Page 6 of Slap Shot (D.C. Stars #3)

SIX

MADELINE

Nerves roll through me as I pace outside Hudson’s apartment two minutes before noon.

I know I’m damn good at what I do, and I’ve always walked into interviews with my head held high. The reviews about my food and the month-long waitlist we had at CARVD speak for themselves.

This is different.

I’m out of my element here. I can cook my ass off, but I’m still not sure how to cook my ass off for the hockey superstar.

Clutching the plate of brownies I stress baked in Piper’s kitchen last night to my chest like a shield, I take a deep breath and knock. I don’t have to wait long before the door flies open, and Hudson is there.

I’ve never been drawn to blond men, but he’s an anomaly. From the deep blue eyes and the scruff of his well-trimmed beard to his shaggy hair and the way he holds himself like he commands the attention of everyone in the room, Hudson Hayes has me curious.

“Madeline.” He smiles, and there’s a dimple on his right cheek. “Hey. Come on in.”

“Thank you.” I slip into the foyer, aware of his presence and the scent of his cologne. He smells like oranges and soap, and I do my best not to inhale the fragrance. “Thanks for seeing me.”

“Thanks for coming. Did you have a chance to explore the city?”

“I did. There’s a lot more history here than in Vegas, and I didn’t find a single casino.”

His laugh is a deep and rumbly thing, and he runs his hand through his hair. “I’ll point you in the direction of some if you feel like gambling.”

“Probably not the smartest move to throw my money away while I’m unemployed.” I shove the plate I’m holding his way. “I made you some brownies so you can get another idea of my tastes and flavors.” I freeze when I realize what I’ve said. “Not… not my taste. The taste of the food I like to make. Baked goods, I mean.”

“Brownies?” Hudson lights up. His fingers brush against mine when he takes the plate, and I shiver. “I try to be good about my sugar intake during the season, but I’m a sucker for anything chocolate. Anything sweet, really.”

“Noted.” I run my hands over the front of my jeans and shift on my feet. “Should I take off my shoes? Or?—”

A big dog comes charging down the hall, interrupting me. When he gets close, he puts his paws on my shoulder and licks my cheek.

“ Shit . Sorry. Asparagus.” Hudson tugs on the dog’s collar and pulls him away. “No jumping.”

“Asparagus?” I smile down at the dog wagging its tail. “Do you always randomly call out vegetables?”

He hides his laugh behind a cough and scratches the dog’s head. “It’s Gus’s full name.”

I tilt my head. “Okay, but… your dog is named Asparagus? Why? ”

“Why not?” He gets the dog—Gus—settled on all fours, then looks over his shoulder. “The other one is Millie. She’s older and less of a jumper. She shouldn’t accost you too much, but if she does, just rub her stomach. She loves belly scratches.”

“There are two of them? Who watches them when you’re on the road?” I ask.

“They go to daycare. If this turns out to be a good fit, I can keep them here so you can hang out with them while I’m away. They’re great company.”

“I’m not sure how that would go with my daughter. She’s six, and they’re twice the size of her.”

“Wait.” Hudson’s smile drops. The air shifts. “You have a daughter?”

I swallow and try not to panic.

I didn’t talk about her the night we met, but I expected Piper to at least mention her to him. Judging by the surprise in his voice, this is the first time he’s learning about her, and I’m afraid I’m about to lose this job before I even have a chance to prove myself.

“Yes,” I say. “Her name is Lucy.”

I miss her so much. I can’t wait to get back to Vegas and hug her. This is the longest we’ve ever been separated, and as excited as I am about this potential opportunity, I really want to be home with her.

“Lucy,” he repeats, and I like how he says her name. I almost like it as much as the way he pronounces mine, Ma-de-lynne , and he’s gotten it right every time. “Where was she when we were having dinner?”

“She’s back in Vegas with my parents. I wanted to check out the situation I might be getting myself into before I had her do cross-country travel. I barely know Piper, and I don’t know you at all. Her safety is my top priority.”

He bobs his head. “Got it. If this works out between us, will your husband make the move out here too?”

“I’m not married.”

“Boyfriend? Girlfriend?”

“Neither. I’m single. And divorced,” I add, wincing at the overshare.

“Okay. Uh.” Hudson rubs the back of his neck. I’ve probably made him uncomfortable. “I think we should start over.”

“This is my fault. I should’ve mentioned her before, and I feel like a horrible mother for not talking about her once during dinner. I didn’t know if telling you I had a daughter played a factor into your decision-making,” I blurt. “I love her very much. She’s deaf, and she’ll need to be with me some nights if I’m here late. I?—”

“Hey.” He stops me, smiling my way again, and I swear I can feel his grin everywhere. “Please don’t apologize. You’re right; we don’t know each other, and you don’t owe me any information about your personal life. When you share your daughter with me is up to you, and being a mother doesn’t disqualify you from the position. She’s welcome here, and so are you. If Gus and Millie are going to be in the way, you can put them in my bedroom. They’ll sleep for hours. We can tackle that down the road.”

“Okay.” I give him a weak smile that hardly matches his. “Should we get started with the interview and forget everything I said in the last five minutes?”

His laugh is light, some melodic burst of noise that makes the space behind my ribs ache. “I don’t know why I used the word interview . You’re qualified for the job and the only person I’m talking to. I thought maybe we could spend the afternoon getting to know each other. Nothing formal or anything like that. I just want to make sure we’re a good fit outside of your cooking skills.”

