Page 21 of Slap Shot
“Perfect. I’m thinking we’ll do protein-heavy plates for your meals. Chicken with sides of starches and veggies. Fish too, for the acids and vitamins. Carbohydrates like pasta two days out from your games because that’s your main source of energy during exercise, and easier carbs like whole grain toast on game day mornings.” I make a list of what I mentioned, and when I look up, Hudson is staring at my notebook. His eyebrows wrinkle, and he frowns before shaking his head. “Is everything okay?”
“No one’s ever been so thorough with my nutrition before,” he says in a defeated tone, and it makes me mad at everyonewho’s been in his kitchen before me. “The only person who has mentioned ever carbohydrates to me are the team’s trainers.”
“This is serious stuff, Hudson. Your body is what earns you money. Focusing on the ways to help you take care of it seems like the bare minimum.”
“They, ah, were more focused on my body in other ways.”
“What does that mean?”
“They’d try to flirt with me. And get me to sleep with them?” He says it like a question, adding a lifted shoulder. His cheeks turn pink, and he clears his throat. “And then there was the guy who was a super fan and showed me the tattoo he has of my jersey on his calf. My nutrition wasn’t important to any of them.”
“I was going to get your name tattooed on my ass, but I’ll hold off until next month,” I say, testing the waters with sarcasm, and I’m relieved when he lets out a loud chuckle.
“Bonus points for your humor, Madeline. And thank you for being so kind.”
“I’ll take all the points I can get. In all seriousness, that’s very disappointing about your previous chefs, and I’m so sorry you were taken advantage of. I know this might not mean a whole lot yet, but I promise to keep things professional between us. I don’t date or have personal relationships, so you have nothing to worry about,” I say, and I’m more determined than ever to make sure I get this job right.
SEVEN
HUDSON
I’ve heardthose lines a hundred times before, but this is the first time I actually believe them.
Madeline means business, and I appreciate how she’s not scooting closer to me. I like how she’s keeping her legs turned slightly to the side so they don’t touch mine. I appreciate that her eyes haven’t lingered on my chest and she’s kept her attention on my face, not my ass.
I think I appreciate her.
It’s obvious she’s good at her job and would take this role seriously. The chicken curry the other night sealed the deal for me, but no one’s come into my kitchen and thrown out words likeacidsandprotein-heavybefore, andfuckdoes that give me hope.
Cooking isn’t rocket science.
I should have a handle on this stuff.
My mom was great in the kitchen.
I grew up watching her cook, make bread and pasta from scratch on top of her full-time job, and put together Thanksgiving and Christmas Eve dinners for our extended family.
But I didn’t inherit any of her culinary capabilities.
Maybe after she passed, my brain involuntarily shut down. It threw up a defense mechanism and refused to learn how to do anything other than popping a frozen meal into the microwave because that washerthing, and if I take over, it’ll mean she’s really gone.
That’s what my therapist would say, and the asshole is always right.
Grief is a fucking menace.
“Thank you for the reassurance,” I say, and she smiles. “What was your schedule like at your previous job?”
“I got to the restaurant around two thirty and left around eleven. The days were long as hell, but I loved it so much,” she says. “What is your routine when you have a game in DC?”
“Morning skate is sometimes optional when we play that night, but we do have a team meeting around ten. I typically go to the arena early to tape up my stick and get in the right headspace. Sometimes I’ll do some skating and shooting, but it varies. A couple of the guys and I will mess around together and play a quick game of soccer in the tunnel.”
“Soccer? I didn’t know I was in the presence of a multi-sport athlete,” she jokes.
I laugh. I’ve never felt this relaxed around a stranger before.
“Athlete is averygenerous term for my soccer skills. It’s a way for us to decompress and take the stress off before the game. I’ll grab the lunch the team provides for us or head home to eat, then I nap. I try to eat a light meal before I go back to the arena two and a half hours before puck drop, then I eat again when I get home.”
“Wow.” Madeline frowns. “I feel like an asshole.”
