“Oh, shit,” I said, fighting the instinct to dump my portion back into the pot. Even as an amateur chef, I knew that was a hygiene no-no.
She snorted a laugh and I was pleased by her softening. “It’s okay. Enjoy it. This one’s on the house.”
I opened my mouth to thank her, but was interrupted by a shout.
“A lot of the trays are empty out there, Chef.”
“Heard, Chef.” Emma visibly shrank, which was not something I saw often. She was frustrated, and she wouldn’t even let me try to fix it. She and her staff were floundering while trying to keep the food flowing. I wanted to find some way to calm her down. She fanned her face and gritted her teeth.
“Are you going to let me help you, or are you going to keep being a stubborn little brat?”
“How you can help me is to get the hell out of my kitchen!” she barked, but her eyes lit up when they landed on something behind me. “Wait. Actually.”
She slipped her arms under a tray of king cake slices. “Leave and take these out with you.”
“You made the king cake! Not just the cheesecake!”
Her cheeks went a little pink. “It was because Owen suggested it.”
I grinned wide and winked. “Sure, princess.”
Her eye twitched when she looked at me. “Are you here to help or not? Why are you still here? Take this thing and get out!”
I stifled my smile when she laid it into my waiting arms, my hand still clutching the soup container underneath it. I wasn’tabout to say shit about it, nor was I about to throw the gumbo out. It was too good.
“It goes on the dessert table,” she sighed, finally softening. “Thank you.”
I couldn’t stop smiling walking back out to the arena floor. I dropped the tray on the dessert table, setting my soup down for a moment to arrange it more attractively. A group of fans stood to the side, tittering as I concentrated on my task. Perfect chance for me to ham it up, give them what they came for.
“Good luck getting the baby,” I said of the king cake. “That thing is mine.”
This delighted the fans. That was the whole point of this event, mingling with the season ticket holders to thank them for the support. And it was a fundraiser for something or another. I lost track over time. Puppies? Kids? It was always something, but rarely something that seemed substantial. Our captain, Colton Jones, was always pushing for fundraisers that had more gravity: domestic violence support, sexual assault advocacy, LGBTQIA+ rights, immigration outreach. Not that puppies and kids aren’t important, but they’re more palatable causes.
I stared down into my soup bowl, stirring it idly as I walked to find some of my teammates. I felt like an asshole for taking from people in need, even if it was on accident. That was really nice of Chef to do that for people. I wondered if there was a way I could help her make that happen. I’d been wanting to do something impactful since the accident last month. Had she just started making soup for the shelter after our near-death experience? No, she was probably already a good person. I was the one who could do to make something of my life.
“Where’d you get the soup?” Yevgeny “Dottie” Dotsenko waltzed my way with his wife on his arm. Both were dressed to the nines, a glittering gold gown draped over her thin frame and Dottie in a coordinating deep purple suit.
I turned my nose up. “I’ve got a friend in the kitchen.”
“You had the balls to go bother Emma?” he asked, barely holding back a laugh.
Aside from taking soup that wasn’t for me, I didn’t get embarrassed by much. As a goalie, I lived a life of shaking it off. Goal got past me? Shake it off. Did something stupid? Shake it off. Weird Chef out by putting her fingers in my mouth? Help her out in the kitchen. Even stevens.
I shrugged. “She needed help.” I turned to his wife. “Lana, good to see you as always.”
Lana gave me a half-hearted smile and went to respond, but was drowned out by someone on a microphone. Feedback crackled through the space to a collective flinch from the crowd. I turned my attention back to my soup, scooping out another spoonful.
“. . . we’re proud to say we’ll use tonight’s funds for lifesaving research,” the voice droned on the microphone.
Lifesaving. Chef saved my life. I scanned the perimeter of the room until I found her. She was stirring a pan of mixed vegetables, quietly tapping the spoon on the edge of it before stepping back. Her eyes flashed to mine for a second before she turned her focus to the stage. Did she know what impact she had on my life?
My attention was called back to the stage at a familiar name. “We’d like to welcome Dr. Violet Gennari to discuss what our fundraising efforts will do for the university’s research.”
Violet was Colt’s girl, and they were disgustingly in love with each other. Seeing him now, standing with a hand on the stage and his moon-eyed gaze locked on her, a pang shot through me. What was it like, to be loved that purely, for exactly who you are? To be supported and seen like that?
Violet’s olive skin had paled. Despite her smile, she looked like she might pass out at any moment. She was petrified. She needed a boost.
And I was just the one to give it.