Roe nods at my words and then squints at me with his smirk firmly back in place. “You know, most parents of a player of Jamie’s capacity would be pissed as hell that he got benched. And likely would be pissed at the new coach he’d been working with too.”
I scoff. The ego of this man. “I know sometimes you have to break things down and rebuild when you’re working with technique. Sometimes it’s just an off game.” I shrug, moving toward him and standing closer than I intended. “But if I thought for a minute that he was stressed because of pressure you were putting on him, hockey superstar or not, there would be no more mentoring.”
The smirk intensifies to full-on now.
“Ground rules. Understood,” he says, and I hold his gaze a moment longer before turning to walk behind the kitchen island. I grab the oven mitts and pull the finished lasagna from the oven. The smell of tomatoes, basil, garlic, along with hints of meat and cheese fills the air.
I hear Roe’s stomach rumble and his eyes take on a hazy, unfocused look as he stares at the steaming lasagna pan. I grabplates, napkins, and silverware for three, wondering when the last time was that Roe had a homemade meal.
Probably a long while.
“Have a seat,” I tell him.
He looks at me with the same unfocused gaze. I roll my eyes at him.
“Stay for dinner, Roe. It’s the least I can do.” There I go with the first name again, and I vow to myself to knock it off while I pull the salad out of the fridge and grab the dressing choices.
“I should . . .” He trails off, but he’s sniffing the air like an addict craving a hit. His stomach growls again, louder this time.
“Go wash up?” I finish for him, and gesture toward the living room. “There’s a small bathroom right there.” His stomach growls once more and I practically shove him toward the half bath. “This is a matter of mercy now,” I tell him. “For your stomach.”
By the time he emerges, the smirk is back and Jamie is sitting at the table, making sure he drowns every visible vegetable in the salad in a small pond of ranch dressing. I try not to look. Instead, I catch Roe’s eye—he was also watching Jamie with a look of concern—and we share a moment. I’m not sure what you would call it, but it includes humor in regard to my son’s eating habits, and affection for him too.
I can feel the smile still on my face as I dish up the lasagna and then find myself pausing while Roe takes a bite, like I’m waiting for his reaction.
That feeling, the one low in my gut that’s almost always present when I’m with Roe, flares to life, and I distract myself with eating, wondering what I’m supposed to do if the conversation gets stilted or the silence gets awkward.
Luckily, I don’t have to find out. Roe groans appreciatively throughout his meal and eats two helpings of lasagna and salad, and still eyes another. The conversation is as easy as any I’veever had—easier even. Jamie is able to set aside the emotional outburst of earlier; he’s subdued but not refusing to talk. That might not have been the case if it had just been us, so we eat and talk and generally enjoy each other’s company. Roe is funny, and he shares a few lighthearted stories without them being about hockey.
“So,” Roe finally asks, his eyes lingering on the third helping of lasagna that he hasn’t asked for but keeps looking at like a kid at the window of a store eyeing something that’s way beyond what he can afford. “Does your dad always cook like this?” he asks Jamie.
Jamie looks at me, and for a second I get the full Jamie smile. Even under tired eyes and worry lines etched in his forehead, the smile stuns me. It’s been a minute since I’ve seen it.
Jamie’s voice is scratchy, but he nods my way. “Please don’t get him started on the multiple benefits of eating right. But . . .” The smile peeks out again. “It’s worth the lectures for the food. He’s pretty great in the kitchen. Do you not cook?”
Roe laughs. It’s deep and genuine and makes that low feeling in my gut tighten even more. “No. I’m terrible. But takeout and frozen meals and restaurant food gets old. I can’t remember the last time I had a home-cooked meal, so thank you. This was amazing.” Roe pats his flat stomach while stretching back and making his shirt ride up, exposing the lean muscle of his torso. Just a hint of it.
My fork clatters loudly, metal against the ceramic plate, as I somehow forget how to hold utensils. I stand quickly to cover my sudden awkwardness.
“I’ll clean up tonight, Jamie,” I tell him, since that’s usually his job.
“Let me help,” Roe says, standing and collecting his plate.
It takes no time at all due to my earlier cleanup, so as I’m packing away half the lasagna leftovers for Roe, I send Jamie to bed. It’s late and he’s exhausted.
We can talk tomorrow.
“I better go too,” Roe says, hands in the pockets of his jeans again. It’s my turn to smirk at him because Jamie gave him a hug on the way upstairs and Roe still looks surprised by it. “Thanks again for dinner.” His hand goes to his flat stomach again, and my breath catches, like I’m holding it waiting for another glimpse of skin.
I shake myself out of whateverthatis.
“Here.” I slide the container over to him.
Roe stares at it a beat. “This is glass.”
I puff out a little laugh. “Of course it is. Plastic and tomato sauce is a recipe for disaster. You can bring it back when you’re done with the lasagna. It heats up well.”
Roe holds it tight. “Thank you.”
