Page 118 of Slap Shot
“There are my favorite friends. Look how clean and fancy you are with your Valentine’s Day bandanas. You’re so festive.”
“Favorite friends?” Hudson trudges into the kitchen and folds himself onto one of the barstools. “I didn’t realize I was in second place behind the dogs.”
“Technically, you’re in third place. There are two dogs, Hudson.”
He grins. “Fair enough. Did you and Lucy have fun at the game?”
“That was unbelievable. I think I’m going to have to purchase season tickets after tonight.” I hand him a bowl of salad, sliding the vinaigrette he likes his way. “Luce is never going to let us sit in the nosebleeds.”
“I like sitting close. You lose a little of the view, but being in the thick of the action makes up for it.”
“How do salmon and green beans sound for dinner?”
“Delicious. I’m starving.”
“You are?” I wash my hands then pull out the fish I marinated earlier this afternoon. “Is this an every night thing or something new?”
“Hard to tell.” Hudson shrugs and finishes his salad in record speed. “I’m always hungry, but I’ve always had a fast metabolism.”
“I’m going to up your protein and fiber next week to see if that helps. I’ll also work on adjusting your pregame meals to include more carbs.”
“You know, if the chef thing doesn’t pan out—which it obviously will, because you’re amazing at it—you’d have a solid career in athlete nutrition.”
I slide the fish in the oven and set a timer. “I’m not sure I have the qualifications for that.”
“That’s not true.” He drops an elbow on the island and yawns. “I’m eating better than every guy on the team. Coach made a comment today about how I’m quicker than I was last season. I’m squatting more in the weight room, and that’s because of how you’re fueling me.”
“Thanks for all the flattery.” I smile and grab a plate from the cabinet. “It’s part of my job, though. Just like how yours is to hit the puck.”
“How did I hit the puck tonight?” Hudson asks. “Grade my game from A to F.”
“Given I knownothingabout hockey, I’d say you were a C,” I tell him, pulling a random letter from thin air, and he groans.
“A C? Come on. What would’ve gotten me an A, Galloway?”
“Throwing your glove so Lucy could reach.” I pause and coat the pan with olive oil for the green beans. “You have a lot of fans.”
“Do I?”
“Did you miss all the women screaming at you?”
“Ah.” His cheeks flush a dark shade of red. “I tune it out. The attention makes me uncomfortable. I don’t know how I’m supposed to react to someone holding up a sign with their cell phone number on it, so it’s best for me to ignore it. I’m there to do my job, you know?”
“You said hi to me and Lucy.”
“You’re different. I like y’all. You’re my favorite girls in the arena, no matter what anyone else’s shirt says.”
“Really?”
“Really. I’m sorry about the glove. That was shitty of her. Everyone knows sports etiquette is to give the gear to a kid if they’re around.” He tips his head to the side, glancing at me. “I have a closet full of stuff she can sort through. I don’t want her to feel left out.”
My chest hurts at the sincerity behind his apology. I was teasing him. Lucy doesn’t understand what she missed out on, but his acknowledgment of it means the world.
Thoughtful, considerate, and lovely.
Just like he always is.
“We’ll be back for another game. We’ll try again,” I say, and his grin rivals the sun.
