10. Laur
Chapter ten
Laur
R ambunctious shouts and profanities drift upstairs from the kitchen while the girls and I finalize our interview schedule.
Hilarious is an understatement hearing these hockey players in their twenties threatening to throw elbows over counter space and cooking utensils.
I expected Lucas, being the wholesome captain that he is, to attempt to keep the peace for as long as possible.
But the moment I hear “Blake, fucking move now” louder than any remark the guys have made so far, I know he’s playing to win.
Bren sneaks downstairs a few times to spy on the boys and capture more videos to send to Liam, which we’ll also secretly use for content on the hockey team’s social media pages later. Each time, she’s met with loud frustrated shouts reprimanding her to go back upstairs.
Keith is equally invested in his job as timekeeper, giving the teams updates that are so loud they drift up stairs so we can hear when one hour, thirty minutes, and ten minutes are left. I picture him pacing around the kitchen like a drill sergeant but with a spoon in hand.
“FIVE MINUTES LEFT, GENTLEMAN!” Keith’s voice carries up the staircase along with the sound of Blake cussing up a storm. That doesn’t sound promising.
“Done!” Libby exclaims as she hits send on the last email to our interview candidates.
Nerves knot my stomach knowing that Bren moves on to her “big girl job” next week and I will be left to lead first round interviews in a very tight timespan.
Interviewing any player from the hockey team live sounds less nerve racking .
“ONE MINUTE LEFT!” Keith bellows before he trudges loudly up the stairs, knocking politely on the door.
“Come in,” Libby responds.
“Hi, ladies,” Keith starts, a slight blush on his face. “Want to come down to the patio in fifteen minutes or so?”
“I thought they only had one minute left—” Bren raises her eyebrows, giggles erupting from her “—which is probably already up.”
“Trust me, some of them need the extra time.” Keith laughs. “Make sure you check that any chicken is cooked all the way before you take a bite . . .” Keith turns to leave, muttering. “The last thing we need is anyone getting food poisoning at the end of the trip.”
Wonderful. Who doesn’t love salmonella?
The house is eerily quiet as we walk down the stairs. The kitchen looks like a tornado came and wreaked havoc. Pots, pans and kitchen utensils caked with who knows what cover every inch of the kitchen counter. The counter isn’t even visible. It’s disgusting.
“Out here!” Lucas voice calls through the screen door to the patio.
“I’m not cleaning any of this up,” Bren mumbles, earning a sleepy nod of agreement from Syd, who’s been napping the last hour.
“They couldn’t even pay me to help,” Syd declares.
My eyes widen, stunned and in awe as I walk out the patio.
My mouth waters, and it has nothing to do with the food.
All of the guys—even Keith and Brooks—stand in a row in front of the table shirtless, wearing nothing but aprons and swim trunks.
The aprons are an array of patterns, ranging from “Kiss the Chef” to floral patterns to something that looks to be Disney related .
“I take it back. If they do some type of Magic Mike dance, I’ll help clean the kitchen,” Syd whispers, causing me to let out an obnoxious laugh, complete with a snort.
“I didn’t know that this dinner came with a show,” Bren teases, pulling out her phone. She is always ready to capture the content. The fans are going to eat this up.
“We always aim to entertain,” Ryder responds with a wink to Bren. The new kid is coming on strong. He fits right in. “Have a seat, ladies. Keith will lead you through the tasting.”
“I like a man who takes charge,” Libby murmurs.
“Yeah, Lib, does Blaine take charge?” Syd retorts. Libby gives her a menacing glare that is so ice cold even a quick chill runs through me from witnessing it.
Keith hands us all three different note cards to score each dish based on presentation, taste, creativity, and use of the secret ingredient, dried apricots.
“Sadly, you can’t include the actual presentation of the chef in your scores,” Tyler says as he waves a hand down his body. “The chefs must remain secret.”
With a very evident eye roll, Keith instructs us which dish to taste first. It appears to be chicken and mashed potatoes. Bren cuts into the chicken and I gape at the pink slimy center she reveals.
“I am not eating that,” Bren protests. “This entrée gets a zero. It’s not edible.”
“I told you we needed to cook it longer!” Blake hisses to Harlan.
“We can try the potatoes!” I chime in, trying to find the positive in the grotesque situation.
Squeezing my eyes shut, I reluctantly take the smallest bite possible of the mashed potatoes.
Not bad. They are garlicky and smooth. I take another bite, reassuring the girls before they take a taste as well.
“Mmm, tasty!” Bren declares, jotting down some notes on her scorecard as the girls whisper their feedback to each other .
“Next dish!” Keith places another chicken dish in front of us with broccoli. This one appears to be thoroughly cooked with a crisp outside bordering more on burnt than browned. As I cut into the chicken, it’s a little rubbery, but I would take overcooked chicken over food poisoning any day.
The sweetness delights my tastebuds as I take a bite of broccoli. “Does this broccoli have apricots mixed in?” I ask.
“Yes! It’s good, right?” Ryder proclaims. Tyler elbows him, signaling for him to be quiet. We clearly know who the first two dishes belong to, which means Lucas and Blaine have the last one.
“Last dish!” Keith announces when Brooks sets a beautifully plated dish in front of us. There are slices of pork topped with some type of sauce and broccolini. My absolute favorite.
“Wow, that looks like it’s from a restaurant,” Bren mumbles.
If my tastebuds were delighted by the tangy, sweetness of the broccoli from Tyler and Ryder, then my tastebuds must be in heaven right now. A small moan almost slips from my lips as I take another bite.
“Holy hell,” Bren says, putting her hand on her mouth.
“Yep. This wins! No competition,” Syd declares.
“What is it? I need it daily. Tell me now,” Libby demands, licking her fork clean of the impeccable sauce.
“Pork tenderloin with a peach, apricot glaze,” Blaine responds, his eyes locked on Libby as she goes for another bite.
“And broccolini,” Lucas chimes in.
“Broccolini is my favorite!” I state, my eyes locking with Lucas, who mouths, “I know” and gives me a wink.
“Of course they win,” Tyler complains, the towel that was over his shoulder minutes ago now on the ground.
“Tyler, don’t be a sore loser,” Bren teases him.
“Your chicken was overcooked, Tyler,” I explain, not understanding why Tyler is being so bitter. “But the broccoli was great.”
“It’s cool. We tried!” Ryder shrugs. “Now, I’m starving. ”
“I ordered a fuck ton of tacos from a place down the street, they should be here in five minutes,” Blaine announces.
“Wow, that was nice of you!” Libby says.
“You can thank my mom. Her credit card paid for it.”
“Must be nice to have Mommy get you whatever you want,” Tyler mumbles. My mouth thins into a line as I glare at him so sharply it might burn a hole through him. Tyler instantly looks away, avoiding my frustration. What has gotten into him today?
“Thanks, Blaine.” Lucas pats him on the back before making his way over to me.
“Where did you learn to cook like that, mysterious boyfriend of mine?” I ask Lucas.
“It was all Blaine,” he responds, “minus the broccolini, of course.”
“Of course,” I laugh. “Blaine, you really outdid yourself.”
He shrugs. “I spent a lot of time cooking with my grandma growing up.”
“Really? That’s surprising,” Libby flirtatiously mocks him, bumping her shoulder against him.
Blaine flips his hat so it’s facing backward. “Not really . . . I pretty much lived with her every summer. She’s southern and loves to cook.”
Before Libby or I can respond, Blaine says, “Hey, Ryder, come help me get the tacos.”
Blaine Mitchell not only is a phenomenal cook, but he learned how to cook because of his sweet, southern grandma? Surprising doesn’t even begin to cover that new information.