I snap my focus back to Corbin, who’s stalking over to the kitchen table, where he left a grocery bag. He brings it back to the counter and unpacks some chocolate and cream. With a long, clearly aggrieved sigh, he plants his hands on the counter and announces, “Ganache. A sweet, creamy chocolate mixture used especially as a filling or frosting.”
Tyler smacks my arm. “How do you not know that? How is that not, like, on your word-a-day calendar?”
“I do know what it is. I was just fucking with him.”
Tyler snorts. “Well played.”
I turn to Corbin. “Man, there is nothing like winding you up.” Then I grin again. “Also, I fucking knew you’d show up with the ingredients.”
Corbin groans. “Did you invite me to help, or am I just here for you two to screw around with?”
I scratch my jaw, pretending to think. “Honestly? Little of both.”
Corbin feints toward my front door like he’s ready to walk out, but he won’t. He volunteered for this. He insisted on it, actually, after claiming I “couldn’t bake for shit” last night when we dads hung out in Cozy Valley.
At which point, I told him I have a child. I know how to bake. At which point, he told me his baking was better, because he had his mom’s recipes, plus he’s sworn he’ll open a damn bakery someday.
Now, here we are. Three hockey players, baking Christmas cookies in the middle of a Friday, while our kids are at school.
“Wait, wait,” Corbin says suddenly, his eyes narrowing. “Did anyone bring an apron?”
I yank open the pantry and pull mine out. “It’s black,” I say.
Tyler and Corbin glance at each other, then say in unison, “Like your soul.”
I nod, proudly.
Corbin whips his own apron out of a canvas bag he brought and ties it on, the wordsALL THIS AND I CAN BAKEemblazoned across the bib.
Tyler, unimpressed, shrugs. “Didn’t bring one.”
Corbin waggles his phone, likesee, you sucker.“Guess you can’t be in the picture.”
Tyler frowns. “Wait. You’re taking pics of this?”
“Do you have any idea how much the Internet loves threesports-ballguys baking Christmas cookies?” Corbin shoots back.
Tyler clears his throat: “Translation: you want this for when you eventually open your bakery.”
“Damn right I do,” Corbin says, but for a moment, a storm cloud seems to pass over his head. That happens sometimes when he talks about the bakery he plans to open when he retires, though that’s a ways off. There’s some regret there, but he shakes it away, bringing us all into the picture, and we smile for the camera. When he’s done, he fiddles with his phone for a minute, then puts it back in his pocket, tucking that regret far, far away too as he declares: “Now let’s get to work.”
He takes charge, measuring sugar for the peanut butter blossoms first. He moves fast, precise, like this is just another day running his imaginary future bakery, while I reach for the peanut butter.
“So how exactly does this thing work?” Corbin asks as he pours a scoop into a glass mixing bowl.
Tyler snorts. “I thought you knew how to bake. You’ve been bragging about it all day.”
“I mean the cookie swap, you ass.” Corbin rolls his eyes, then turns to me. “You wouldn’t say much about it. Mostly just mumbled and dodged. It’s a contest, right? You said you wanted to win?”
Well, I might need to clear that up. I grab a measuring cup for the peanut butter, and a spoon. “Actually,yousaid it. I just didn’t deny it.”
“Asshole,” he mutters.
“But really, everything’s a contest,” Tyler points out.
“True. True,” I acknowledge.
“So, what is it then? This cookie swap?” Corbin presses.
