Landon’s kitchen counter was a riot of ingredients, a little wild in the best way: wings stacked in a shallow tray, potato skins lined up for loading, a bowl of shredded mozzarella, another of pizza dough still soft and pliable, peppers and celery in neat piles beside small dishes of spices.
“It’s not too late to change our minds and order in,” he said, arms folding over his chest.
I slapped his arm playfully. “Half the fun of game-day snacks is making the snacks.”
He took a crunching bite from a stalk of celery. “My idea of fun is eating the snacks, not making them.”
“Yeah, well, what do you know?” I slid a clean bowl in front of him. “Here, you’re in charge of dip while I get the pizza going.”
I started pulling the pizza dough from its bowl, and stretched it across a floured tray. Landon watched with a quiet attentiveness, one hand hovering near the counter as though ready to intervene, though I knew better. He wasn’t going to ruin my work. He had his own way of showing he cared, by holding back, by staying steady even when everything inside him was anything but.
The wings went into a shallow pan. We measured spices, dumping paprika and garlic powder into the bowl. I caught his gaze in the corner of my eye, the tight set of his jaw, the way he forced a casual shrug whenever I asked his opinion.
He wanted to act like he didn’t care, but I knew this was eating him alive. I didn’t need him to say it.
“I call it Mango Frango,” he said, proudly holding up the dip he’d just invented. “It has too much garlic, though. Might have to scrap it and start over.”
“There’s no such thing as too much garlic.” I dipped a fingertip into the bowl, and sucked it clean. The flavor hit bright, creamy, just enough bite from the horseradish. “Tastes fine to me. Try it again and see.”
But instead of turning his attention to the bowl, Landon leaned over and pulled me into a dizzying kiss, his tongue plunging into my mouth. It caught me off guard. I froze for half a beat, then let it stretch just enough, heat rolling through me, sharp against the dull ache in my chest. Not mine, but an echo of what he was clearly feeling.
When we broke apart, he smacked his lips together. “You’re right. That tastes amazing.”
The suggestion in his tone sent a warm flush creeping onto my cheeks.
I shoved the potato skins onto a tray, arranging them just so, my hands dusted with flour. Landon had moved on to his version of buffalo chicken dip, stirring endlessly while lost in thought. I didn’t have to ask. He’d been in pieces over this for days. Worse than ever now the finals were drawing to a close. It was a hard pill to swallow, but not only had he missed the playoffs, he could basically scrap this past year from his career stats.
Cooking gave us both something else to focus on. The distraction was a meager one, but it was the best we had. I tried to pull him into jokes and playful commentary on my cooking mastery, but he’d chuckle once out of obligation and go back to what he’d been doing. My attempts at cheering him up fell short every time, and I felt the pull of disappointment, the unspoken grief in his eyes.
The cheese was already shredded, and I sprinkled a handful in uneven clumps across the dough.
“Don’t you dare.” I slapped his hand as he tried to steal a taste of cheese.
“Have you already forgotten this is supposed to be fun?” Landon swiped a clump of cheese and shoved it into his mouth before I could say anything. “It’s no use herding me into one of your perfect, perfectly labeled boxes.”
The potato skins went into the oven, and the chicken wings were spiced and waiting in a flat tray. I wiped my hands on a towel, then reached for the celery. He followed with a stalk of carrot, crunching down, expression neutral except for the flicker of something behind his eyes. He wanted to keep the weight of it all hidden, but I could see it in the slight clench of his jaw, the quiet intensity in the way he moved.
This was going to be a long night.
“I don’t think you’re supposed to do it like that,” he said, motioning toward the pile of sliced peppers in front of me.
Leftover flour from dusting the pizza dough lured me in, and I scooped my fingertips through it, bringing one to the tip of Landon’s nose. He froze, squinting to survey the damage.
“You’re a hazard in the kitchen. Has anyone ever told you that?”
“Payback,” I said, and continued slicing.
The oven pinged, and I slid the first tray of wings inside. He wiped his hands on a towel, and caught me as I moved past, his thumb brushing mine. The touch was brief, fleeting, but it held the undercurrent of everything unspoken, everything we were trying not to name.
“We don’t have to watch it,” I said, nodding toward the TV.
He paused what he was doing, gaze flicking to the screen. Then he shook his head. “It’s game six of the finals. I have to know how it ends.”
I let the words hang as I arranged the last tray on the counter, feeling the warmth from the oven, the closeness, the quiet intimacy punctuated by the heat of his presence and the tension I could not smooth away. The snacks were almost ready. We moved together in rhythm, slicing, sprinkling, tasting, stealing quick glances that said more than we would admit.
We carried the trays and a small ice bucket of beers into the living room, the couch swallowing us as soon as we sank into it. Landon set the snacks on the coffee table with a soft clatter, the heat from the oven lingering on his hands. The TV glowed, already tuned to the Surge feed, and the hum of the pregame chatter filled the space between us.
“I feel bad for not being there,” he said, voice tight around the words. He picked at the foil covering the wings, the motion small, careful. “The guys count on my behind-the-scenes strategy. This was when they needed it most.”
