“No, don’t ruin it. If I wanted to know, I’d have looked at the menu.”
She rolls her eyes at me, and all I can do is smirk.
“Did you enjoy the game last night?”
“Of course; you guys won.”
“The goalie was pretty good, huh?”
Abandoning her meat, she lifts her blood-red hands in the air and stares at me, one brow quirked.
“I mean…I don’t really understand hockey all that much, but the goalie seemed okay. He just about managed to make a couple of saves.”
Her eyes hold mine, but her lips twitch with the need to laugh.
“Seemed okay?”
“Uh-huh,” she hums, her lips pinched together.
“I think you must have missed something then, because the goalie had a fucking awesome game. Another shutout to add to his collection this year.”
“Ooh, you meant the Vipers’ goalie. Sorry, I was talking about the one in blue in the other goal.”
I bark out a laugh.
“Youwere incredible.”
I swear my heart skips a beat.
Sure, I’ve heard the words before—from teammates, from coaching staff, even management. But they’re expected to say that after I’ve performed well. Even back in the day, I’d have teachers comment, other parents and fans. But…there was only one who ever really mattered.Now though…
Something warm spreads from my chest, surging through my body.
“I mean, I literally have no idea what I’m talking about, so the compliment is pretty much worthless, but?—”
“It’s not,” I assure her. “I really appreciate it. Thank you.”
Her cheeks heat as our eye contact holds.
Beside me, the coffee machine finishes her shot, and I jump back into action to steam her milk.
I pause before I pour the last of it in, but I quickly ignore my doubt before finishing it off.
“Aw, is that a heart?” Freya asks when I place it down beside her.
Now it’s my turn for my face to heat.
“It’s one of the easiest ones,” I mumble, turning back to make my own.
“Where did you learn to do it?”
“I worked in a coffee shop for a while when I was a teenager. Coffee art was about the only culinary thing that stuck.”
“I’m sure that’s not true. I bet you can heat up a banging panini.”
I can’t help but laugh.
“That isn’t cooking,” I argue.
