by Chantal Mer
The second recognition takes hold, his hands still, and the cloth hangs limply at his side. He stands taller as his shoulders stiffen. “You’re the bidder.”
It’s not a question, but I answer anyway. “Yes.”
One step, two steps, I make my way farther into the dining room since he seems frozen in place.
“Why?” His question slices the air between us, and if I weren’t prepared for it, I would have checked my person for bleeding.
“Thought it was time we cleared the air.” Six feet from him, I halt my progression. His face is the same mask he wore from our days on the ice. Ironically, he was far less intimidating on skates and in pads than he is in black boots and faded jeans that sculpt his powerful thighs.
We stare at each other for a beat, and I notice a sprinkling of gray in his beard. For some reason, this makes my palms itch, and I rub them along the outside of my coat.
Asher throws the towel over his shoulder and turns to the kitchen. “Whatever you need to say will be better over breakfast.”
His tone is defensive, but I know he’s nervous.
I am too.
This is a decade overdue, and I’m not leaving until I’ve apologized. Whether he wants to hear it or not.
CHAPTER FIVE
Ash
Isaiah Fucking Blake is here.
In my restaurant.
I breathe in through my nose for four seconds, hold for seven, and exhale for eight like my therapist taught me. I was thrown when I saw Isaiah last night, but having him here in my restaurant. My sanctuary. My life…
After seeing him last night, I was prepared to run into him, to have him tell me how I ruined his life and his livelihood. But I was not prepared for him to be the bidder, the only bidder.
As we enter the kitchen, I glance over my shoulder. He’s following at a safe distance like he’s not sure if I’ll blindside him again. He takes in the stainless-steel appliances, the prep station, the cooking ranges, but his eyes widen when he sees the round table in the corner.
It’s not like I went to a lot of trouble. I just pulled out a tablecloth and put the cut fruit in crystal bowls. I figured I’d make it as nice as possible for the person who had balls enough to bid on Asher Delacroix, the scum of hockey. The guy parents use as an example of how not to behave.
“Have a seat.” I wave to the table.
Isaiah shrugs out of his coat, his broad shoulders encased in a rusted-orange sweater that compliments the color of his dark skin.
I swallow back the appreciation before I say something and embarrass myself. “Here, I’ll take your coat.”
“Thanks.” His smile is tentative, and when our fingers brush as he hands me the outerwear that makes him look like he should be running a Fortune 500 company, I’m jolted. Not just by the static shock that comes this time of year with the cold, dry air, but by something more.
Something that feels an awful lot like attraction.
Quickly, I retreat, hanging his jacket on one of the pegs by the back door, then bring the coffee pot over. “Coffee?”
He lifts his mug. “Yes, thanks.”
My hands are steady as I pour a cup for him and one for me, even though inside I’m shaking and shattering. “Cream? Sugar?”
“Black’s good.” His lips curve around the edge of the mug as he sips. Closing his eyes, his smile widens the more he drinks. When he opens them, I’m caught gaping like a fool, coffee pot still in hand. “This may be the best coffee I’ve ever tasted,” he says.
His words break through my gawking at his beautiful mouth and the way his face relaxed at the first taste of the coffee made from Sulawesi beans. I bring the pot back to the stove, check the muffins and bacon warming. “It’s my favorite, but it’s hard to get.”
“Thanks for sharing it with me.” Isaiah places the mug down and leans back, arms over his chest much the same way he was when I spotted him at the auction last night. “Are you going to join me, or am I eating by myself?”
My nerves are crackling like oil in a hot pan. I don’t know how to act or what to do around him. I mean, I’m the reason he hasn’t played hockey in ten years. Because I couldn’t keep my temper in check.
Because I had to retaliate.
Because I was young and thought the world owed me.
Because of me, Isaiah was in the hospital for a week, his career finished at the age of twenty.
“Do you want me to join you?” I don’t know why I ask. Why I want him to say yes but at the same time want him to tell me there’s no way he’d sit at the same table as a douchebag like me.
Lips spread, and I find myself staring at their fullness. He pushes the empty chair with his booted foot. “I hate eating by myself.”
Not exactly acceptance, but not a get the fuck out of here either. I pop the warm muffins into a basket and bring them to the table. If I stay focused on the food, I’ll be good. Had it not been for cooking, I would have let the guilt consume me years ago. “These are chocolate chip and jalapeno muffins.”
Isaiah looks intrigued but wary.
“The sweet of the chocolate and the bite of the jalapeno complement each other. I’m not really a baker, but I think these turned out pretty good. It’s a recipe I’ve played with for a while.” My neck pricks, and I rub the back of it. Why the heck do I want him to like them so much?
When he takes a bite, he leans back and groans. “Holy shit, Asher, these are fantastic.”
“Ash,” I say.
“What?”
“I go by Ash now.” My knee bounces under the table as adrenaline pumps through my veins. I haven’t felt this edge since my hockey days. “Ash Ariti.”
He puts the muffin down and leans his arms on the table. “You changed your name?”
The question is more inquisitive than accusatory, but still, I’m on the defense. Every muscle in my body is harder than Grandma Ariti’s biscuits. The woman made the best pizza crust you’d ever had the pleasure of putting in your mouth, but her biscuits were rocks and tasted about as good. “Yes.”
