“Me? I’m more of a verbal pounder. Ask any interview subject.”
“Try it.” He holds out the tenderizer. “It’s therapeutic.”
Our fingers brush as I take it, its weight solid.
I position myself in front of the board, raise the mallet, and bring it down with force. The plastic wrap tears, and chicken juices splatter across the cutting board.
“Whoa, Leatherface.” Brooks laughs, stepping behind me. “More control, less power.”
And then his arms are around me, his chest pressed to my back, his hands covering mine. “Like this,” he murmurs, his breath warm against my ear as he guides my movements. “Gentle but firm.”
I’m barely processing his instructions. All I can focus on is the solid heat of him behind me, his scent, the way his stubble grazes my temple when he speaks.
“That’s it.” His voice is lower as we pound the chicken together. “Feel the rhythm?”
I feel something, all right.
After a few guided strikes, he steps back. “Finish that one, then we’ll bread them.”
I channel my frustration into the chicken, imagining it’s Donny’s smug face when he tried to steal my segment. By the time I’m done, the breast is perfectly flattened, and I feel accomplished.
“Not bad.” Brooks inspects my work. “Ready for phase two?”
Phase two involves three dishes—flour, beaten eggs, and breadcrumbs mixed with herbs and parmesan. Brooks dredges the chicken first in flour, then egg, then the crumb mixture, his fingers working with surprising dexterity for such large hands.
I copy his movements, but the egg drips everywhere, and breadcrumbs scatter across the counter. “I’m making a mess.”
“Cooking is messy.” He moves behind me again. This time, his hands settle on my hips, and I swear I feel the heat of his touch through my work pants. “Keep going. You’re doing fine.”
There’s something deeply sensual about cooking with him like this—his body close, his voice guiding me, the tactile nature of the ingredients beneath my fingers.
When both pieces are breaded, Brooks drizzles olive oil into a pan and turns on the stove. “Medium-high heat. You want it hot enough to sear, but not so hot it burns before the chicken cooks.”
He places the first piece in the pan, the sizzle making my stomach growl. The aroma of garlic and herbs fills the kitchen as he sprinkles a pinch of salt over the cooking chicken.
“Where did you learn to cook?” I’m genuinely curious.
“My mom. All those years Dad was pushing hockey, Mom was teaching me other things when he wasn’t around. Said I needed balance.”
“Smart woman,” I echo his earlier words.
“She is.” He flips the chicken with practiced ease, the golden-brown crust making my mouth water.
The man behind the hockey star keeps revealing himself in these small moments, and each revelation makes it harder to accept that this has to end.
While the chicken cooks, Brooks hands me a head of lettuce and a tomato. “Salad duty,” he says. “Think you can handle a knife?”
“My hands are skilled with sharp objects.”
“Among other things,” he murmurs, his eyes briefly dropping before returning to the stove.
Suddenly, the kitchen feels several degrees warmer, but I focus on the vegetables, chopping with more enthusiasm than skill.
When the chicken is perfectly browned on both sides, Brooks transfers the pieces to a baking dish, then ladles red sauce over them. The final touch is a thick layer of mozzarella and Parmesan.
“Into the oven at 375 for about fifteen minutes.” He slides the dish onto the middle rack. “Just long enough for the cheese to get bubbly and golden.”
While we wait, we eat the salad together. Thesimple domesticity of it all—making dinner together—feels dangerously right, like we’ve been doing this for years.
