Page 16 of Faking All the Way
Asher
The guest house is quiet in a way that should be relaxing but somehow isn’t. It’s older, kind of spartan—clearly doesn’t get used much based on the way everything feels slightly stiff, like furniture that’s been sitting empty for months. But it’s comfortable enough. Clean sheets, working heat, no neighbors within shouting distance. Everything I thought I wanted when I booked this trip.
I finish unpacking my bag, hanging a few shirts in the small closet and tossing my toiletries into the bathroom. The whole process takes maybe ten minutes, which leaves me sitting on the edge of the bed with nothing to do but think. I rest my elbows on my knees and run a hand through my hair, trying to shake off the restless energy that’s been building since I got here.
Ever since I stepped off that plane this morning, everything has been a whirlwind. There was no time to process anything, just react to whatever curveball Kat threw at me next—her panic at the airport, the whole fake boyfriend situation, meeting her family, and navigating conversations where I had no idea whatI was supposed to know about her life. Now that the stillness surrounds me, all the familiar thoughts start churning like they always do when I have too much time on my hands.
My career is in limbo. My agent said he’d have news soon, but “soon” in hockey terms could mean anything. Pretty soon, I’ll see Edward for the first time in over three years. We haven’t been in the same room since Mom’s funeral, and even then we barely spoke.
Without thinking, I roll my shoulder, testing the range of motion. It feels fine. Has been feeling fine for months now. The doctors cleared me, the physical therapists cleared me, everyone said I was good to go back to full contact. But I never really got my groove back after the injury. Couldn’t seem to play at the level I know I’m capable of, couldn’t find that zone where everything clicks and the game slows down. Every tiny twinge, every moment of stiffness, sends my brain spiraling into worst-case scenarios. My career could be over at twenty-nine because I can’t get my head right.
I grab my phone from the nightstand and scroll through it, looking for any message from my agent even though he told me yesterday it might take a while to get a bite from interested teams. “Don’t worry about it,” he said. “Focus on your visit home, let me handle the business side.” Easy for him to say. He’s not the one whose entire identity is tied up in whether someone wants to pay him to play a game.
The phone screen shows nothing new. No missed calls, no texts, no emails that matter. Just the usual promotional crap and a few messages from my old teammates that I haven’t bothered to answer yet.
I’m not doing well with the quiet.
I check the time on my phone. Still about twenty minutes early for dinner, but I find myself wanting the company more than I want to sit here overthinking everything. At least talkingto Kat will give my brain something to focus on besides the endless loop of career anxiety and family bullshit.
I change into a cleaner shirt, run a hand through my hair to make it look less like I’ve been lying around, and throw on my jacket. The walk to the main cabin takes about thirty seconds across the snowy yard, but the cold air feels good after being cooped up inside.
I knock on the back door, shoving my hands into my pockets while I wait. The sound echoes a little in the quiet evening air.
Kat opens the door after a moment, seeming a bit flustered. Her dark, wavy hair is coming loose from the ponytail she’s tied it back in, there’s a streak of what looks like tomato sauce on her left cheek, and her eyes have a slightly panicked look.
“You’re early,” she blurts.
I clear my throat, suddenly wondering if I should have stayed in the guest house after all. “I can come back in a bit if you need more time.”
“No, um, it’s fine. Come in.” She steps back to let me through, wiping her hands on the dish towel she’s holding. “It’s just… I may have been a little overly ambitious with the menu.”
Dinner is clearly in progress, but it looks like it’s not going great. There are a few pots on the stove, a cutting board with a red pepper and half-chopped onion sitting next to some garlic peels, and an open package of pasta and some herbs scattered across the counter. A wooden spoon sits in a puddle of tomato sauce, and the sink is already piling up with prep dishes and a few utensils.
“So,” she says with a sheepish grin that’s actually pretty cute, “maybe I bit off more than I could chew here. I’m not exactly what you’d call an amazing cook. Or even a competent one, apparently.”
“I can help,” I offer, already rolling up my sleeves. Standing around watching someone struggle while I do nothing has never been my style.
“You don’t have to do that. You’re supposed to be the guest here.”
“I don’t mind. I like having something to do with my hands.” It’s true. I’ve never been good at sitting still, and right now the idea of being useful sounds a lot better than making small talk while she stresses out.
She glances at me, her cheeks flushing slightly. “Yeah. Me too, actually.”
“So what do you need help with?”
She surveys the disaster zone that is her kitchen, then points to a pot of what smells like the beginnings of tomato sauce. “Can you take over the sauce? I was trying to do too many things at once and I think I’m about to burn it.”
“Sure.” I move to the stove and take the wooden spoon from her, stirring the mixture and adjusting the heat. “What else are we making?”
“Pasta with homemade sauce and meatballs. Very fancy, I know.” She gets back to work, rolling what look like reasonably decent meatballs between her palms. “I figured it was hard to screw up, but apparently I found a way.”
“Smells good so far,” I tell her, and it does. Whatever she’s got going in this sauce has garlic and herbs and something else I can’t quite identify. “What do you want me to add to this?”
“There’s some basil in that bowl, a red pepper to add to it, and maybe a little more salt? I kind of lost track of what I’ve already put in.”
I start chopping vegetables for the sauce while she works on the meatballs, and we settle into a rhythm that works. The kitchen fills with the sound of sizzling and chopping, andgradually the chaos starts looking more like an actual meal in progress.
After a few minutes of working in companionable silence, she speaks up. “So we should probably go over the basic stuff about ourselves. Just so we won’t be caught flat-footed if people ask us questions tomorrow or whenever we see my family again.”
