“Don’t listen to Parker, they’re Texan,” Ryan says, clapping Mattias on the shoulder. The team captain moves away from his touch, resulting in a petulant look from Ryan.
“Only bad meat needs sauce,” Parker drawls, fishing around in their pocket for a cigarette. They tuck one behind their ear.
“You can all leave now,” Falkenberg says. I glance at the oven clock, seeing it’s almost nine—just as Falkenberg snatches the plate and crosses the kitchen like he means to toss them.
“You aren’t going to eat them?” I blurt.
He stops, his hand hovering above the trash can. “They’re not in my regimen.”
“Well, they’re in mine.” I march over to him and grab the plate out of his hands. “Give me those.”
I can’t believe he was about to waste good food like that. I take a seat at his kitchen table and look at him expectantly. He looks like a deer in headlights.
“Y’all have fun with that. I’m hitting the taco truck. Ryan, if your white bread taste buds aren’t gonna combust, you’re welcome to join,” Parker saysover their shoulder. Ryan shakes his head and finishes packing up his gear. Mattias gives me a sharp look like he’s not sure what to do with me, then follows to let them out.
Suddenly my heart jumps into my throat. My appetite nearly disappears at the prospect of being alone with him. I hear the door open and close a moment later.
I didn’t plan for this.
It’s just meatballs, Freddie.I’m just going to eat them and be on my way—assuming he doesn’t break out a tarp and chainsaw and filet me on his dining room table.
Falkenberg reappears in the kitchen, pulls out a fork and knife from a drawer, and brings them to me, a wary expression on his face.
“Thank you,” I say, hoping he doesn’t hear the waver in my voice.
He watches me as I take a stab at a meatball. “Your knife is there for a reason.”
“What’s a knife?” I say. I’ve spent enough time with the team by now to know how it irks him when people don’t use one. He gives me a reproachful look.
“Since you’re making yourself at home, would you like a glass of wine as well?”
“Are you drinking with me this time?”
“I have early practice tomorrow.”
I shrug. “More for me.”
“You’re driving,” he scolds as he disappears.
“So bossy,” I say when he reappears with a bottle of red and one glass. I’m really trying not to drink alone anymore, but damn, my heart is practically beating out of my chest so I’m not going to say no. He twists it open with apop. I bite into a meatball while he pours me a glass, and it’s delicious—so savory, with seasonal spices. The lingonberrysauce adds the perfect amount of tartness. “Where did you learn to cook?”
“You’ve met Micke. Goaltenders eat at least eight meals a day.” He takes a seat across from me, crossing his arms.
“Your mom didn’t cook?” I say slowly, knowing it’s a risky question. His hand stills.
“She was never much help after my father passed. She tried for a while, but once we were old enough to feed ourselves and take the bus to school and hockey practice, she gave up.”
“Do you have other siblings?”
“No, just Micke.”
My brows lift. I have a hard enough time taking care of myself. I can’t imagine what it would be like if I’d had to raise Elle, too.
“Is your mom in Stockholm?”
“In Rimbo,” he corrects. “She still lives in our childhood home, but I haven’t spoken to her in years at this point. Micke checks on her regularly to make sure she’s feeding herself.”
“Does she work?”
