The man was stocking up like he was preparing his sister for the Iron Apocalypse.
He's crazy like that... but God, I love him even more for it.
The second we step inside the Pond, we get the usual greeting.
A chorus of distracted nods from the guys glued to the TV, controllers in hand, half-shouting at whatever game they're sweating over.
"Yo."
"Sup."
"Hey Care."
These men would probably greet a tornado the same exact way.
Before I can even take off my shoes, Cody comes swaggering down the stairs — fresh shirt, hair perfect, keys twirling around his finger.
He shoots us a grin. "Well, well, if it isn't the lovebirds. Care—please tell me you're here to make us another one of those God-tier dinners?"
Before I can answer, Zach smacks him on the back of the head.
"Hey!" Cody yelps, rubbing the spot. "Violence against your teammates is illegal."
"She's not your personal chef," Zach grumbles. "Feed yourselves."
Cody leans forward, squinting at Zach. "Relax, man, all I said was—" He pauses, eyes sliding to me with theatrical suspense. "I like your girlfriend—"
"You like my girlfriend?"
Zach fully scowls, one step away from tackling him into the drywall.
Cody grins like a gremlin. "I like your girlfriend's cooking, genius. Relax." He slips past us toward the door. "Still...Care, if you ever get sick of him, you know where to find me."
Zach flips him off. Cody cackles, victorious.
I snort, shaking my head. "Sorry, Code. Not cooking tonight."
Honestly, Ihavecooked for them pretty often.
It started as a one-time thing, then turned into my unofficial role as team morale booster—especially on nights when the Warriors took another heartbreaking loss.
Nothing heals a bruised hockey ego faster than baked ziti or chicken parm.
I'm about to say something else when the air shifts.
Heavy footsteps on the stairs. Elijah steps into view at the landing, wearing a fitted black shirt. He pauses when he sees us.
Zach goes still beside me.
The warmth drains from his face. His smile fades, jaw tightening—not explosive, just cold, controlled, the way a storm looks right before it breaks.
Elijah gives me the faintest nod. "Hey, Care."
"H...hey."
He doesn't spare Zach a single glance.
The guys on the couch stop playing, eyes darting between them, their bodies going weirdly still—like they're afraid even breathing too loudly will set someone off.
