I lolled my head toward him. “Why, because I need them?”
He laughed. “No. God, am I that bad to you?”
“Do you want me to answer that?” I asked.
“Heard, Chef.” He tucked his tongue into his cheek like I’d punched him there. I felt bad for being rude. He was trying. “No, I, uh, want to improve my skills. I’ve been looking at those classes from Culinaire, but I don’t know if they’re any good.”
Fuck. That’s where I taught. Culinaire was my one last space that was hockey-free. I loved the sport. Loved what it did for my son and the way I’d watched the Rusties grow and change over the last few years. But between work and Liam’s games, I was running out of things that were just mine. Cooking school was mine.
So while Royce seemed to be trying to be nicer to me, I wasn’t ready to risk him of all people invading my hockey-free world. “I’ve never heard of it,” I lied. “I’ll ask around.”
“Thanks,” he said. “Hey, what are we having for the gala on Thursday?”
Here we go.
“Do I need to run the menu past you for approval?”
He snorted. “Easy, princess. I just want to get excited about what we’re having.”
I nodded slowly and resumed my chopping. “It’s Mardi Gras themed, as you know, so those kinds of staples. I’m working on some king cake cheesecake bars. Shrimp cocktail. Crisped red beans and rice balls.”
Royce’s eyebrows lifted. “No gumbo?”
“Hard to serve soup to people in cocktail attire.”
“It’s a Louisiana staple, though,” he whined. “It’d be so simple, you’d just put it in little ramekins?—”
“No,” I said.
“Or little shooters?—”
“Royce,” I sighed.
“You can’t call it Mardi Gras without gumbo!” I looked up to find him holding back a laugh. I stomped my foot and growled. “Dammit, this is another one of your stupid games! Out!”
He jumped just past the doorway and stuck his head in. “I’m notin!”
I tossed a wad of plastic wrap his way, but it hit captain Colton Jones square in the face as he walked in.
“Trash is over there, Chef,” Colton said, throwing the ball away. He clapped his hands and rubbed them together. “Did I hear something about cheesecake bar samples?”
“Yes, you did.” I pulled out the pan from the refrigerator under the counter. “Come here.”
“Hell yeah, free samples?” Dylan Sorrento walked in with Owen on his tail.
“Yeah. Let me know what you guys think. It’s for the gala.”
I pulled down three to-go bowls and sliced a cheesecake bar into three parts, dropping a piece in each. Cap tossed his back like a shot, Sorrento delicately pried the piece out with his fingers, and Owen found a spoon to scoop out his sample.
A fourth hand reached into the pan, one of bear paw-sized proportions. Royce had snuck in behind his teammates and tried to steal a whole bar. I swatted his hand. “Not for you!”
Royce staggered backward like I’d shot him, a hand over his heart. “But Chef!”
I ignored him, covered the pan again, and slid it back into the fridge. “Well, fellas, what’s the verdict?”
“Twelve out of ten,” Sorrento said.
“Eleven stars,” Cap added.
