Page 47 of Risky Match
Why isn’t this guy a full-time chef? He’s incredibly talented even if food for athletes isn’t his specialty. When this is over, I’m going to ask him about his background and if he’d rather be working in the palace kitchen or running his own restaurant in Catalinius.
I place cheese and meat on a cracker as I say, “You played extremely well today. I loved watching the match. I don’t know about you, but I always feel so much relief after winning the first match of a tournament.”
“I do. Today went well. My next opponent will be tougher, but I have a good record against him.”
“Martina texted that she and Josh arranged for us to have a short practice tomorrow. I’m excited to get back on the court with you.”
“Mmm-hmm,” he replies, munching on an olive.
Pulling conversation from Blake is like trying to make a palace guard laugh. It’s strange given that two years ago we talked easily. Now the weight of the tournament is crushing him. It’s too bad he swore off alcohol during Wimbledon—a glass of wine might help.
As I’m contemplating what sort of alcohol or sex might loosen him up, Fausto approaches, saying, “Vorresti un risotto al limone con gamberi o un pesce alla griglia con asparagi?”
“He’s asking if you prefer the risotto with shrimp or the grilled fish with asparagus.” I explain.
“Fish, please.”
“Blake vorrebbe il pesce. Il risotto per me, per favore,” I translate for Fausto.
“Thanks for convincing him to offer a healthier option,” Blake says with a smile.
“He’s talented. I think it’s just his first time cooking for athletes.”
“That’s probably it,” Blakes agrees.
“Did you see the hot tub out back?” I ask.
“Josh pointed it out,” he says without enthusiasm.
“My muscles could use the warmth, but palace rules say I can’t be in hot tubs alone. With Erin out, would you keep me company?”
He does a double take, nearly choking on a bit of food. His gaze drifts from my hair to my lap as though imagining me in a bikini, relaxing in the steaming water. Heat rises in my cheeks.
Tension and excitement threaten to overshadow the goals of my mission.
In a low gravelly voice he says, “I can’t imagine how stifling it is to have all those rules to follow. I’d be in trouble all the time—for breaking them.”
I work to keep my voice steady. “It’s tempting to break them, and I sometimes do. But Erin would have to report the breachin security. She’d be in trouble. So—will you join me for a short soak?”
“Sure. If it’s not too long.”
As Fausto clears our plates he asks, “Ho preparato un dolce ad alto contenuto proteico. Vorresti una porzione?”
“He made a high protein dessert. Would you like to try it?” I ask.
“High protein? What is it?” Blakes eyes scrunch.
“Qual è il dessert?”
“Crème brûlée.”
Blake and I burst out laughing. Fausto stares at us in confusion.
Catching my breath, I say, “I guess eggs and cream count as protein.”
“True, but based on his description, I was expecting something less decadent—maybe cottage cheese topped with fresh fruit.”
“Exactly. I love crème brûlée, but I’m going to pass. What about you?” I ask.
