Page 88 of Slapshot Baby

His face stops me.

The quiet authority he usually has is gone. His brown eyes are dull. His jaw is locked into a clench that makes the muscles beneath his beard look carved from stone.

Whatever happened at the rink today took something from him he hasn't gotten back.

He bends down and scratches behind Biscuit’s flopped ear. The faintest softening crosses his face.

"She remembers me," he says.

“Of course. She’s brilliant like that.” I step inside. "Are you cooking in my kitchen?"

"Was about to heat up some food. Your fridge had expired yogurt and half a banana. I went to the store.”

I lift the bags of Thai takeout I picked up on the way.

"So did I."

We stare at each other, each holding groceries we bought for the other person.

I feel warmth pushing against the walls I've built. Two people who thought of each other at the same time without being asked.

I set my bags down next to his on the counter. Our groceries sit side by side like they belong together.

I wonder if I should have given him my address. My home is the one space in LA that's entirely mine. No clients, no obligations, no performing.

The couch cushions are dented from my body. The bookshelves are organized by my mood, not alphabet or author. There's a photo of Lucy and me at sixteen on the fridge, braces gleaming, arms slung around each other.

Kai is standing in the middle of all of it. It’s the first time I’ve invited him over, and I can't decide if I want to push him out or pull him closer.

"Sit down,” I say, trying my best not to look at him. “I'll sort the food."

"I already started something."

"Then I'll finish it. Sit."

He doesn't argue. That tells me more than anything he could say.

Kai doesn't take orders. He negotiates until the other person believes the compromise was their idea.

I plate his roast chicken next to my pad see ew, creating a meal no one would ever order on purpose. Kai takes his plate without so much as a glance.

Biscuit positions herself between us on the couch. Her warm body presses against both our thighs, tail sweeping back and forth.

"You already ate," I tell her, remembering the bowl she was licking clean when I picked her up from my neighbor’s.

She doesn't move. I cave and toss her a piece of chicken.

Great parenting, Ava. Real authority.

Kai eats without talking. I watch him from the corner of my eye, tracking how he chews like he’s being forced to eat.

I lean forward to grab water from the coffee table and my arm brushes his. The contact is brief, accidental, the inside of my forearm dragging across the back of his hand. Heat blooms from my arm up to my shoulder.

I sit back too fast.

"Tell me what happened," I say.

"I'm eating."