Page 17 of Hearts on Ice
He huffed out a quiet laugh of his own. “Guess I am.”
When the last dish was stacked, I wiped the counter. He leaned against the opposite edge, arms folded, watching me like he wasn’t quite sure how the kitchen had gotten this full.
“So,” he said, “tell me about you.”
“You already know I’m a goalie.”
“I meant the rest. Who’s Miguel Rodriguez off the ice?”
“Honestly?” I rinsed the sponge, buying time. “kind of boring. I used to bingeFriends—knew every Chandler line by heart—but after Matthew Perry died, it started feeling weird. Haven’t watched it since.”
He nodded slowly, like he understood that kind of loss even when it was something small.
“I bike to the rink most days,” I added. “Not great for the quads, but cheaper than gas. Sometimes I just ride around the city, see what I find.”
“You ever get lost?”
“Sometimes on purpose.” I grinned. “Helps me reset.”
He smiled, faint but real. “You and me both.”
“You get lost too?”
He shrugged. “Not exactly. “I take a brisk walk every morning before sunrise. Old habit. If I don’t move first thing, my head starts to spiral.”
“What else don’t I know about you?”
“I’ve got a lemon tree out back that refuses to die no matter how long I forget to water it. I talk to it sometimes.”
“You what?”
He chuckled. “Don’t judge me. It’s stubborn. I respect that.”
I leaned on the counter, still smiling. “So this Wednesday-cooking thing—why did it start?”
He hesitated, gaze flicking to the empty pot on the stove. “I used to cook one dish my wife taught me—pasta. For a while after… I kept making it every Sunday. Just like we used to. Guess it was habit, or hope. I’d instinctively cook enough for three and tell myself it was tradition.”
He drew a slow breath, eyes on the sink. “It took me a year—maybe two—to admit they weren’t coming back for dinner. I stopped cooking after that.”
He cleared his throat. “Anyway. You want to take some for later?”
I shook my head. “Nah, I’m good. You earned the leftovers.”
“Fair enough.”
He cleared his throat, nodding toward the paper bag sitting on the table. “You brought these to ruin my discipline, didn’t you?”
I blinked, grateful for the shift. “Pretty much.”
“Cinnamon rolls?”
“From that place on Melrose. You’ll see why I risk the carbs.”
We moved to the table again, unwrapping the baked goodies. The smell of sugar and spice filled the space that had gone too quiet a moment before. His mouth curved as he took the first bite.
“Damn,” he said, almost reverent. “You’re forgiven.”
“For what?”
