Page 10 of The Sweet Spot (Kodiaks Hockey #3)
Chapter Ten
Brandon
L ike every new season, the first week of training camp was kicking my ass, but I knew it was kicking everyone’s ass, so I didn’t feel quite as bad. We were all trying to get back into game shape, and no matter how hard we worked in the offseason, getting into the daily grind of a long hockey season was never easy. But at least I went home to amazing meals. I had never eaten so good, and though the food seemed decadent, she told me in great detail what all the ingredients were. I assured Wolseley that she didn’t need to do that every time.
My agent insisted I have Wolseley sign an NDA, which I thought was ridiculous, but whatever. Was she going to share my eating habits with the world? Who cared? But he liked to protect clients, and somehow, this arrangement made him think I needed safety from five-foot-three Wolseley. What if she told the world I hated salmon? Would I have to post an apology to the salmon lobby on Instagram? I’d use a rotary phone to type it out on my flip phone.
Why was I still thinking about rotary phones? Wolseley had infected my brain with nonsense, but I kind of liked her nonsense.
I gave her a key to my place so she could prep whatever and whenever she needed. And like a mom, she sent me to training camp each morning with a good breakfast, lunch—even though the team provided them, but honestly, most of the time they were crap—and tons of snacks that were appropriate for camp. I even shared some with my teammates.
I got home to dinner that was perfectly timed. She knew my schedule and that I needed to eat within ten minutes of getting home. She’d written it all down in the notebook she had with her everywhere she went. One morning while I was eating breakfast, and she was tidying up, she told me all about the eco-friendly paper she used and the reusable pen. Something about the materials being made out of wheat straw, a by-product she said would have been otherwise discarded into our already overflowing landfills. Her words.
Come to think of it, she always put my snacks in reusable bags that she said were coated in beeswax or something. They were self-cleaning, or so she said. She made me promise to bring them home every day for reuse. I obediently returned with them each day.
Right now, I was more interested in keeping my body fed, and she had a huge plate of pasta in her delicious marinara sauce with turkey meatballs that I couldn’t believe were turkey because I hated ground turkey. Before Wolseley, I had yet to eat ground turkey that hadn’t smelled like stinky socks and tasted like what I thought stinky socks would taste like.
She made a broccoli dish that looked simple but tasted out of this world. She mentioned something about a balsamic reduction, but I was too busy eating to notice. I finished off my meal with a salad filled with nuts and fruit and her flax oil vinaigrette. For a later snack, she had prepared for me, a quinoa bowl with assorted vegetables and sweet potatoes.
She was finishing up making me more snacks for the next day and had them in the oven, so I asked her to join me for dinner since she’d made more than enough. She passed on the pasta because she’d marinated the meatballs in the sauce but had the broccoli, salad, and some of her quinoa bowl.
“I’ve been munching all day,” she said. “Right now, I have protein muffins in the oven. I’m not sure how they will turn out, so I have more the of dark chocolate protein bars made for you just in case.”
“I may have one of those later. Did I tell you what they served us for lunch today?”
“No,” she said, sitting with me at the island. She had her fuchsia hair in a tiny ponytail, but a few tendrils had slipped out. Her hair was short to begin with, so I was amazed she could get the little nub of a ponytail, but it looked cute on her, nevertheless.
“Sandwiches. Some on white bread. Unacceptable. I talked to our GM afterward and let him know the Kodiaks can’t be serving shit like that to the players. We are elite athletes. This isn’t a trade show conference. He mentioned something about a new person handling the catering and that it would be worked out. Thankfully, I’d brought some of your burritos with me and a few extra bars. All the guys were downing protein shakes, but it’s not enough.”
She pursed her lips. “That’s terrible.”
“Tell me about it.”
“If I still had my restaurant up and running, I would have loved to cater for the team.”
“Have you thought about opening a restaurant here? Can you even do that since you’re an American?”
