A few minutes later, without a word and like it’s the most natural thing in the world, he grabs a cutting board and a knife and starts chopping vegetables.
While he works, I occasionally steal pieces from the board.
“Stop,” he says, laughing.
“They were too small to use,” I protest. “You cut them in the perfect size for me to snack on. They’re not even proper soup-size.”
He hums under his breath, already sounding in a better mood.
We talk while we cook.
About practice.
About the garden.
About nothing and everything.
After yesterday ended on such a strange note, this feels easy again.
When we sit down at the table, plates steaming in front of us, the house feels warm. Lived-in.
We eat slowly, conversation flowing easily between us.
At one point, Jake tells a story about a rookie messing up a drill and reenacts the guy’s expression so dramatically that I nearly choke on my water.
Who would have thought he could be this funny?
He grins at me across the table.
I can’t help but grin back. “You know what I can’t stop thinking about? When my dad thought I was pregnant last night. I know he would’ve been shocked if we’d said yes, but I also wouldn’t be surprised if he starts asking for grandkids soon.”
I expect Jake to laugh. To play along.
He doesn’t.
Instead, he takes a long gulp of water. “Yeah. That’s never going to happen.”
I give a small laugh. “Yeah, I know. It’s not like we’re actually married.”
“That’s not what I mean.”
Something in his tone makes me still.
“I mean,” he says evenly, “I don’t want kids.”
I already know this. He told me that the night of the charity dinner.
I try to keep my voice light. “Okay.”
Jake’s gaze drops to his plate. The muscle in his jaw works once, like he’s chewing something he can’t swallow.
“Why?” I ask gently.
There’s a long moment where I can see him deciding whether to shut down or stay in it with me.
“There’s just no place for kids in my life,” he says.
I swallow. “Because of hockey?”