“Why would you do that?”
I huff a humorless laugh. “You of all people should know why, Isaiah.”
When I push away from the table, his hand wraps around my wrist. The sensation of his skin on mine is like the crack of a whip, and I jerk. His eyes dart from mine to where we’re connected before darting back, but he doesn’t let go.
The bastard smooths his thumb on the underside of my wrist.
I will my body to still and thank God it listens, instead of allowing the shiver that is caused by the tingling sensation of his damn thumb to surface.
“You don’t need to hide, Ash.” His words are almost as soft as the touch of his thumb along my skin, and I want to believe him.
Coming back to my senses, I suck back the ball of dried flour that is stuck in my constricting throat and pull my arm from his grasp. This time he lets me. “Easy for you to say.”
It comes out harsher than I intend, but everything about this situation has my head reeling. I pull out the breakfast casserole and pancakes, trying—and failing—to regain my bearings.
“I’m sorry.” Isaiah is still seated at the table, and though his words are spoken softly, the charge I get from them makes it seem like he’s standing next to me, whispering them in my ear.
“Don’t,” I command and toss the dishes onto the table.
He jolts, but he holds my gaze
I don’t want to look at him but my eyes can’t get enough.
When he finally looks away, those lips twitch, and I follow his gaze. Instead of slapping my hand to my head, I stand straighter, daring him to say anything derogatory about the pancakes. Why the hell did I make pancakes? What the hell was I thinking?
“Hearts?” His lips are still twitching, but to his credit, he doesn’t laugh. Instead, he puts three on his plate, three on mine, and dishes out casserole to both of us. “Sit down, Ash. I told you I don’t like eating alone.”
I do as he says befor
e I’ve even registered what it is he asked. His smile warms his brown eyes to melted milk chocolate, and my shoulders relax.
“So, how long have you lived in Chicago?” He asks as he shovels in a forkful of pancakes. “Oh my God, what’s in these?”
I swear his eyes roll back in his head as he chews. And with that, the tension coursing through me is gone.
Because there’s nothing better for a chef than someone who loves and appreciates your food.
CHAPTER SIX
Isaiah
Once we get past the initial uncertainty and awkwardness, I end up having a surprisingly good time. And the food… Holy shit. If I thought Asher Delacroix—winner of the Norris Trophy his first year in the NHL and at least five more years after, the player to watch, and captain of the Houston Hellfire by the age of twenty-one—was a phenomenal hockey player, he has nothing on Ash Ariti when it comes to cooking.
Is there anything this guy does not do well?
I don’t know anything about cooking. I can bake chicken and steam broccoli, make spaghetti and meatballs and scramble eggs. You know, the basics. Beyond that, I’m clueless. Except, I know what I like, and everything I’ve had that Ash has made—including the food from last night—is nothing short of culinary genius.
Who the hell pairs chocolate and jalapenos? And how is that even good? Not just good, the best fucking muffins I’ve ever had.
“So, you went to culinary school?” We’re cleaning up—I insisted on helping; my mother would smack me up the back of my head if I didn’t—and for some inexplicable reason, I don’t want this to end.
I didn’t really know Ash when we were in the league. We talked trash on the ice, and I’d heard of his involvement in different charities, but I was too caught up trying to prove to the fans, to my dad, to myself, that I was as good a player as my dad. Too busy looking for assholes, that I’d become one in the process.
“I learned from my grandparents, but I wanted to be proficient. Culinary Institute of America accepted me, so I went.” He hands me the pan he’s just cleaned in the industrial-sized sink, and I begin drying it.
The kitchen is enormous. Ash is enormous. But standing beside him doing dishes makes the space and the man seem smaller, more intimate.
“Your grandparents are the ones who had the pizza place?”
“Yeah. The whole family worked there when I was growing up.” He hesitates, shakes his head, then gives me a plate.
A puck to the throat would be less painful than knowing he’s thinking about his sister.
The same dead sister I disrespected and said unimaginable things about.
See?
Asshole.
I set the plate down as the silence between us threatens to crush the ease we fell into over the last hour.
“I’m sorry for what I said.” The words burn my throat with their inadequacy, but they need to be said.
“Jesus, Isaiah.”
A plate clatters as it hits the bottom of the sink, and the spray of the water ceases. A vein at his hairline pulses and he stalks to the walk-in refrigerator, ripping the door open with such force, I fear it will come off its hinges. He disappears, and I wonder how long he’ll stay there.
Ash has spent a decade hiding, but I’m not going to let him hide from me. I need to say my piece, and he needs to hear it. So, he can have his little temper tantrum, I’m not leaving until he hears what I have to say.
Picking up the plate he dropped, I turn the water back on and begin scrubbing.
It’s not until the last of the utensils are cleaned and dried that Ash reappears. “What are you doing?”
Folding the towel I used to dry, I turn to face him. “The dishes.”
His dark brows dip into a threatening-looking M. “Not that.” He waves at the stack of plates, pots, and pans. “What are you doing here? Why did you bid on me? Why are you being so nice? Why are you apologizing?”
