No kidding.
I flip a pan too hard, sauce splattering onto my wrist. It stings, sharp and immediate. I hiss through my teeth, grabbing a towel, and someone calls from the prep station, “You good?”
“Fine,” I say, shaking it off. Always fine.
The announcers’ voices carry faintly from the bar.“Voss has been off his rhythm lately. You wonder if the distractions outside the rink are starting to show.”My stomach twists. They have no idea how right they are — and how wrong.
He isn’t distracted. He’s cornered.
The camera cuts again — Leo and Grayson lining up at center ice. The crowd’s roar builds. I can almost feel it through the wall, through the floor, through my chest. I know that stance — shoulders squared, expression carved from granite. Every inch of him wired tight.
Someone behind me says, “God, look at those two. This is gonna be brutal.”
Yeah. It already is.
The restaurant vibrates with noise. Every table is full, every bartender shouting drink orders over the roar of the crowd. The commentators are loud enough to bleed through the walls, their voices rising with each play.
“And there’s another collision between Locke and Voss— you can feel the tension out there tonight.”
Maya bursts into the kitchen, carrying a tray of empties and grinning like she’s in on the chaos. “They’re going at it,” she says. “You should see the bar — people are losing their minds.”
I keep stirring the sauce, pretending not to care. “I’ll take your word for it.”
“Oh, come on. You love this stuff.” She nudges me with her elbow. “Admit it, you’re rooting for your boy.”
My spoon clatters against the edge of the pot. “He’s not my boy.”
Maya laughs, unconvinced. “Sure, sure. You just happen to know his stats, his jersey number, and when his team’s on the road.”
I turn the heat down before the sauce boils over. “I cook for athletes. It’s called research.”
“Right.” She smirks, setting the tray down. “Research. You’re practically the Surge’s secret weapon.”
Her words land heavier than she knows. Because that’s what I’ve been doing all night — running through hydration schedules in my head, timing protein windows, muttering lists of anti-inflammatory ingredients like a mantra. If he doesn’t eat properly after this game, if he doesn’t stretch enough, if he doesn’t?—
I cut the thought off before it spirals. He isn’t mine to manage. Not mine to fix.
The TV volume spikes —“Locke scores!”— and the entire restaurant erupts. Cheers, groans, clapping. I freeze mid-stir, my heart dropping into my stomach.
“And you can see the frustration on Voss’s face,”the commentator adds.“That’s a captain under pressure.”
I grip the handle of the pot tighter, the metal biting into my palm. The heat feels like it’s radiating straight through me. Maya leans against the counter, wincing. “Oof. That looked rough.”
“Yeah,” I murmur, but my throat’s too tight for anything else. I turn away from the screen, focusing on the rows of plates waiting to be garnished. My fingers move on autopilot, arranging food I can’t even see.
Because right now, every image in my head is Leo — jaw clenched, eyes dark, skating harder than anyone else on the ice — and I can’t shake the feeling I’m watching him break in real time.
The sound from the bar keeps leaking into the kitchen — the commentators, the crowd, the sharp scrape of tension that even distance can’t dull. I don’t have to see the game to know how it’s going. Every time the place erupts in cheers or groans, I feel it in my chest.
I’m plating entrees when another burst of noise hits — sharper this time, the crowd roaring through the speakers.“Locke with a breakaway— and he scores again!”The bar explodes. Silverware rattles in the dish tubs.
I shut my eyes for half a second, then force myself to keep moving. I can’t let it show. Not here.
Maya swings back through the kitchen, flushed from the chaos outside. “That was brutal,” she says, shaking her head. “Locke’s unstoppable tonight. Poor Voss looks like he wants to punch something.”
The words scrape raw. “Don’t they all?” I mutter, but it comes out thin.
She grins, oblivious. “Hey, maybe he’ll turn it around. Guys like him always do.”