Hudson leads me to his kitchen, and I tell myself everything he said was genuine. I did a deep internet dive into him last night when I was in bed, after he texted me his address. I pulled up every interview, every video clip, every piece of information I could find, and they all told me the same thing: Hudson is a damn nice guy, and he wasn’t putting on an act when I first met him.

He’s not putting on an act right now either.

His digital footprint is small, and his social media presence is minimal. There aren’t any photos with women on boats in Italy. No blurry snapshots of him cradling a handle of vodka while he dodges paparazzi. The two million Instagram followers he has seem to be devoted fans, and the forty people he follows are his teammates and rescue shelters across the country.

I think I made it back eight years— before he reached today’s level of fame and success—and I still couldn’t find anything about him that put a bad taste in my mouth.

“Your condo is nice,” I say, making small talk. “Have you lived here long?”

“About four years. We didn’t have a lot of money when I was growing up, and I’ve never been into materialistic things. I used the same skates even after my feet outgrew them because I felt guilty asking my parents to buy me a new pair. I’m still not into spending lots of money, but knowing DC is where I’m going to finish out my career, I decided to find a permanent spot. This place opened up, and I took it.”

When we get to the kitchen, I freeze. I gape at the top-of-the-line appliances, the marble island that’s probably nine feet long, and the massive refrigerator that could hold enough food to last three weeks.

I squeak when I find the stove, an eight-burner range that probably costs more than three of my rent payments back in Las Vegas, and fawn over the double microwaves.

“Oh my god. I’ve never seen a residential kitchen this nice,” I say.

“The previous owners did a good job with renovations. It’s a shame I can’t cook to save my life. It goes to waste, and I swear my oven side-eyes me when I eat a bowl of cereal for dinner,” he says.

I step into the room and run my fingers along the curve of the brass faucet. I touch the knob on the stove and open the oven, peering inside and finding it ridiculously clean. “Is that why you need a private chef? Because you can’t cook?”

“It’s a major part of it, but I also hate having to think about food after a game. My mind is shot. My body hurts. Some nights I don’t get home until eleven o’clock, and I need to refuel after burning so many calories. If it were up to me, I’d be at Taco Bell shoveling down five Crunchwrap Supremes. I do go that route sometimes, but I’m getting older. I’m not as quick as I used to be on the ice, and I could use nutrients, not fast-food stuff.”

“How old are you?” I ask. “Twenty-five? Twenty-six?”

“Wow.” He grins again. “I’m flattered. Guess the sunscreen I wear works. I’m thirty-one. My birthday was back in July. And you’re… hang on. You have a six-year-old. You’ve been cooking for a while. I’m going to say you look twenty-eight, but you’re really thirty-three.”

I glance at him. “How did you know?”

“I read an article about you in Food & Wine,” he admits, and knowing he researched me like I researched him makes me blush. “I wanted to make sure you were legit. You check out, Galloway.”

“What can I say? I know my way around a kitchen.” I open the fridge, and the lack of food inside is appalling. “Do you live alone?”

“I do. Some of the guys on the team have a family they need their chefs to cook for, but I’m all by myself.” Gus comes trotting into the kitchen, and Hudson tosses him a toy. “I hope that will make things easier for you.”

“Cooking is cooking, no matter if it’s for one person or four.” I set my purse on the counter and take a seat on one of the barstools. I pull out the notebook I brought, flipping it open to a new page. “I’m going to be honest with you, Hudson, and reiterate what I mentioned at Piper’s the other night: I don’t have any private chef experience. I’m confident in my ability to create meals, though. I can handle stress and fast-paced environments, and I’m open to feedback and criticism. I’m also a quick learner, and I think I can make the transition from handling a dining room to handling a weekly menu for you very easily.”

“Why would I criticize your food?”

“I’d be working for you, and my job would be to make things you want to eat. If something isn’t up to your standard or you didn’t enjoy a particular meal, I hope you’ll let me know. You’re not going to hurt my feelings.”

“Are restaurant kitchens exactly what they seem like on the television shows? With everyone yelling at each other?” He slides onto the other stool and spins so we’re facing each other. He rests an elbow on the island and drums his other fingers on his thigh. “And are there a lot of fires?”

I smile. “A lot less fires, to be honest. But the same amount of yelling. It’s not mean yelling. More to get your point across, you know?”

“I don’t know, but that makes sense. Since we’re being honest with each other, my criteria for this position are low. Unbelievably low. Like, in the depths of hell.”

“What are they?”

“I’m looking for someone who can cook good food and not look in my underwear drawer. Oh, and to not hit on me.”

A laugh bursts from me, but I sober quickly when he winces. “Yep, sure, mhm,” I say. “What’s the catch?”

“No catch. I’ve had to let go of the last couple of people I’ve hired because they’ve overstepped the boundaries I put in place. I know who I am. I know the notoriety that comes with being an athlete, but I want to feel safe in my home. I don’t want to worry if someone set up a hidden camera in my bathroom. I want to come back from practice, eat, and go to sleep.”

“If it makes you feel any better, I can’t tell you what number you wear.”

“Twenty-four.”

“Good to know.” I take a breath, deciding to be blunt. “I’m here because I need a job, Hudson. I respect your boundaries, and I’d never do anything that made you uncomfortable. I’ll cook the food you like, then I’ll be on my way.”

“Thank you,” he mumbles, and I swear I can feel the tension leaving his body. “I appreciate that, Madeline.”

“You’re welcome.” I tap my notebook. “What kind of things do you like to eat? Any culinary preferences? Foods to stay away from?”

“I love food. Any and all kinds. I always have. And I don’t have any allergies.”

“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 everyone who’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.