I place the towel on the counter and move toward him. He sounds so confused, so broken, so miserable.
My chest clamps down on my thumping heart. I did this, and I need to fix it.
“I bid on you because I didn’t want to give the assholes who were too scared or too ignorant not to bid, satisfaction. I’m here because I paid five hundred dollars to have breakfast made by the great restauranteur, Ash Ariti. I’m not nice, I’m selfish. I’m tired of living with the guilt of what I said to you. I’m apologizing because I never should have made homophobic comments. I was jealous of your talent and how comfortable you were in your own skin when I was trying to deny who I was to myself and the world. And I was pissed at you for being so damn attractive.
“But most importantly, I never should have disrespected your sister. I was an asshole, and you should know I’ve regretted my words every day for ten fucking years.” When I finish my impromptu speech, we’re so close, I can smell the cold of the refrigerator and vanilla on him.
His eyes, wild when he exited the fridge, have thawed, but his body is still thrumming with pent up energy.
And suddenly, a vision of helping Ash release that energy is ramming me into the boards.
“But I—”
I cut him off with a touch to his forearm, the black hair on it pricking my fingers. “I’ve had a good time this morning. Let’s leave the past in the past.” The only part of him that moves is the bob of his Adam’s apple, and I long to place my lips to it. To feel the scruff of his whiskers. “Maybe we can hang out again?”
“You know that’s not a good idea, Isaiah.”
I may be reading into it, but I swear, I hear a hint of regret in his voice.
“It’s a great idea.” I slide my hand, so our pointer fingers are hooked. “We both live in Chicago. You like to cook. I like to eat.” The side of his mouth tips. “I’d like to know you, Ash.”
He takes a step back.
Then another.
And another, until his finger drops from mine and there’s more space between us than there was when we were sitting at the table. “Us being seen together would be a media shit-storm. You don’t need that kind of attention for your charity. You do so much good for hockey and all of the kids who participate. Bringing hockey to communities that don’t have the resources to support the expense of the sport. And you’ve worked so hard building it. I won’t be the one to jeopardize that.”
“You know about my charity?”
He nods and hands me my coat.
“What do you know about how hard I’ve worked to build it up?”
Surprise blanches his face, but he recovers quickly. “Most charities take work to get off the ground.”
His nonchalance is betrayed by the thumb rapping his thigh. And I remember the anonymous donor who donated a hundred thousand dollars the first year and fifty thousand every year for the last six years. Without that donor, Hockey Included wouldn’t have been able to expand as quickly as we did into underserved communities throughout the country. Because of those significant donations, we were able to secure more large contributions.
Donating has a ripple effect. One or two big donations spark other big gifts, like some kind of donating competition. I encourage such competition since it helps expose kids, especially kids of color, to the sport I love, and hopefully helps bring more diversity to it.
“You’re my anonymous donor,” I say, unable to believe it.
“Thank you for saving me from the embarrassment of having to bid on myself.”
We stare at each other, neither moving nor speaking.
Asher Delacroix, aka Ash Ariti, has been donating to Hockey Included since its inception, and he’s afraid his name will tarnish our work.
I take my coat, and he walks me to the entrance of the restaurant, the air sparking with an indoor electrical storm. “Our story could be a good lesson for kids.”
His sad almost-grin pokes at something within me. “Have a happy life, Isaiah.”
When the door closes behind me, I know it won’t be the last time I see Ash.
I just have to figure out how to convince him.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Ash
Sunday morning, a week after I had breakfast with Isaiah Blake, and I’m still off.
“Get your head out of your ass, Ariti.” Sneakers squeak on the community center court as Alejandro slams into me and spins. The ball soars through the air and swooshes into the basket as he makes a three-pointer. “Yes,” he grunts and fist-bumps the air.
“Nice shot.” I clap my friend on the back.
“It was a thing of beauty, but it’d be more satisfying if you were actually out here trying.”
Our time up, we head to the benches to make room for the next group. Most Sunday mornings, Alejandro and I play one-on-one at the community center. When the weather’s nice, we use the outdoor courts, but January in Chicago is definite indoor basketball weather.
“I have one off day and you act like I can’t kick your ass anymore.”
At five-eleven, Alejandro has none of my height, but he’s quick and can shoot a ball from anywhere on the court and hear the sweet sound of the swoosh. It’s freakish how good he is.
“This is more than an off day. Yesterday, you burned the chicken. The day before that you forgot to put onion in the guacamole. And the day before that—”
I punch his arm. “I get it. I’m having an off week.”
“You want to talk about it?” His brows quirk as he dribbles the ball. The steady thump, thump, thump smacking the polished floor is rhythmic and almost hypnotic.
“Nope.” I suck down my water before wiping the sweat from my forehead with the bottom of my shirt.
“Fine. I’ll talk about how you’ve been moping around since last Sunday.”
“I don’t mope.”
Alejandro huffs his derision as he drops the ball between us before pulling his shirt over his head and replacing it with a dry one. “If that helps you sleep at night, fine. But you mope. And you’ve been moping since you told Isaiah you didn’t want to have anything to do with him.”
