Page 12 of Slap Shot

“Of sports. Athletes. Teams. You could line up half the Stars players in here with eight other men you found on the street, and I wouldn’t be able to tell you all apart.”

“There are a lot of six-two, two-hundred-pound men wandering around,” I say, and her mouth quirks. “Probably even more over six three.”

“I went to my first hockey event last year. I think they showed you a lot on the Jumbotron.”

“Yourfirstgame?” My brain starts running through how this woman fits in with Piper and Liam and what she’s?—

“Wine?” Piper interrupts, holding a bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon.

“I’ll take a glass. Last one until next summer, and I might as well go out with some fancy shit you two bought.” I turn and open the cabinet behind me so I can grab a few glasses. “Madeline? Do you want some?”

“Sure.” She clicks off the stove and sets a potholder on the counter. “Perfect timing, because dinner is ready.”

The four of us move around each other, doling out food and handing over silverware. Liam asks if I’ve looked at the preseason lineup Coach is putting together for our first game. Piper and Madeline talk about someone named Lucy, and I wonder if it’s a friend of theirs.

When we settle at the square table to eat, my stomach growls. The rice and beans I threw together at lunch barely held me over during weight training, and I’m bordering on ravenous. I scoop a forkful of curry into my mouth, and it takes everything in me to hold back a moan.

“Holy shit.” I swallow the bite, and I swear there are tears in my eyes. This must be what heaven is like: savory chicken. The touch of heat, and the best damn thing I’ve ever eaten. “You can actually cook. And not just cook. You can cookwell.”

Madeline dabs her mouth with a napkin. “You sound surprised.”

“Given the people I’ve met recently tried to pass off Chef Boyardee as homemade ravioli, I’m cautious when it comes to food.” I shovel down another bite and sigh. There’s no need to be cautious aboutthis. It’s perfection. “You said you live in Vegas? How do you and Piper know each other?”

“We met when you all played in Vegas last year—at the event I mentioned,” she clarifies. “She handed out some gear and gave me her business card.” She lifts her glass and takes a sip of wine. “When I was let go from my previous job, I reached out to Piper to see if she knew of any employment opportunities. She mentioned a player—you, I guess—needing a chef, and here we are.”

“The previous job where you were an executive chef? Did the people who let you go not have any tastebuds?” I ask, and she covers up her laugh with another sip of wine.

“It was a management change. We were bought by a company determined to make every restaurant in Vegas a carbon copy of each other with small plates and high prices.”

“So, you need a new job.”

“I do. I’ve looked everywhere in Vegas, and I’ve come up short.” Madeline tucks a piece of hair behind her ear and fixes her sweater. I’m still trying to figure out what her tattoo might be. “I didn’t think I’d ever consider jobs on the other side of the country, but here we are.”

“I’m sorry for meddling, but this could be a good opportunity for both of you,” Piper interjects, and I forgot she was here. “I figured you all could meet, and if you got along, you could talk about an interview or next steps.”

“Interview. Yes. That.” I nod and dig into the rice on my plate. I’m sure I look like a savage, but I don’t care. “How long are you in town? Are you free next week to get together?”

“Really? You want to interview me? You barely know me,” Madeline says. “I could’ve poisoned the food.”

I snort. I like her sarcasm. “Don’t care. This will be a good way to go.”

“You’re the pro athlete with the busy schedule. What day works best for you?”

“Monday? At noon?”

“Sounds great,” she says with another smile. “I’m looking forward to it.”

We pass the rest of the meal with easy conversation and more wine. I’m used to doing things with my teammates in settings where it’s loud and chaotic, and I like how quiet this is. How I can jump in and out of conversations while we eat.

When we’re finished with our food, I’m the first to stand. I gather the empty plates and stack them on top of each other. I add the silverware and shove my chair out of the way.

“I can do that,” Madeline says, grabbing a knife and a fork.

“Nope,” I say. “You cooked. I’ll clean.”

“I made the mess.”

I take the fork from her grasp and head for the kitchen with footsteps trailing behind me. “My mom always told me the person who cooks is the person who gets a pass on cleaning up. I didn’t lift a finger tonight, so this is my job. I got it.”

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