She had a good idea going there, but that would mean losing her, so maybe it wasn’t such a good idea for me. Though I certainly would never stop her from doing it.
“I think I need a break before I open a restaurant again or get back into the catering game. I used to do that before I opened the restaurant, and the thought of keeping track of servers, cooks, bartenders, the whole thing … Nah, I’m not up for that. As for being able to open one, I have dual citizenship. It shouldn’t be a problem.”
Interesting. My agent had asked how she was able to work for me so quickly, and I hadn’t given it much thought, but now that made sense.
“Oh, that’s cool. Nice to have. How’d you get it?”
She pushed a chunk of broccoli around her plate, and I wondered if I somehow had crossed some line. But she’d mentioned her parents and how great they were, so if one was Canadian, it couldn’t be a sore spot. Or was it? Soon, she was talking, so maybe it wasn’t a problem.
“My birth father is Canadian, from a place called Morris, Manitoba, and when my parents adopted me, they kept up my dual citizenship along with my brother’s. And I’m glad they did, otherwise, you would have had to go through all sorts of hoops to get me a work permit.”
Birth father? Shit, she’d never mentioned being adopted, and now I felt awkward for bringing the whole thing up. I had no idea if it was a touchy subject, and by the way her lips curled down, she seemed bummed about the topic of conversation. I then asked a question that was none of my business because my mouth was moving faster than my tired brain.
“You’re adopted?”
“Yup. I don’t know much, and I remember nothing about my birth parents. I was about a year old when I was put into the foster care system, and Craig, my brother, was three. My parents met us and immediately wanted to adopt us both. My mom and dad couldn’t have kids of their own.”
She looked so vulnerable at that moment as if she’d opened up her entire self to me. No one had done that before, other than my sister, so it was a foreign concept. I had to be careful not to put my foot in my mouth. But again, I could quell the inquisitive side of me.
“Have you met your birth parents?”
“Nope. And I don’t want to. I love my parents, and they are the only parents I’ve ever known or want to know.”
I should have stopped there, but I kept going. “Don’t you wonder?”
“Not really. Maybe when my doctor asks me about my family history. I know that bothers my brother now that he has two little ones.”
And despite her answers, I couldn’t stop asking. “Do you wonder why they gave you up?”
She took in a deep breath and faced me. The pain etched on her face made me feel like a shit for prying. “From what my mom and dad have told me and my brother, my birth father walked out on my birth mother and moved back to Canada. She couldn’t afford to keep us, so she gave us both up. I accepted that explanation. If it’s good enough for me, it’s good enough for everyone.”
I closed my eyes and groaned. “Sorry, Wolseley. That was none of my business.”
She gave me a reassuring smile. “It’s totally okay. People are curious.” She popped off her bistro chair and began cleaning up again. I felt like the biggest piece of shit, but I had no idea what to say to make it right, so we stayed there in uncomfortable silence. She probably couldn’t wait for the muffins to be done and get the hell out of there.
When the oven buzzer went, she couldn’t get them out fast enough. While she waited for them to cool, she finished cleaning up the kitchen. At some point, she figured they’d cooled enough and handed me one to try.
“It’s good,” I said. “Carrot?”
“Carrot nut,” she said. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to head home since I’ll have an early morning again. I’m still adjusting to this new schedule. Would you put them in an airtight container in about fifteen minutes?”
“Sure.”
She quickly cleaned the muffin tin and headed for the door. I met her there because I couldn’t let her go home being pissed off or upset, even though I didn’t know which it was.
“I’m really sorry about being so nosy earlier. I shouldn’t have done that. It was totally stupid and thoughtless of me.”
“Don’t worry about it.”
I reached out to touch her hand, and she flinched. I yanked my hand away. “Sorry.”
“It’s fine,” she said quickly. “I’m going to head out. See you in the morning.”
I had no idea what had just happened and why my touch had upset her so much. Did she hate me already?