Page 31 of The Big Puck

The minute he walks in the door, the atmosphere changes like a storm, like thunder and lightning have arrived. I’m up in Krissy’s room, and she’s sleeping in my arms as I rock her. Getting up, I carefully place her in her crib and bend to kiss her forehead. Then I steel myself to go downstairs and face her daddy.

It shouldn’t be so terrifying—or so exciting. My nerves jump around inside me like I consumed half the beans on a coffee farm.

All the texting in the world isn’t going to make this work. Avoiding each other isn’t going to work. Not for me, anyway. I tiptoe down the back stairs to the kitchen, ready to confront him.

He’s standing in front of the refrigerator with the door open, studying its contents, when I step quietly into the kitchen. Suddenly breathless, I watch him, his energy almost visible like a forcefield, his shirt sculpted to the muscles of his shoulders and back…

“You’re early. It’s only eight.”

He turns and pins me with his eyes. They darken as he stares, and I’m mute for a few breathless moments.

“I was finished for the day.” He looks back into the fridge.

I didn’t expect that much of an answer and wouldn’t blame him if he told me to back off. My optimism spikes to the stars.

“I made you dinner. Fried chicken—in the air fryer—with green beans and—”

“Air fryer? I don’t own—”

“I bought one. It’s a modern kitchen must-have.” I move forward, take half the refrigerator door from him, and pull out the covered dish of chicken and the containers of vegetables. “I also made mashed garlic cauliflower.”

Turning to him in time to see his grimace, I laugh. “Not a fan of cauliflower.”

“I’m starved. We’ll see.” He backs away, gets a plate and silverware, then stops. “Did you eat?”

I nod. “I don’t mind having seconds, though. I mostly nibbled while I was cooking and entertaining Krissy.”

“You’re good at that,” he says as he grabs another table setting and brings them to the table while I prep the food, warming it up on the induction cooktop in a stainless-steel pan.

“Good at what? Cooking or entertaining Krissy?”

“Both. Multi-tasking.” He sets the table and sits. When I look at him, he turns away. His natural state of frowning at the world returns as he glances around the kitchen.

My hope is that good food will fix his frown, if not my good humor—because heaven knows that hasn’t worked. At all.

“Thank you for the compliment,” I say. “Years of practice. Like you and hockey.” I finish prepping the food and transfer the chicken to a napkin-lined basket and the veggies to serving bowls, then bring them to the table, feeling a lot like I did back home as a young girl, helping the cook serve my dad and brothers after Mom was gone. Brushing away the moment of painful nostalgia, I sit opposite him and grin like a giddy teen because I can’t help the fact that I’m enjoying the hell out of my domestic engineering job, even without the “wife” status.

He encounters my stare for an instant, his mouth turning down sharply until he turns his attention to the food. Then he digs in and keeps his attention solely on eating as if it takes the concentration of a surgeon to consume his food.

“Gavonza seemed upset with me for bringing Krissy around—or at least inside the locker room—but don’t worry, I won’t let that stop me from bringing her to see you. I’ll confine our visits to the office or the public areas of the rink.”

He doesn’t look up but nods and grunts as he takes a bite of a chicken leg and chews the crunchy morsel, letting out a sound of satisfaction which I’ll have to accept as praise.

“Good,” he says between bites, surprising me, though I’m not sure if he thinks it’s good that I’ll still bring Krissy to see him or if the chicken is good. I choose to believe it’s both and don’t bother to ask for clarification as I resume my monologue.

“Look,” I say as he shoves his chair back, finished with his meal. “I know I get under your skin, that you…we haven’t hit it off—”

“Oil and water,” he says, his scowl entrenched to epic proportions.

“Fine. My point is that all I want to do is help you, to make your life easier, to make your home a happy one, and bring a little lightness back into your life—”

“Lightness?” he snorts. “Not a priority. And not your place.”

I stare at him, and for the first time in a very long time, the dark vortex of discouragement starts to pull at me, to drag me in close. I stand, almost knocking my chair back and causing his eyebrows to rise in surprise.

Forcing a smile I don’t feel, I breathe rapidly because this is so not good. Then I think of Krissy, and my mission clears. I clear my face. No more insincere smile.

“If that’s how you want it. I can ignore you. Happy to do it.” Almost happy. A part of me will be happy. But the other part…will be miserable as hell. But that’s the devilish part of me and deserves to be in hell, right?