Page 33 of Offside Rules

"I’m using it now."

"For an empty box."

"Which will have cupcakes in it in about three minutes." I pick up the roll from beside the mixer and tear off another piece. "You had a whole road trip to enjoy counter space that wasn’t taped off. I hope you made the most of it."

"I spent it in hotels."

"Then this must be very disappointing for you."

He smiles, and I press the tape back where it belongs. It’s been nine days since the flood. Long enough for me to know that he eats more eggs than anyone I’ve ever met, rinses his dishes before putting them in the dishwasher, and has no idea how many measuring spoons I own, which is probably for the best. Ignoring each other’s existence would probably make this whole thing fly by, but Wolf Ziegler is not the "ignore your existence" type, unfortunately.

While he was gone, I filled two birthday orders, kept Sprinkles running without any major hiccups, and baked enough lemon cheesecake cupcakes to keep Megan, one of my best customers, ridiculously happy. I swear I’ve gotten over a dozen referrals from her in the year since I started my business. And I know they’re from her because every referral tells me they’ve been instructed to order lemon cheesecake or they’ll die without tasting the best thing on earth. Megan’s words.

I can’t lie… using Wolf’s kitchen has been a dream, though I wish I could hate it. He has double ovens built into the wall and a gas stove. And the countertop space is almost too good to give up, but eventually, I’ll have to. I could never tell Wolf how much I love his kitchen or he might start thinking he did me a favor by ruining mine. The last few days while he was out of town with the team were amazing. Quiet. Nobody coming out of the shower half-dressed while I try to frost cupcakes.

Now he’s back, standing beside the extra six inches he apparently thinks he earned by leaving.

"How was the trip?" I ask, setting twelve chocolate cupcakes into their box.

"We won two."

"I saw that."

His head comes up, and he gives me a smug grin. "You watched another one of my games?"

"Settle down. I was at Serendipity’s. They had a huge cinnamon roll order due the next morning and were short-staffed, so I helped out. I owed Ellie anyway. The game was on in the kitchen, just like last time. They had the volume turned up so loud I couldn’t miss it." I close the box before he can ask anything else.

He slides the eggs onto his plate and switches off the burner. "Did you see the assist?"

"Whose?"

"Mine."

"I was too busy counting all of your penalty minutes."

"So you were paying attention," he says, carrying his plate to the island.

I don’t admit that I absolutely caught the assist and even watched the replay. I also saw Wolf shove a guy away from his goalie after the whistle, the guy shove back, and both of them get sent to the box. It took less than a minute for that clip to show up on my phone, and dang it, I watched it a third time. Everyone loves covering Wolfgang Ziegler, especially when he gives them a reason to discuss whether he’s an asshole.

"He took another shot after the whistle," Wolf says.

"So you needed to introduce him to the glass?"

"He was standing close to it. Thought he’d like to be introduced."

"How nice of you."

"That’s what they call me on the ice. Nice guy Ziegler. It’s a new nickname circulating around."

He pulls out the stool on his side. "JP had the puck covered. The whistle went. He knew what he was doing."

"So did you."

"Yeah." He sits and picks up his fork. "I did."

There’s no apology in it. No attempt to tell me I misunderstood what I watched. I’m not sure whether that’s better or worse. I put the finished box on the counter behind me before I start an argument about a man playing the way he’s paid to. Five million a year, guaranteed, though he’ll be a free agent this summer. I’m curious what he’ll decide to do, or if he’ll stay in Seattle. I’d never dare ask, though. It would sound too much like I’m invested in his answer.

I bend to pick up the new bag of flour beside my supplies and haul it onto the counter just as my phone rings beside the mixer. Beau’s name fills the screen. I push the bag back from the edge and glance at Wolf before answering. In four weeks and five days, my six weeks will be up. Then I can bake downstairs and stop explaining why I’m in Wolf Ziegler’s kitchen every time somebody in my family calls.