I stare at him. “Do I even want to know what comes after this?”
“First dinner,” he says.
“Oh God.” I shake my head in disbelief, but in truth, his eating schedule is both mildly entertaining and a little stress-inducing at the thought of having to keep up with that schedule every day.
“Followed by either pre-game dinner and then team dinner… or just regular dinner and then midnight snack. Usually a large bowl of cereal.”
“Your eating routine is more like a full-time job.”
“The team doesn’t call me the human dumpster for nothing.” He takes his seat beside me and digs in like a man on a mission. “Also, I keep protein bars in my gym bag in case I get hungry, and on game days I have a Kit Kat and a Gatorade.”
“Only one Kit Kat?” I ask, honestly curious.
“Superstition,” he says quickly. “My mom used to buy me a Kit Kat during my peewee hockey days for a boost of sugar energy. The first time she did it, I got my first assist, and now it’s a ritual. I don’t go to a game without a Kit Kat.”
I file that away.
“You’re poor mother,” I say. “Did she have to feed you like this your entire life?”
“Only after I realized pasta was cheaper than protein shakes,” he says around a bite of pancakes and eggs. “Spaghetti, chicken Alfredo, pizza, cereal. The holy four. It was a lot. I’m pretty sure my mom should be sainted for it.”
“No wonder she’s trying to marry you off to a woman who can cook,” I say lightly. “Unfortunately, I’d burn water. She’s going to hate me.”
He pauses, fork halfway to his mouth. “No, she won’t.”
“You say that now,” I mutter. “Growing up, we had several chefs on the payroll. And in New York, I was always at the studio or the company. The kitchen in my apartment was barely functional. We ordered in most nights.”
“She’s not going to hate you,” he says, then takes an obscenely large bite—pancakes and eggs in one go. I have no idea where it all goes.
“Aren’t you going to eat?” he asks when he notices I don’t have a plate of food in front of me. “Want me to fix you a plate?”
“I have an audition today,” I say, the words cutting through his stream of food commentary. “I’m usually pretty nervous, so I drink seltzer water and chamomile tea to ease my stomach. I don’t typically eat before an audition or I might throw up all over the stage, from the nerves.”
His whole expression shifts. “You? Get nervous? Somehow, that’s hard to believe. Do Russian ballerinas even get nervous?” He teases, not knowing yet that the hard exterior front I put on is just a protective mechanism that I learned from Luka—for survival in the family we grew up in.“I’m full of surprises,” I say, leaning against the kitchen island.“I have no doubt that’s true.” The easy humor doesn’t vanish, but it backs up, making space for focus. “So, you have an audition? That’s great,” he says.
“Yes.” I nod. “I need to be there in about an hour.”
“Okay.” He nods once, decisively. “I didn’t think to get chamomile or seltzer this morning, but I can call one of the guys to see if they have any, or I can run down to the corner store—”
He went to so much trouble this morning. The last thing he needs is me, sending him on an errand.
“Coffee is fine,” I say softly. “And maybe… some fruit.”
His shoulders drop as if I just told him his team won in overtime. The grin returns. “I can do that.”
He reaches for a mug, pours coffee, and hands it to me. “Creamer’s in the fridge, sugar’s on the island,” he says, as if he rehearsed it.
Then he grabs a smaller plate, scoops a neat portion of fruit—strawberries, blueberries, melon—and arranges it like he’s aboutto present it to a judge on a cooking show. He slides it toward me.
I pick up a strawberry and take a bite. Perfectly ripe, sweet, and tart.
We fall into a quiet rhythm—him annihilating enough food to feed a village, me picking at fruit and sipping coffee.
“So.” He wipes his mouth and watches me over the rim of his orange juice. “Tell me about this audition. What’s the company again?”
“Pacific Northwest Ballet,” I say, setting my fork down. This part, I know how to talk about. “They’re looking for a principal for their winter season.”
“That’s a big deal, isn’t it?” he asks.
