Page 146 of The Off Limits Captain
“Pick the parmesan,” I say.
“The other one—”
“Pick the parmesan.”
He picks the parmesan.
The sauce starts catching at the edges. I reach past him and turn down the heat without asking. He moves out of my way, which puts him directly behind me with about six inches of space between us, and my back is aware of him in a way that makes focusing on sauce temperature a minor achievement.
“You said you could cook,” I say.
“I can. I just don’t.”
“There is a gap in that logic.”
“Team has a meal service.”
I stir. “An NHL captain has never cooked pasta.”
“I have cooked pasta.” He leans against the counter beside me. “It just did not look like this.”
“What did it look like?”
He considers. “Fine. Less involved.”
“You boiled it and added sauce from a jar.”
“That is a version of cooking.”
The smoke alarm gives one chirp.
We both look at it.
“That was the sauce,” I say.
“I know.”
“It’s burning.”
“I know.”
I turn the burner off.
Ryan looks at the pot, then the sauce, then the basil.
The basil looks accused.
I pick up my phone.
“What are you doing?” he asks.
“Saving us.”
“I had a plan.”
“Your plan has smoke damage.”
“It is not that bad.”
