Page 12 of Slap Shot (D.C. Stars #3)

TWELVE

MADELINE

I barely see Hudson my first week and a half in the apartment.

We pass each other in the hall with a hello and a wave before he heads to practice or I rush out the door to drop Lucy off at the bus stop. He leaves for two, three days at a time, getting back late after I’ve gone to bed.

I make his meals for him and put them in the refrigerator, cooked and ready and only needing a quick reheat before they can be enjoyed. Sometimes I’ll write instructions on a sticky note and leave it on the aluminum foil so he’s not confused.

Every morning when I get up, his dirty plates are arranged neatly in the dishwasher. The sink is clean, and there’s hardly a trace of him to be found.

The only sign he’s been there is a different sticky note on the counter. Always in the same place—right by the stove—and always with the same message: a thank you scribbled in his messy handwriting.

With a little smiley face in the bottom right corner.

It’s a silly thing. Something I wouldn’t usually notice, and I don’t know why it makes me laugh when I’m groggy and sleep-deprived.

But it does.

Our schedules barely overlap, and besides the meals I leave for him, it’s like Lucy and I live in his big condo alone. She loves the space, loves spending time with Gus and Millie. She’s taken to sitting in the sun that sneaks through the living room curtains late in the afternoon while she reads her book, the dogs never more than a few feet away. I’ve caught the three of them napping on the couch, and wherever Lucy goes, Gus and Millie are hot on her heels.

I yawn and stretch my arms above my head as I walk down the hall. It’s just after six and I’m desperate for a cup of coffee. My body is screaming for caffeine after I stayed up too late last night planning out this week’s menu for Hudson to review.

My eyes can barely open past a squint. My neck hurts from staring at my computer for hours while laying on my side, and it’s becoming scarily obvious I’m not in my twenties anymore.

When I get to the kitchen, I freeze. There’s a tall, imposing figure lurking in the shadows by the coffee maker. My hand comes up to cover my mouth, and the edges of my vision turn hazy. Shit . No no no . Did I lock the door last night? My heart surges up to my throat, and I fight the urge to turn back and barricade myself in Lucy’s room.

I look around and search for a weapon. The knives are too far away, and a ladle won’t cause enough damage. Somewhere in my subconscious, I know I’m about to make a stupid decision, but I rush forward and grab a banana from the fruit bowl on the counter. Pulling my arm back behind my head, I launch the fruit at the mass of a man as hard as I can.

“What the fuck?”

The voice that fills the dark kitchen is deep and scratchy and— Oh . I’ve definitely heard it before.

Hudson spins around with a cup in his hand, and I’m not too humiliated to register relief that it’s not, in fact, an intruder.

“ Madeline? ”

“Hi,” I say weakly. “Wh-what are you doing here?”

“I live here.”

“I thought you were getting back from Seattle this afternoon.”

“We left late last night because of inclement weather. Got in forty-five minutes ago, and I’m a zombie.” He bends and scoops the banana off the floor. “Did you hurl this at me?”

“No. I’d never assault my employer after mistaking him for a burglar. Especially after he invited me and my daughter to live in his nice home.”

Hudson’s mouth twitches. He sets the offending item on the island between us and takes a slow sip of his coffee. “Must’ve been the ghosts,” he says in a level voice, but a laugh cracks through the last word. “They act up every now and then. Kudos to them for wanting to protect the condo.”

“That explains the creaking I heard a couple nights ago.” I see a mark on his neck, a light pink indentation below his ear, and I wince. “Shit. I— the ghosts —really landed that throw, huh?”

“It’s my fault. I should’ve given you—sorry, them —a heads-up I was getting home this morning so there weren’t any surprises.”

“The ghosts are delirious, and you startled them. It won’t happen again.”

“At least it wasn’t an apple. That might’ve earned me a concussion, and I’m not sure how I’d explain to Coach I was injured by paranormal spirits.”

“I forgot to tell you I’m actually the Grim Reaper masquerading as a chef.”

“Is the Grim Reaper a woman?”

“She is now.”

“Secret’s out.” Hudson flashes me a full smile, and the beam wakes me up. So does the thin white shirt that shows off a sliver of skin on his stomach—the thing is like a damn crop top—and the sweatpants sitting low on his hips. “Want some coffee?”

“Yes, please,” I say, and his eyes flick to my thighs for the quickest of seconds.

The heat of his gaze causes me to look down and realize, horrifyingly, I’m in an oversized shirt that hit inches above my knees, socks that come halfway up my calves, and no fucking pants.

Jesus Almighty .

I pull on the hem of my shirt, trying to make it longer, but my efforts are futile. I’m half naked in front of him, and my knotted hair and the sheet marks on my face are not helping my cause.

Determined to maintain my professionalism despite having pigs on my feet, I march over to the coffee maker and stand by his side.

“How do you take it?” he asks.

“Pardon?” I answer, my mind stuck somewhere in a gutter because I got a glimpse of his belly button.

