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When a devastating injury threatens the career of Terence Tiles, the superstar goalie for the Seattle Kraken, the foundation of the life he meticulously built over eight years crumbles. Overwhelmed, he retreats from...
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He caught me off guard.
No one catches me off guard. Ever.
Just like it happened two years ago, he's managed to catch me off guard again. My heart leaps at the thought of succulent chicken breasts, and when they're combined with a steaming bowl of soup, I'm ready to hand over my credit card and security code without a second thought. Marry me if you wish, or not-it doesn't matter, as long as you promise to keep creating those heavenly chicken breasts and soul-warming soups until our last breath.
There's something strangely enchanting about how he observes me indulging without restraint, completely consumed by the exquisite flavors. My culinary skills are limited to mediocre pancakes and a reliance on takeout, yet savoring this dish ignites a desire to pack my bags and reside with him-just as long as he continues crafting such delectable creations.
Beneath the intensity of his gaze, it's as if I'm carrying the weight of a burning connection. If this extraordinary meal is his way of apologizing, there's an odd inclination to welcome more offenses just for the opportunity to relish those perfect chicken breasts. What does that say of me?
"You must be a bad cook," he remarks. I watch his lips move, though he can't hear himself. I'm left wondering why he even bothers.
"You're right," I sign with my mouth full of the delicious dish. "I can only make pancakes, and they're usually bad." A subtle huff of laughter escapes his lips-it's a small sound, but it's there.
"I can make you some," he stops speaking and signs. "Good pancakes."
Oh, God. My role is to help him reclaim his position as the incredible goalie, not to have him cooking for me, no matter how skilled he might be in the kitchen.
This situation is becoming uncharacteristically informal; I'm usually all business, yet he effortlessly draws out a side of me that should remain tucked away. It's too early to broach the topic of the accident or anything hockey-related-I risk pushing him further away. If that happens, the Krakens won't see their star goalie return, and Andrade might drop him or trade him to a place where his talent won't be valued.
He breaks the silence, emerging from his dark, eerie basement. It's progress-undeniable progress.
His eyes stay fixed on me as I finish the last bite of the savory chicken breasts. Without uttering a word, he gracefully stands and collects the plates I've just used. Cleaning isn't my forte; Madam Beaufort raised me, but she never bothered teaching me culinary or housekeeping skills, and honestly, I didn't care to learn. My upbringing centered around achieving and embracing a heavy ambition, ultimately propelling me to where I stand today-a woman fueled by an unwavering desire for accomplishment.
He should have caught on by now-I'm here as his agent, tasked with guiding him back to his true self, the formidable goalie who never loses sight of the puck.
With the plates cradled in his hands, he heads towards what I assume is the kitchen. Logic dictates that I shouldn't trail behind him, but my curiosity gets the better of me; I've never explored his kitchen during my time here. This place was likely envisioned as a family haven, a testament to his dreams achieved, yet now it seems tinged with melancholy. His mother has passed, and his sister remains emotionally distant.
