Page 40 of Rookie Season
My sides now hurt from laughing. Post hockey-win baking with the boys has provenwaymore fun than post hockey-win partying.
“Oh, my goodness gracious me!” Penn—who’s still proudly wearing the pink apron—says in a fake southern twang, apparently imitating Fisher’s mom. He moans as he crams an entire cookie into his mouth in one go. He winces, then opens his mouth, letting out a puff of steam from the piping hot confection.
“Hot,” he yelps through his mouthful of cookie as he flings open the refrigerator door and retrieves a gallon of milk. He twists the cap off and takes three big gulps right from the jug before adding, “Burnt my tongue, but worth it.”
“You’re disgusting,” Noah says with a scowl—but his eyes are lighter than I’ve seen them. Less agonized than usual.
“Don’t sweat it, Downsby, it’s my milk.”
Noah lets out an exasperated sigh. “It’s mine, dumbass. Yours is the lactose-free carton, remember?” He smirks. “Although that means karma will haunt you for your theft in about two hours.”
Penn looks down at the milk label and curses in his regular old Canadian man-voice.
“Sticker chart!” Fisher exclaims in glee.
“Pucksake,” Penn groans.
I giggle, and out of the corner of my eye, I can see Noah shooting a little smile in my direction.
A secret smile only I see. One that draws a shiver from me. All night, I’ve been trying to shake the memory of his searing gaze on me as I stripped off his jersey and handed it to him.
All night, I’ve been one hundred percent failing at that assignment. I was fully clothed under that jersey, and he still looked at me like Penn is currently looking at the cookie in his hand.
“Thought yours was the moose milk, anyhow,” Fisherwisecracks as he slaps a frowny face sticker next to Penn’s name on the chart taped to the fridge.
“It’s illegal to milk moose in Canada, don’t ya know?” Penn says.
“I didn’t, actually. But you learn something new every day, I guess,” Fisher says as he walks over to the cookies. He breaks one in half, blowing on it for a moment before popping it in his mouth. His eyes flutter closed. “Damn Ally, those are insane.”
“Thanks,” I say, but my eyes are on Noah as he moves towards the cookie sheet. I’m way, way too pleased when he snags one and takes a huge bite—first time I’ve seen him break his strict, protein-heavy, devoid-of-sugar-and-joy diet.
He chews, swallows, then immediately takes another big bite. I’m standing here like a creep, watching as his strong jaw moves.How can he make chewing look sexy?
Seeing him enjoy the cookie fills me with unexpected happiness…because he likes something I made—my family’s own recipe.
Things with Noah have been better over the past few days. Ever since our conversation in the hot tub, he’s been avoiding me less. A lot less, in fact. We’ve been sharing our bathroom most mornings before I go to work, sometimes chatting, and other times listening to music in surprisingly comfortable silence as we get ready side by side. Last night, he ventured out of his room to join me, Penn, and Fisher as we ate takeout pizza and watched the latest episode ofMatchmaker Mansion, and now tonight he’s helped me bake.
It’s a new equilibrium I’m a big fan of.
Noah finishes the massive cookie in three bites, then says reverently, “That was the best damn cookie I’ve ever had.”
He immediately reaches for another—Penn and Fisherhave already helped themselves to thirds at this point—and my heart warms further.
“It’s my mom’s recipe,” I tell him happily, leaning back against the counter and pushing myself up to sit atop it. I swing my legs as I reach for a cookie of my own, a smile crossing my face. “She always used to make them with me, especially back in high school if I had a bad day or got a bad grade or something. Her motto is that there’s very little in this life that a warm chocolate chip cookie can’t solve.”
“Your mom is a smart woman.” Fisher gives me a finger gun as he swipes four more cookies and wanders towards the couch, Penn in his wake with the rest of the tray.
Noah, meanwhile, looks a little sad, the corners of his mouth turned down. I immediately feel like a jerk. Poor Noah went through all of middle school and high school without a mom to comfort him after a bad day.
The thought is awful, and I want to go back in time and wrap my arms around childhood Noah, giving him the biggest hug humanly possible.
“Did Andie ever bake cookies with you?” I venture a little timidly, trying to communicate with my eyes that I’m sorry for being insensitive.
He looks at me for a long moment, and whatever he sees or gleans from my expression must be good, because he snorts. “Andie?” Noah laughs. “Please. The only thing Andie can make is pina coladas…and she didn’t let me try one of hers until I turned twenty-one. With good reason, too. That thing was strong enough to tranquilize a moose.”
“Andie is officially my new favorite person,” I say with a grin.
“I can see why you two get along,” he replies, and I could swear his tone is almost…fond.
