Page 51 of Offside for Christmas
Closed the cabinet.
Went back to the kitchen and took two more Tylenol—useless, but at least honest.
COLE:7 PM. Don't be late. And bring your appetite—you're gonna need it.
His shoulder still hurt. It was going to hurt all through dinner. But at least he'd be able to look Ellie in the eye when she asked how he was feeling.
At least he'd be telling the truth.
Cole checked the pasta sauce for the third time in five minutes, tasted it, added a pinch more salt, then immediately second-guessed himself.
This was ridiculous. He was a grown man. He'd played professional hockey in front of thousands of people. He'd gotten in bar fights and been traded across the country and survived injuries that should have ended his career.
And yet here he was, stress-cooking in his apartment at 5 PM on a Monday, terrified of screwing up dinner for Ellie Winters.
He stepped back and looked around his apartment, really looked at it for the first time since he'd started the transformation this afternoon.
The duffel bags were gone, clothes put away in the dresser and closet. A new table sat near the two folding chairs, and books—mostly hockey biographies—were arranged on the narrow shelf by the window. The photo of his grandmother was on the windowsill, her smile catching in the light. He'd even bought a small plant from the grocery store, though he had no idea how to keep it alive. He'd unpacked. Actually unpacked.
The Christmas lights from Main Street were visible through his window, casting a warm glow into the room. He'd left his own window open a crack, and he could hear Christmas music playing from O'Brien's Pub below—someone was already celebrating something.
His apartment looked… almost lived in.
I'm nesting, Cole realized with something close to horror.I'm fucking nesting. For a woman. In Vermont. What is happening to me?
The doorbell rang.
Cole's heart jumped into his throat. He checked his reflection in the window—why did he care?—ran a hand through his hair, wiped his hands on a towel, and went to answer the door.
Ellie stood in the hallway, and Cole forgot how to breathe.
She was wearing jeans and a burgundy sweater that looked impossibly soft, her hair down in loose waves around her shoulders. No makeup that he could see, just freckles and a nervous smile. She was holding two bottles of wine like shields.
"Hi," she said.
"Hi." Smooth, Hansen. Real smooth.
"I brought wine. I didn't know what you were making, so I brought red and white. And then I thought maybe that was too much, but I couldn't decide which one, so..." She was rambling,which meant she was nervous too, which somehow made Cole feel better.
"Both work." He took the bottles, their fingers brushing in the exchange. "Come in."
Ellie stepped inside, and Cole watched her take in the apartment. Watched her notice the unpacked boxes, the books on the shelf, the photo by the window.
"You unpacked."
"Yeah. I... had some time."And I was thinking about you. About staying. About what it might mean to actually live here instead of just existing.
"It looks good." She moved further into the space, running her fingers along the bookshelf. "Feels like you."
"How do you know what feels like me?"
Ellie stopped at the windowsill, picking up the photo frame. "Who's this?"
Cole moved to stand beside her, looking at his grandmother's face. "My grandmother. Rosa. She raised me.”
Ellie studied the photo - an older woman with kind eyes and flour on her hands, smiling at the camera. "She looks kind."
"She was." Cole swallowed. "She died a few years back. Christmas Day."
