Page 20 of Slap Shot

“Your condo is nice,” I say, making small talk. “Have you lived here long?”

“About four years. We didn’t have a lot of money when I was growing up, and I’ve never been into materialistic things. I used the same skates even after my feet outgrew them because I felt guilty asking my parents to buy me a new pair. I’m still not into spending lots of money, but knowing DC is where I’m going to finish out my career, I decided to find a permanent spot. This place opened up, and I took it.”

When we get to the kitchen, I freeze. I gape at the top-of-the-line appliances, the marble island that’s probably nine feet long, and the massive refrigerator that could hold enough food to last three weeks.

I squeak when I find the stove, an eight-burner range that probably costs more than three of my rent payments back in Las Vegas, and fawn over the double microwaves.

“Oh my god. I’ve never seen a residential kitchen this nice,” I say.

“The previous owners did a good job with renovations. It’s a shame I can’t cook to save my life. It goes to waste, and I swear my oven side-eyes me when I eat a bowl of cereal for dinner,” he says.

I step into the room and run my fingers along the curve of the brass faucet. I touch the knob on the stove and open the oven, peering inside and finding it ridiculously clean. “Is that why you need a private chef? Because you can’t cook?”

“It’s a major part of it, but I also hate having to think about food after a game. My mind is shot. My body hurts. Some nights I don’t get home until eleven o’clock, and I need to refuel after burning so many calories. If it were up to me, I’d be at Taco Bell shoveling down five Crunchwrap Supremes. I do go that route sometimes, but I’m getting older. I’m not as quick as I used to be on the ice, and I could use nutrients, not fast-food stuff.”

“How old are you?” I ask. “Twenty-five? Twenty-six?”

“Wow.” He grins again. “I’m flattered. Guess the sunscreen I wear works. I’m thirty-one. My birthday was back in July. And you’re… hang on. You have a six-year-old. You’ve been cooking for a while. I’m going to say you look twenty-eight, but you’re really thirty-three.”

I glance at him. “How did you know?”

“I read an article about you in Food & Wine,” he admits, and knowing he researched me like I researched him makes me blush. “I wanted to make sure you were legit. You check out, Galloway.”

“What can I say? I know my way around a kitchen.” I open the fridge, and the lack of food inside is appalling. “Do you live alone?”

“I do. Some of the guys on the team have a family they need their chefs to cook for, but I’m all by myself.” Gus comes trottinginto the kitchen, and Hudson tosses him a toy. “I hope that will make things easier for you.”

“Cooking is cooking, no matter if it’s for one person or four.” I set my purse on the counter and take a seat on one of the barstools. I pull out the notebook I brought, flipping it open to a new page. “I’m going to be honest with you, Hudson, and reiterate what I mentioned at Piper’s the other night: I don’t have any private chef experience. I’m confident in my ability to create meals, though. I can handle stress and fast-paced environments, and I’m open to feedback and criticism. I’m also a quick learner, and I think I can make the transition from handling a dining room to handling a weekly menu for you very easily.”

“Why would I criticize your food?”

“I’d be working for you, and my job would be to make things you want to eat. If something isn’t up to your standard or you didn’t enjoy a particular meal, I hope you’ll let me know. You’re not going to hurt my feelings.”

“Are restaurant kitchens exactly what they seem like on the television shows? With everyone yelling at each other?” He slides onto the other stool and spins so we’re facing each other. He rests an elbow on the island and drums his other fingers on his thigh. “And are there a lot of fires?”

I smile. “A lot less fires, to be honest. But the same amount of yelling. It’s notmeanyelling. More to get your point across, you know?”

“I don’t know, but that makes sense. Since we’re being honest with each other, my criteria for this position are low. Unbelievably low. Like, in the depths of hell.”

“What are they?”

“I’m looking for someone who can cook good food and not look in my underwear drawer. Oh, and to not hit on me.”

A laugh bursts from me, but I sober quickly when he winces. “Yep, sure, mhm,” I say. “What’s the catch?”

“No catch. I’ve had to let go of the last couple of people I’ve hired because they’ve overstepped the boundaries I put in place. I know who I am. I know the notoriety that comes with being an athlete, but I want to feel safe in my home. I don’t want to worry if someone set up a hidden camera in my bathroom. I want to come back from practice, eat, and go to sleep.”

“If it makes you feel any better, I can’t tell you what number you wear.”

“Twenty-four.”

“Good to know.” I take a breath, deciding to be blunt. “I’m here because I need a job, Hudson. I respect your boundaries, and I’d never do anything that made you uncomfortable. I’ll cook the food you like, then I’ll be on my way.”

“Thank you,” he mumbles, and I swear I can feel the tension leaving his body. “I appreciate that, Madeline.”

“You’re welcome.” I tap my notebook. “What kind of things do you like to eat? Any culinary preferences? Foods to stay away from?”

“I love food. Any and all kinds. I always have. And I don’t have any allergies.”

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