When she finally stops, she’s breathless, grinning. “Fine. You skate better than me.”
I huff a laugh, breath fogging between us. When I slide beside her, close enough that our shoulders touch, her pulse jumps at the base of her throat. I want to lean in and taste the cold on her lips, but I wait. Instead, I offer my hand. “Come on. Before our toes turn to ice.”
She takes it without hesitation.
We share the cocoa, then walk back toward the cabin under an indigo sky. The rink glows behind us, lanterns flickering across the frozen lake.
Our fingers are numb and the tips of her nose and cheeks are pink from the cold once we step inside. She kicks off her boots in the mudroom, laughing softly when I bump her shoulder.
“This was fun,” she says, brushing snow from her hair.
The house is cold and quiet, the fire nothing but gray ash. I crouch at the hearth, stack kindling, and light it while she hangs our jackets by the door. The match flares, catches. When the fire starts to roar, I move to the kitchen. “Dinner time,” I announce, opening cabinets. “We’ve got pasta, olive oil, and vegetables.”
She leans on the counter, chin in her palm. “You actually know how to cook?”
“I’m not just a pretty face.” I grab a cutting board. “Liam used to bribe me with lasagna if I made the sauce.”
“So it’s genetic?”
“Learned behavior.” I start slicing zucchini and red pepper. “Survival of the hungriest.”
Her warm laugh hits me dead center. “What can I do?”
“Stir. And don’t judge.”
She steps in close, hip brushing mine as she reaches for the wooden spoon. The kitchen is big enough for ten people, but somehow she’s right here—her shoulder warm against my arm, her hair skimming my elbow as she leans in to peek into the pan.
“What’s the plan?” she asks.
“Garlic sauté, pasta, roasted veggies. Carb loading at its finest.”
“So…hockey player gourmet.”
“Exactly.”
She stirs slowly. “You do this often? I thought Mason fed you guys.”
“I cook when I need to think.”
“Think about what?”
“Everything. Hockey. Family. Life after college.”
Her motion slows. “You’re heading to the Defenders, right?”
I shrug. “That’s the plan. Training camp, contract meetings—the whole thing.”
She waits. She’s good at that.
“And…” I add, “MIT emailed yesterday.”
Her head snaps up. “MIT emailed you?”
“Yeah. Engineering Design program.”
“You got in?” she whispers, eyes widening.
“Yes.” I toss the pasta in, letting the steam distract me. “I haven’t told anyone.”
