“Like that?” He held it up hopefully.
“Thinner. Here—” I stood beside him, close enough that our shoulders touched. Close enough to guide his hands without it seeming too deliberate. “Hold the knife at a slight angle and use a gentle sawing motion instead of just pressing down.”
Griffin tried again, his brow furrowed with focus. This slice was better—still too thick but heading in the right direction. “How’s this?”
I suppressed a grin. “Getting there. Keep going.”
I moved to preheat the oven while Griffin massacred the mozzarella with intense concentration. When I glanced over, he’d produced several slices of varying thickness, arranged on the cutting board like a topographical map.
“Those look… interesting,” I said diplomatically.
“They look terrible. I told you I was bad at this.” But Griffin was smiling, not actually discouraged, and I couldn’t help smiling in return. “What’s next?”
“Halve the cherry tomatoes.” I handed him a pint container. “This is easier. Just cut them lengthwise.”
Griffin picked up a tomato, positioned it carefully on the cutting board, and brought the knife down. The tomato squirted across the counter, shooting seeds and juice in threedirections. He stared at the mess with obvious dismay. “I promise I’m better at hockey than this.”
I laughed—a real, genuine laugh that felt like release. “The key is holding it steady and slicing. Not squishing. Like this.” I placed my hand over his on the hilt and carefully guided the blade across the tomato. My breath hitched at the intimacy.
Griffin tried again with exaggerated care and successfully halved a tomato on his own without casualties. “Success!”
“There you go. Keep at it while I season the chicken.”
We fell into an easy rhythm—Griffin painstakingly halving tomatoes with the concentration of someone defusing a bomb, me preparing the chicken breasts with practiced efficiency. The kitchen filled with the smell of garlic and herbs as I worked, and I stole glances at Griffin, watching the way his shoulders moved under the Henley, the flex of his forearms as he worked the knife, the small smile that played at his lips when he successfully completed a task.
He looked relaxed. Happy. Nothing like the carefully controlled captain I saw at the facility, all performance and perfect image. This version of Griffin—incompetent in the kitchen but trying anyway, laughing at his own mistakes—felt real in ways that made my chest ache with possibility.
This could work.This version of us could actually work.
“Okay, tomatoes are done.” He stepped back from the counter and surveyed his work with obvious pride. The halves were uneven, some barely cut while others were nearly quartered, but he’d completed the task without injury. “What now?”
“Now we assemble.” I showed him how to create pockets in the chicken breasts, stuff them with the mozzarella and basil, then arrange the tomatoes around them in the baking dish. Griffin followed my instructions with the same intensefocus, his large hands surprisingly gentle as he tucked basil leaves into the chicken.
“Like this?” He held up a stuffed breast for inspection.
“Perfect. You’re getting the hang of it.”
“Liar.” But his smile suggested he appreciated the encouragement anyway.
Once the chicken was in the oven, I opened a beer while Griffin cleaned up the kitchen—wiping down counters with efficient strokes, loading the dishwasher in a logical pattern, returning ingredients to their proper places with the same precision he brought to organizing plays on the ice.
“You’re actually good at this part.” I leaned against the counter, sipped my IPA, and watched him work with pleasant surprise.
“Cleanup I can handle.” Griffin rinsed the cutting board and efficiently loaded it into the dishwasher. “It’s methodical. Logical. A clear process with defined steps and a specific end goal.”
“Unlike cooking, which requires some art.”
“Exactly.” He closed the dishwasher and surveyed the now-spotless kitchen with obvious satisfaction. “Give me a system to follow, and I’m fine. Ask me to finesse food, and suddenly I’m a disaster.”
“Good to know you have at least one domestic skill.” I raised my bottle in mock salute. “Your future doesn’t have to consist entirely of takeout and protein shakes.”
“Just mostly takeout and protein shakes,” Griffin corrected, moving to stand beside me. “With occasional supervised cooking attempts when you’re around to prevent kitchen fires.”
“That’s endearing.”
“Just what a captain wants to hear. He’s endearing.” He chuckled.
“Your other skills are more important.” I folded the dish towel and hung it on the oven’s handle. “Hockey, for instance. Leadership. Making speeches without passing out. Those actually matter in your job.”