Hudson turns toward the cabinet and reaches for the top shelf, pulling down a mug. The bastard doesn’t have to stand on his toes like I do, and I curse my five-foot-seven stature compared to his impressive six-foot-something height. “Your coffee. Milk? Sugar? Black?”

“Oh. Right. Yeah. A splash of milk and half a spoonful of sugar. How do you take yours?”

“Extra sweet. A little bit of milk but a hell of a lot of sugar.” Hudson slides the sugar my way, and I add a scoop of it to my mug. “I’m not a huge coffee drinker, but I’m dragging this morning. I need something to wake me up.”

“You and me both.” I get my coffee to the right shade and lean against the counter. I cross my ankles and take a sip from my mug, grateful to be revived. “I sent you a menu last night for the week. I know you haven’t had a chance to look at it, but when you do, let me know if there’s anything you want to change.”

“I’ll check it out right now.” He runs a hand through his messy hair then taps his phone. He hums while he scrolls through his email and opens my color coded attachment. “I’m glad you include salmon every week. It’s one of my favorite foods.”

“Is it? I’ll keep it in the rotation, but I’ll find different variations so you don’t get bored: teriyaki. Coated with breadcrumbs. Seasoning and spices. The world is our oyster, Hayes.”

He laughs. “I can’t wait to see what you come up with. Your chicken noodle soup last week was delicious, then you went and topped it with the best steak tips I’ve ever had. Why didn’t I find you sooner?”

“If you tried to poach me from my job in Vegas, I would’ve laughed in your face. But I’m glad I’m here now.” I swallow down another sip of coffee and set my mug on the counter. “Should I get started on some food while you look over the menu? I can make an omelet and potatoes. Maybe some avocado toast so you’re carb loaded for practice?”

“We don’t have practice today because it was supposed to be a travel day, so that changes things. How do you feel about pancakes?”

“Strongly. They’re my favorite breakfast food. Might even be in my top five foods of all time.”

“That’s a bold statement. It’s a shame we can’t use the banana you launched at me.” His grin is wry and teasing as he dips his chin and scans the menu. “It’s too bruised. Like my neck.”

“Don’t you get pushed into walls for a living?”

“We call them boards, and technically I get shoved into tempered glass, but, yeah. I do, and I never thought a banana would be my demise.”

“You know what? Smart-asses don’t get pancakes. You can have toast for breakfast, and I’m going to make sure it’s dry as hell.”

“Come on.” Hudson pouts. “I need my energy for the day.”

“Fine.” I roll my eyes, pretending like he’s asking me to move mountains. “But only if you promise not to sneak around the condo anymore. Announce your presence so there are no more fruit catastrophe.”

“Would it help if I shared my location with you? Then you wouldn’t have to wonder if I’m an intruder armed with piping hot coffee as my weapon of choice or a lawful resident of the space.”

“You don’t have to?—”

“There.” He taps his screen then tosses his phone on a stack of magazines. I can’t believe he’s giving me access to his whereabouts, just like that. “Menu looks great, by the way. You don’t need to change a thing.”

“If you think of something you want to add or swap out, let me know. I’ll make adjustments as needed.”

“Sounds good to me.” He finishes off his coffee and drops his mug in the sink. “We should start on the pancakes before I wither away.”

“We wouldn’t want that, hockey guy.” I move around the island and stand on my toes to try to reach the mixing bowl. When I come up short, Hudson takes pity on me and grabs the cookware. His arm brushes against mine as he hands it my way, and a shiver races through me. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. Are we doing chocolate chips? Straight-up buttermilk?”

“Lucy will be up for school soon, and she loves chocolate chips. I can make a couple batches and?—”

“Chocolate chip it is. How can I help?”

“Will you hand me an egg? The milk and butter too?”

“You’re making these from scratch?”

I lift an eyebrow. “You thought I was going to use a boxed mix?”

“I did, and I’m learning it was a wildly offensive assumption. Forgive me, chef.”

“You’re forgiven.”

I grab a whisk and we work around each other. We make casual conversation about his game, about Lucy’s art project that involves dried macaroni and a whole thing of glue, about the dogs getting in trouble at daycare because they stole treats from a puppy.

Hudson is easy to talk to, and the company in the kitchen is nice. It’s even nicer to be around someone who makes me laugh, and when he starts the mixer and batter flies onto his face, I wheeze until my sides hurt.

“Fuck.” He wipes a chocolate chip away from his cheek and pops it in his mouth. “I should leave this to the professionals.”

“What did you do for breakfast before I got here?” I pour the salvaged batter onto the griddle and pull out a spatula from his utensil drawer. “You did eat, right?”

“Hardly. It was mostly cereal. Toast. Bananas that weren’t chucked at my head.” He chuckles and wets a paper towel so he can clean his face. “I’d swing by my friends’ places and steal some of their food. I tried to make scrambled eggs once, and the final product ended up burnt. It was a tragedy. I can still hear the trill of the smoke alarm.”

“You poor thing. You’re lucky I’m here.”

“Yeah.” Hudson beams at me. There’s still batter in his beard, on his Adam’s apple and his nose, but he doesn’t seem to care. “Lucky indeed.”