Page 12 of Offside

“I was about to eat. That’s why I’m sitting at the dinner table.”

“Ryan, are you eating enough? You look like you’ve been running yourself into the ground.”

I raised my head. “I’m fine, Linda. Just a little tired today.”

“He’s fine,” Griffin confirmed. “He eats like a machine. I’ve seen it. It’s actually unsettling.”

“A machine that runs on brisket, apparently,” Maren said.

“A machine that runs on brisket,” I agreed.

Maren smiled at me and reached for the serving spoon, and I had the clear thought I was going to have a hard time pretending this dinner was just a dinner.

Tom got up, refilled everyone’s water and sat at the head of the table, satisfied. Things were running exactly as he’d set them up. “So,” he said, pointing his fork at me. “Tell me about this team. Be honest. Not the press conference version.”

I considered his question as I chewed then swallowed. “Better than I expected. The young guys want it badly. The veterans aren’t coasting.” I glanced at Griffin. “The goaltending situation is solid.”

Griffin pointed at me with a flourish. “The correct answer.”

“How’s the city treating you?” Tom asked. “You a Phoenix guy yet?”

“I’m getting there.” I picked up my water. “The heat is an adjustment.”

“You get used to it,” Linda said, from the kitchen doorway.

“Everyone keeps saying that.”

“Because it’s true,” Maren said. “And also because the alternative is leaving, and nobody wants you to do that.” My eyebrows rose and a smirk pulled at my lips.

“Not if they have any sense,” Tom agreed.

“He hasn’t tried the chile yet,” Griffin told his mom.

“I was getting there,” I said.

“He’s been looking at it for five minutes.”

I set my fork down with resignation. “Truthfully, I think Arizona is trying to kill me with green chiles.”

There was laughter around the table. Maren turned to me with an expression of patient interest, like she had all the time in the world to watch this play out.

“Do you not like spicy food?” she asked, seemingly almost affronted.

“I like spicy food fine. What I don’t understand is why it’s in everything. Why do biscuits and gravy need green chile? They don’t. And everyone says it’s not that spicy, and then it is—it’s very spicy—and I’m the only one at the table who seems to notice.”

Maren laughed, and Griffin with her. “You get used to it,” Griffin said. “Mom’s sauce isn’t even hot. It’s the guest version.”

“There’s a guest version?” I asked.

“There’s always a guest version.” Griffin pushed the bowl in my direction.

Maren propped her chin in her hand and watched me with an expression, open and slightly amused, so cute it was hard to look at her directly for too long. I picked up the sauce, poured a careful amount alongside my brisket, and dipped the meat in it with the composure I reserved for high-pressure faceoffs. They were all watching me intently, awaiting the verdict.

It was actually excellent. Rich and smoky with just enough heat to add flavor without burning my taste buds off. I was chewing and about to say so when it arrived. A slow, building warmth that had nothing to do with temperature. Fuck. Those god damn chiles.

I reached for my beer.

“You okay?” Maren asked. She was losing the fight with her smile.