"I'm pretty sure he likes you more than he likes me," Mac observed. "And I'm the one who feeds him the expensive grain-free food."
"That's because I respect his regal authority." Rachel gave Puck one more scratch before heading to the kitchen. "Also, I didn't cover his kitchen in tomato sauce."
"That was on the CEILING. I still don't know how I managed that. I made pasta again," Mac said, forcing himself to focus on dinner before he said something premature like I love you, which his cat had clearly figured out weeks ago at that first dinner. "Well, attempted to make pasta. Cole gave me the same recipe as last time, but I promise I've practiced. If it's terrible, there's that same pizza place two blocks away."
"I'm sure it's perfect."
It wasn't perfect. The bacon was slightly overcooked, more crispy than Cole had recommended, and the pasta was a touch too al dente. But it was leagues better than the tomato-sauce-on-the-ceiling disaster from last time, and Rachel declared it "infinitely better than pizza." They talked, really talked, going deeper than they had at that first dinner.
They talked about the things they hadn't quite gotten to last time. Rachel told him about her dream to travel to Scotland and walk the moors where her favorite books were set. About the teaching job she'd almost taken in Burlington before everything fell apart. About how she'd always wanted a dog but never felt settled enough to commit.
Mac talked about the draft offers in more detail, not just that he'd turned them down, but why. About the family he'd built with the Eagles and why that mattered more than money.
After dinner, they moved to the couch with fresh wine. Puck immediately claimed Rachel's lap, settling in like he'd found his new favorite person.
Mac shifted closer, his arm resting along the back of the couch. Close but not crowding. "Rachel, can I ask you something?"
Her body tensed slightly. "Okay..."
"That PT making news, Derek Matthews. The one going after small-market teams." Mac kept his voice casual, but he watched her face carefully. "Cole mentioned it at practice today. He's pretty pissed about the things Matthews is saying about Ellie."
Rachel's hand stilled on Puck's fur. "Oh?"
"Yeah. Matthews is some big-shot therapist who works with NHL players. Real piece of work from what I can tell." Mac paused. "You asked me about PTs the other day, if I knew any when we texted. Did you know about this?"
"I... I saw something online." Rachel gave nothing away. "It's unfortunate. For Cole and Ellie."
"Rachel." Mac turned to face her fully. "Do you know him?"
Something flickered across her face. "Why would you think that?"
"Because you tensed up the second I said his name. And because—" Mac hesitated, unsure how much to reveal. "Because I looked him up. There's a photo of him with Brad Reese from a few years ago. They were friends."
Rachel went very still. "You looked him up."
"I was worried about Cole and Ellie. And then I saw the connection and, Rachel, if this guy is coming to Vermont, if he has something to do with what happened to you—"
"Mac, stop." Rachel's chin jerked up. "I don't want to talk about this."
"But if he—"
"I said stop." She stood abruptly, dislodging Puck, who meowed indignantly. "I don't want to talk about Derek Matthews or Brad or anything that happened before I moved here. Can you please... can you respect that?"
Mac stood too, his hands raised placatingly. "Of course. I'm sorry. I just wanted to make sure you were okay."
"I'm fine." But the words wobbled. "I'm dealing with it. You don't need to—" She stopped, pressing her fingers to her temples.
Mac could see her struggling, could see the walls going back up brick by brick.
"Rachel," he said softly. "I care about you. And if something from your past is coming back, I want to help."
"You can't help with this." She dropped her gaze. "You don't understand whatheis capable of."
The raw pain in her voice made Mac's chest ache. He wanted answers, wanted to understand what had happened and how to fix it. But he could see Rachel shutting down, could see her preparing to run.
So instead, he stepped closer. "Okay. We don't have to talk about it."
"Mac—"
