Cooking for Zachand his entire mutant-sized teamis another.
But whatever—love makes you do dumb things, like shredding five pounds of mozzarella and questioning your life choices halfway through layering the ziti.
Good thing Zach gave me the Pond's front door passcode a while back—along with a key to his room, "just in case." Translation: in case I ever want to invade his space and make him late for practice.
By six o'clock, three massive trays of baked ziti are bubbling away in the oven, the air thick with the smell of garlic, cheese, and victory. There are also enough garlic bread loaves to kill a vampire and a salad I made purely for decoration.
By the time I pull everything out, I'm sweaty, flour-dusted, and one burnt finger away from a breakdown—but weirdly proud. I did it. I actually cooked dinner for twenty-something hockey players without burning the house down.
I stand back, admiring my handiwork as the kitchen looks—and smells—like an Italian restaurant exploded in it. My arms ache, my hair's a mess, but my heart? Full.
"This," I mutter, hands on my hips, "is either true love or temporary insanity."
Honestly... probably both.
I've just finished washing the dirty dishes I used when I hear the front door swing open, followed by the unmistakable sound of several large, starving men.
"Dude, what is that smell?"
"Holy hell, is someone cooking real food in here?"
"Oh, it smells divine in here."
I can't help but grin.
Grabbing a kitchen towel, I wipe my hands and step into the hallway just as a chorus of footsteps thunder closer. A few of the guys round the corner first, their eyes going wide when they spot me—and then wider when they see the trays of baked ziti and garlic bread lined up on the counter like a buffet.
"Oh, it's Westbrook's girlfriend." one of them blurts, stunned.
"No freaking way," another says, already drifting toward the table like he's been hypnotized by cheese.
Then, I see him.
Zach appears behind them, dressed in gray sweatpants and his navy Ridgewater hoodie, the hood halfway up, hair damp, and a confused smile on his face.
The second his eyes meet mine, they widen.
"Babe?"
I barely have time to react before he's closing the distance between us in a few long strides. His bag hits the floor with a thud, and then his arms are around me—tight, warm, his face buried in the crook of my neck.
"I missed you," he murmurs, voice muffled but full of relief. "God, you have no idea how happy I am to see you right now."
I smile against his shoulder, hugging him back just as tightly. "I wanted to surprise you," I whisper. "Thought you could use a little cheering up... so I made your favorite. Baked ziti."
He leans back, his eyes lighting up. "Wait—you madethat? So that's what I was smelling when I first I walked in?"
I laugh, glancing over his shoulder. "Guess so."
Before I can say anything else, movement catches my eye—Elijah, walking in from the hallway, a duffel slung over one shoulder while he idly juggles his car keys in one hand.
He gives me a curt nod.
"Hey, Care."
"Hey," I reply with a polite but tight smile. The word tastes awkward. I don'twantto be rude, but pretending everything's fine feels just as wrong.
Not after the way he yelled at Sam.
