“Tortellini soup. It’s something I’ve always wanted to try, so we shall see how this goes.”
Knox opens the fridge and grabs a beer. “Sounds legit.” He holds up another bottle, offering it to me.
I hesitate for a moment but then take it from him. He pops the caps off with a bottle opener that’s magnetized to his fridge and clinks his bottle against mine.
“To culinary adventures,” he says.
I take a swig and let the cold liquid wash down my throat. It’s so refreshing and might help me remain calm throughout this whole ordeal. I set the bottle down and reach for a cutting board, pulling a knife from the block on the counter.
“Okay, first we need to chop these veggies.” I slide a bell pepper and an onion toward Knox. “Think you can handle that?”
He grabs the knife and examines it like it’s a new toy. “I’ll give it my best shot. Just don’t yell at me if I ruin them.”
I laugh. “I’m more concerned about you losing a finger. Don’t want Crestwood University suing me because one of their star players can’t play anymore.”
With slow and deliberate movements, Knox starts to slice the bell pepper. I watch for a second, amused by his concentration, then turn to the bag of fresh tortellini and start to inspect it. The whole situation feels surreal. Here we are, standing in Knox’s kitchen, preparing food together. If you’d told me a few weeks ago that I’d be here, I would have laughed in your face.
I glance over at Knox. His usually confident demeanor is replaced with the utmost focus as he struggles with the vegetables. It’s adorable, and I can’t help but smile. He catches me looking and raises an eyebrow.
“What?” he says, defensive but playful.
“You’re actually doing a pretty good job,” I admit, taking another swig of my beer. “Maybe there’s hope for you after all.”
He grins, pleased with himself, and finishes off the bell pepper with a flourish. “Told you I could handle it.”
“Don’t get cocky. We still have the onion.”
Knox grabs the onion and starts peeling it with his fingers, making a mess of the outer layers. I open my mouth to give him a tip but decide against it. There’s something nice about watching him figure it out on his own. Instead, I turn to the stove and start heating up a pot with some olive oil.
“So where are the other guys?” I ask, trying to sound casual.
Knox shrugs. “Who knows? I wouldn’t be surprised if someone is here, just hanging out in their room.”
I turn my attention back to the pot, swirling the olive oil around. The warmth of the stove combined with the beer is making me a little flushed. Or maybe it's something else.
“Don't worry,” Knox says, breaking the silence. “You’re safe with me.”
I look back at him, confused. “Safe?”
He smirks. “I mean from starving. In case this cooking adventure goes south.”
I let out a belly laugh. “Oh, thanks for the vote of confidence.”
Knox has managed to slice into the onion, and tears are starting to well up in his eyes. He wipes them with the back of his hand, smearing a bit of onion juice on his cheek. It’s almost too much; I have to bite my lip to keep from laughing out loud again.
“Here,” I say, taking pity on him. I walk over and take the knife from his hand. “Run your hands under cold water. It’ll help with the sting.”
He doesn't argue, which surprises me. As he moves to the sink, I take over on the onion. I manage to get it cut in record time, but that doesn’t mean I don’t appreciate Knox’s help.
“I never asked,” Knox says over his shoulder. “How did your presentation go?”
I’m taken aback that he remembers. “It went well,” I say, trying to hide my surprise. “Better than I expected, actually. Thanks for asking.”
Knox turns off the water and dries his hands on a towel, then leans against the counter and takes a long pull from his beer. “I knew you'd kill it. You're always so prepared.”
I’m not sure quite how to respond. Compliments from Knox are something I’m still getting used to. The banter, the teasing—those come naturally. But this? This is different.
“Thanks,” I say just before I clear my throat and hold up the chopped onion. “See? No tears.”