“The mystery ingredient is . . .” Libby drums on the counter for her big reveal. “Dried apricots! Keith, please disperse the ingredients to each team. Each team must use at least half of the quantity they are given!”
“Since when?” Blake asks as Tyler mutters, “Dried apricots? I thought it would be something like garlic or lemon.”
“Since now, we said we would make up the rules while you cooked, didn’t we?” Bren retorts, pulling her camera out to take video footage. “Tyler, are you aware that garlic and lemon are frequently used in standard recipes. This is supposed to be creative!”
“Hey, paparazzi, since when do I have time to learn whatever you consider to be a standard recipe?” Tyler swats at the camera jokingly.
“Well, boys, get cooking. Your two hours starts—NOW!” Bren declares.
Frantically, we all scramble to our claimed spots around the kitchen. Hushed voices fill the room as everyone discusses what they need to get started with their counterpart.
“Good luck!” Laur calls from the stairs as the girls go upstairs to finish working on . . . well whatever they are working on. Truthfully, I can’t even remember, my blood is rushing and I’m getting caught up in excitement.
“Luc, do you trust me?” Blaine asks.
Scratching the back of my neck, I tilt my head in confusion. This conversation could go a lot of different ways. “In general?” I question.
“In general, would be great, but for now, I mean with cooking.”
“Oh yeah, dude, sure,” I confirm.
“Then let me take the lead on this. I have the perfect idea.”
“You’re the captain in the kitchen today.” I nod in agreement. “I can cook about five things, and I don’t think I have ever eaten an apricot in my life.”
“It’s called head chef, not captain,” Blaine chortles, “but I’ll take it. We got this in the bag.”
I’m really hoping he’s right. Winning this little competition would win me big points with Laur.
Chapter ten
Laur
Rambunctious shouts and profanities drift upstairs from the kitchen while the girls and I finalize our interview schedule. Hilarious is an understatement hearing these hockey players in their twenties threatening to throw elbows over counter space and cooking utensils. I expected Lucas, being the wholesome captain that he is, to attempt to keep the peace for as long as possible. But the moment I hear “Blake, fucking move now” louder than any remark the guys have made so far, I know he’s playing to win.
Bren sneaks downstairs a few times to spy on the boys and capture more videos to send to Liam, which we’ll also secretly use for content on the hockey team’s social media pages later. Each time, she’s met with loud frustrated shouts reprimanding her to go back upstairs.
Keith is equally invested in his job as timekeeper, giving the teams updates that are so loud they drift up stairs so we can hear when one hour, thirty minutes, and ten minutes are left. I picture him pacing around the kitchen like a drill sergeant but with a spoon in hand.
“FIVE MINUTES LEFT, GENTLEMAN!” Keith’s voice carries up the staircase along with the sound of Blake cussing up a storm. That doesn’t sound promising.
“Done!” Libby exclaims as she hits send on the last email to our interview candidates. Nerves knot my stomach knowing that Bren moves on to her “big girl job” next week and I will be left to lead first round interviews in a very tight timespan. Interviewing any player from the hockey team live sounds less nerve racking.
“ONE MINUTE LEFT!” Keith bellows before he trudges loudly up the stairs, knocking politely on the door.
“Come in,” Libby responds.
“Hi, ladies,” Keith starts, a slight blush on his face. “Want to come down to the patio in fifteen minutes or so?”
“I thought they only had one minute left—” Bren raises her eyebrows, giggles erupting from her “—which is probably already up.”
“Trust me, some of them need the extra time.” Keith laughs. “Make sure you check that any chicken is cooked all the way before you take a bite . . .” Keith turns to leave, muttering. “The last thing we need is anyone getting food poisoning at the end of the trip.”
Wonderful. Who doesn’t love salmonella?
The house is eerily quiet as we walk down the stairs. The kitchen looks like a tornado came and wreaked havoc. Pots, pans and kitchen utensils caked with who knows what cover every inch of the kitchen counter. The counter isn’t even visible. It’s disgusting.
“Out here!” Lucas voice calls through the screen door to the patio.
