“I can’t imagine. I’m so sorry about your mom.”
Warmth flickers in his eyes as he nods. “Anyway, Calla’s good. Have you eaten? I saved you some lasagna.”
I furrow my brow and follow him to the kitchen area. “I’m good, thanks. You cook, too?”
He turns to face me, folding his arms. His expression is amused. “What do you mean, too?”
I look around. “I wasn’t expecting this.”
“You thought I’d just have two recliners and a big-screen TV?”
“Kind of,” I admit.
“Fully functioning adult here. I don’t cook, though. There’s a chef who preps meals for a bunch of us single guys on the team that we can freeze and eat when we’re home.”
I smile, my shoulders sinking with relief. “Okay, I feel a little bit better about living with my dad and surviving on grilled cheese sandwiches.”
He opens the refrigerator and takes out a glass pitcher of what looks like unsweet tea. “Come on, try this lasagna. It’s fantastic.”
He dishes some of the cheesy, gooey pasta onto a plate and pours us both a glass of tea.
“So you wanted to run something by me when we were at Lucky’s, but you never did.”
I set my fork down, remembering what I wanted to ask him. “Right. So you know about my job working with physically and mentally disabled people. I was thinking ... what if I put together a thing where some of the guys on the team could play a game of wheelchair hockey against a team of wheelchair users who are also athletes? Maybe I could work with Special Olympics.”
“It’s a great idea. I can’t think of any of the guys who wouldn’t want to do it.”
“Yeah?” I’ve been knocking around the idea for a while now, and I like that he’s on board. “I thought it would be neat to spotlight what it’s like to play hockey as a wheelchair user.”
“We’re probably gonna get smoked.”
I laugh. “Longtime wheelchair users are really good at maneuvering them, so you might.”
“Do you know Briana? She runs the Crush Foundation and I think she’ll be able to help with whatever you need.”
“I guess I should check with the front office first.”
“Tell them the players want to do it.” He gestures at my plate. “Now eat, and I’ll grab my packing list.”
“Thanks for being my emotional support human.”
“Anytime.”
The lasagna is so damn good. I was planning to only eat a couple of bites and then say I’m full, but screw that. It’s delicious. And a nice thing about Lucien and me just being friends is that I don’t have to pretend I like girl dinners. A few crackers and a piece of cheese are not dinner.
Lucien passes me his list and I read it over. He has neat, blocky handwriting.
“I just want to make sure you know I fucking hate Macintire,” he says.
I look up from the paper. “I mean, same? Don’t tell me he got with your sister, too.”
He balks. “I wouldn’t let that fucker within ten feet of Calla. Macintire didn’t just fuck me over; he fucked over our entire team when we were teammates. He doesn’t even deserve to be called anyone’s teammate.”
“What did he do?”
Lucien’s gaze is on my lap, his lips quirking with a smile when his eyes flick up to mine. “Nice to see you back in leggings. I’m gonna need a beer for this conversation.”
He takes a bottled Guinness from his fridge and pops the top off with an opener, taking a long drink. Then he sets the bottle on the counter and leans back against it, crossing his arms.
