Page 13 of Offside

“Fine.” My eyes were watering slightly. “It’s great.” I tried to casually clear my throat.

“It’s mild.”

“I know.”

“That’s the mild one.” Now a giggle was forming in her voice.

“Maren.”

“There’s a hotter version in the fridge if you—” Griffin started.

“I’m fine.”

Griffin had abandoned any pretense of composure. Tom refilled my water glass without comment, which was the single most compassionate thing anyone had done for me in recent memory. I drank half of it, set it down, and turned to Maren, who had her lips pressed together, fooling absolutely no one.

I had to defend myself. “I had it in eggs,” I said. “I ordered queso that looked normal.”

“Hatch green chile queso,” she said. “Yes. That one will get ya.”

“There was no warning on the menu.”

“There’s never a warning. You just have to know.”

“How does anyone know?”

“You live here long enough.” She let the smile out entirely. “Give it six months. You’ll be putting it on everything yourself.”

“I sincerely doubt that.”

“That’s what everyone says.” She picked up her fork. “Ask me again at Christmas.” She winked at me and went back to eating. Why was that so fucking adorable?

I held her gaze for a beat longer than I meant to, then turned back to my plate. The brisket was extraordinary even with my mouth quietly on fire. I ate it and listened to Tom hold court on the Diamondbacks while Griffin disagreed and Linda told them both they were wrong. The evening moved along with easy warmth like they had been doing this long enough to make it look effortless.

I was glad I’d come. I was glad every Sunday I’d come.

After dinner, Maren started collecting dishes. I stood to help.

“You’re a guest,” she said. “Sit down and relax.”

“I’d like to help.” I picked up the remaining plates and followed her to the kitchen before she could argue.

Linda appeared in the doorway. “You two have the dishes?” She pointed at both of us. “Can you put the coffee on too?”

Maren turned. “Mom, it’s ninety-four degrees. Nobody wants coffee.”

“Everyone wants coffee with dessert.”

“That’s not a universal law.”

“It is in this house.” She pointed at the coffee maker, and the matter was settled. She disappeared toward the back patio.

Griffin stood and stretched. “I’m going to see what Dad’s found to stress about in the garage.” He clapped me on the shoulder as he passed. “Good luck.”

I was certain he meant with the dishes. He meant with the dishes. Definitely not his smoking hot, adorable, funny sister. Nope. Not that.

We made one more trip for the remaining things and found a rhythm in the small kitchen together without having to negotiate it. She washed and I dried, the sounds of the house drifting in around us. Tom and Griffin’s voices. The baseball game. The coffee maker working through its cycle.

I had been in proximity to Maren Callahan for weeks. In the training room, in hallways, across tables at staff meetings. I had managed all of it without incident, which I was choosing to view as a personal achievement. I had a magnetic pull toward her just like I did in college, and I didn’t know what to do with it. What I noticed in that moment, was that the kitchen was a lot smaller than the training room.