchen, grabbing paper towels. "Pizza will be here in thirty minutes. Let's make this kitchen slightly less like a murder scene before it arrives."
They cleaned together, Rachel laughing every time she found a new spot where sauce had somehow landed. Mac's shoulder. The cabinet handles. Inside the sink, which shouldn't have been physically possible.
"You have a gift," Rachel said, wiping sauce off a cabinet. "A terrible, destructive gift."
"I'm never cooking again."
"That's probably for the best."
When the kitchen was mostly clean, they'd agreed the ceiling could wait, they collapsed onto Mac's couch. Puck immediately claimed Rachel's lap.
"So," Rachel said, stroking Puck’s fur, "this is your apartment."
"This is it. Sorry it's not fancy. Hockey in Vermont doesn't exactly pay NHL salaries."
"It's nice. It's very... you." Rachel looked around at the hockey photos on the walls, the mismatched furniture, the stack of library books on the coffee table. "Wait, are those all checked out in your name?"
"Maybe."
"Mac, you have seventeen books here."
"I like reading remember?"
"You have three copies of Pride and Prejudice."
"I kept forgetting which one I was reading and checking out new ones."
Rachel burst out laughing again. "You're ridiculous."
"I know."
"It's one of my favorite things about you."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah." Rachel looked at him, her brown eyes soft. "You're genuine, Mac. You don't pretend to be something you're not. You burned dinner and you're not acting like it's not a big deal or making excuses. You're just... you."
"Is that good?"
"It's really good." She shifted slightly, Mr. Darcy grumbling at the movement. "Brad used to pretend he was perfect. Like he never messed up, never made mistakes. It was exhausting trying to keep up."
There it was. Brad again. Mac wanted to know everything and nothing about this guy who'd hurt Rachel so badly she moved to a new town to escape him.
"I make mistakes constantly," Mac said honestly. "Ask my team. They'll give you a comprehensive list."
"I like that about you too." Rachel's hand found his, fingers interlacing.
The doorbell rang. Pizza.
They ate on the couch, paper plates balanced on their knees.
Mac told Rachel stories about the team, about Luke's kids who treated every game like the Stanley Cup Finals, about Tyler's statistical analysis of optimal chicken wing consumption, about Jamie's elaborate pranks that usually backfired spectacularly.