That gets me a full turn of his head, one brow arched high. “Your teammate’s sister. Bold choice.”
“It’s not achoice,” I snap. “She needed a place, and I’ve got a guest room. We’re not fucking.”
Reid hums, like he doesn’t believe me for a second. “Doesn’t need to be happening yet for you tobe fucked.”
“Thanks for the pep talk, Yoda.” I grab the bar, racking another set of weights just to avoid his stare.
He smirks, unbothered. “You should embroider that on a pillow.”
I glare, but the words still stick, heavy as the bar across my shoulders, because he’s not wrong.
By the time I leave the gym, Reid’s words are a splinter under my skin.
Doesn’t need to be happening yet for you to be fucked.
I tell myself I’ll burn it off on the drive. Roll the windows down, crank the volume, think about practice tomorrow instead of the fact that Lulu is still in my house.
But the second I push through the front door, warmth hits me square in the chest.
Not just actual heat, but the smell—garlic, pepper, something cooking. And underneath it, something softer, which I realize is the sound of her voice.
I follow it through to the kitchen and stop dead.
She’s barefoot at the stove, humming some tuneless thing, hair piled in a knot with strands spilling everywhere. Dusty is sprawled across her feet, tail wagging slow and steady every time she shifts or speaks to him.
The table’s already set. Two plates, forks lined up, glasses filled. Steam curls off a platter stacked with grilled chicken and rice.
“Hey.” She glances over her shoulder, so bright. “Perfect timing. Dinner’s ready.”
“What is this?” My voice comes out rougher than I mean.
Her mouth quirks. “Dinner? Unless I completely screwed it up. I remembered what you ordered the other night—chicken, broccoli, rice, boring as hell. But I wasn’t sure about the amounts, so I called Tamara and got the actual ratios right for in-season team meals.”
For a second, I’m lost for words. She’s across the hall from me for three minutes, and somehow, she’s already slotted herself into the cracks no one else even notices.
I just stand there, because this isn’t my life. My life is protein shakes, takeout over scouting reports, the occasional team meal. Not someone who not only cooks for me, but ensures I’ve got the exact right plate in front of me.
“Lu—” I stop, shake my head. “You didn’t have to do that.”
She casually shrugs a shoulder, turning back to the boiling broccoli. “Didn’t want you wasting away on dirt water and powder shakes. Plus, I kinda like cooking when it’s for someone else.”
I huff a laugh, but it sticks in my throat, because she says it as if it’s obvious. Like, of course she’d check, of course she’d care, of course she’d cook.
Not my parents, with their critiques after every game.
Not the girls who liked the idea of being with a hockey player.
Her.
Humming in my kitchen, barefoot with my dog at her ankles, feeding me with a care that seems woven into her bones.
And that feels foreign, and very fucking dangerous.
We eat at the table like it’s our own private date night. Forks scraping, Dusty sprawled at our feet, waiting for scraps he’s not getting. She chatters about her students and her week ahead, and I grunt at the right places, but the truth is, I’m not concentrating on the story as much as I’m concentrating on her. The way her voice rises and dips, how her hands move when she gets caught up in the details.
After I clear the plates, she flicks the TV on without asking, dropping onto her favorite spot on my couch.Summer Shorelinesplashes across the screen, the opening credits rolling, and she pats the cushion beside her.
I groan, dragging a hand over my face. “You’re not serious.”
