Page 157 of Unloved

We spend the rest of Thanksgiving break wrapped in each other. It goes by too fast.

But at the end of it all, I find myself giddy to start back despite the anxiety of what comes next—because Matt Fredderic is my boyfriend, and he has my back.

It’s like an extra burst of confidence, one I rely on heavily as I wake early Sunday morning and set up in the empty kitchen downstairs at the Hockey House to type out my email.

I started the draft the night that Matt told me about his relationship with Dr. Carmen Tinley. Hatred fueled the majority of it, so it was unprofessional and rude. Rereading it now, I don’t disagree with a word I typed. But it won’t work to CC the dean on an email like that.

The front door slams noisily and I blanch, worrying my lip as I wait to see who’s home first.

Bennett Reiner saunters in, stopping in the doorway of the kitchen, staring at me for a moment.

“Hi,” I squeak, tucking my hair back. “I just needed to do some work in the quiet—but I don’t want to get in your way.”

He shakes his head. “You’re fine, Ro.” The words are kind, but completely flat, his furrowed brow never letting up as he turns his baseball cap backward with a heavy sigh and starts grabbing ingredients from the shelves and fridge methodically.

Large shoulders heave with a deep breath, head ducking between them before he tosses a towel over his shoulder and turns back to me.

“Are you hungry?”

“Me?” Every thought scatters—direct eye contact with Bennett is heavy. “I, um, yeah. But you don’t have to—”

“Cooking helps me think,” he admits, turning toward the stove. “It makes me calm, too.”

The admission is gentle, soft, despite the gruffness of the words that sound like they’ve cut him as he says them.

“Sewing does that for me. Making stuff—like, I don’t want to be a fashion designer or seamstress or anything. I just like it.”

Bennett nods and grants me what I think is his version of a smile over his shoulder. “Yeah, same. I don’t want to be a chef. I just like to cook for people.”

The rest of the morning passes in silence—besides the various sounds of Bennett cooking and theclick-clackof my keyboard as I write and rewrite my email. Eventually, Matt stumbles down the stairs and plants a kiss on my cheek, sitting next to me at the bar top. Bennett sets a plate of malted vanilla waffles with fresh fruit, a traditional French omelet with a garnish, and a plate of fresh maple-glazed bacon—which I think hemadethat way—in front of me, and my mouth drops open.

“I don’t like that.” Matt frowns, his finger pushing my chin back up to close my mouth.

“What?”

“You looking at my goalie like he’s performed some kind of miracle,” he says dramatically.

“Learn to cook, then,” Bennett says quietly, a hint of a smile on his face as he hands Matt a plate with a stuffed omelet, veggies and chicken overflowing.

“Orrr,” Matt says slowly, eyeing me with a mischievous smirk. “I can take you back upstairs and—”

“It’s like a family reunion in here,” another deep voice chimes in, perfectly on cue. “And smells like Bennett’s home.”

Sadie is on Rhys’s back like a very reluctant, very angry koala bear. Her ankle is wrapped tightly still, but I know it’s a sprain and she’s good to walk. She might even be nearly cleared to skate.

My roommate waves at me before beating her fist against the hockey captain’s chest. He bats her arm away like a buzzing fly.

“Sadie,” Matt says with a salute. “You look… taller.”

“Ha-ha,” she deadpans. “I’m rolling over here.”

“Rolling! That’s a great idea—we should get you a wheelchair to run around Waterfell in. I’ll even volunteer to push you around.”

“I can walk,” she grumbles. “Put me down, hotshot.”

Rhys turns his head to catch her lips with a little smirk before ordering his left winger out of the chair, dropping Sadie in next to me.

“Ridiculous,” she grumbles, snatching a piece of fruit from my untouched plate. “Do you see this?”

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