Page 93 of Offside

“I can see that. The screwdriver.”

“You are not going to fix my cabinet hinge right now.”

“It’ll take thirty seconds.”

“I don’t need you to fix my cabinet hinge.”

“I know you don’t need me to.” I pushed off the counter. “Where’s the screwdriver?”

She stared at me. I waited. She pointed at the junk drawer beside the stove.

I had it fixed in under a minute. Found the screwdriver, tightened the hinge, opened and closed the cabinet twice to test it, put the screwdriver back where I’d found it. She watched me do all of this with the expression she made when she was trying to decide what to feel about something.

“Thank you,” she said.

“You’re welcome.” I picked up my wine. “Also the flashlight in the second drawer needs batteries.”

“Are you going to⁠—”

“Not tonight.” I took a drink. “I’ll bring some next time.”

She turned back to the stove, and I leaned against the counter to watch her work. She moved through her own kitchen with focused efficiency, everything in its right place, her hands knowing exactly what to do next. Whatever was in the pan smelled like the best thing I was going to eat all week. It was killing me not to touch her. I wanted to put my mouth on the back of her neck. I was doing a reasonable job of not doing that, for about forty-five seconds.

I crossed to her, set her wine glass where she could reach it, and let my hands settle at her hips. She was warm through the thin cotton of the tank and I felt the exact moment she registered me. The small adjustment in her weight, her shoulders dropping a fraction.

“I’m cooking,” she said. A warning I wasn’t going to heed.

“I know.” I pressed my mouth to the side of her neck. “Keep going.” I kissed again, softly and she tilted her head the smallest bit, giving me access.

“You’re going to make me overcook the carbonara.” The words came out breathy, and I was certain if I’d pressed my luck, I could have gotten her to give up cooking altogether so I could have her for dinner instead.

“I’ll take full responsibility.” I found the curve where her neck met her shoulder and she exhaled slowly, working very hard not to lose her composure. Her hips shifted back against me, just barely, and I tightened my hands and thought clearly and without ambiguity that nine days was going to be an unreasonable amount of time.

“Ryan.” Her voice had gone slightly breathless, which she was clearly annoyed about.

“Mm.”

“I have a wooden spoon.”

“I believe you.”

“And I will use it.”

“Fine,” I whined. I laughed against her skin and stepped back, retrieved my wine, and leaned against the counter where I could still watch her. She shot me a look over her shoulder, exasperated, pleased, a little bit flushed; the combination I’d decided was my favorite look on a human face, and turned back to the stove.

We ate at her kitchen table with the window cracked, the evening air coming in warm and soft, the carbonara exactly right, silky and rich, the kind that required nothing else. I ate two portions and she kept the bread basket in reach without touching it herself, and the conversation ranged the way it always did between us now. Easy, circling back, no destination required. She told me about a defenseman’s hip that was worrying her. I told her about Theo, the power play finally clicking. I watched her hands when she talked, the way she tucked one foot under herself in her chair and thought back to the word I’d said at the bar, the one that slipped out ahead of me at the bar, even though I’d felt it for weeks before I said it out loud.

Girlfriend.

She hadn’t heard me say it, only Eli did, but I wanted her to know.

She was definitely my girlfriend.

Right?

She was refilling her glass when she said, without preamble, “You’ve been favoring your right shoulder for at least two weeks.”

I went still.