by Melody Anne
Always after.
Lainey sighed. With the large windows at their backs exposing them to the passersby on Pike Street and the live audience in front of them, she felt like she was in a fishbowl. Her aunt Marnie and uncle Walt were in one of the back rows. Whereas her uncle was a gruff man most comfortable in a pair of worn jeans, her aunt was a kind, prim woman with a sensible haircut and impeccable manners. Lainey gave them a surreptitious wave. They responded enthusiastically, restoring some of her confidence.
“All profits from ticket sales to the events are going toward charity,” Gabe continued. “Whichever team wins will choose the charity. The Surge are playing for Wish-Upon-a-Star. After this cook-off, our next battle round is a fund-raising event. The team that raises the most money earns twenty points.”
Grace’s eyes lit up with smug flirtation. “Will the Surge be hosting another bachelor auction? I know some women would pay plenty of money to get their hands all over you.”
Lainey chuckled as a look of panic briefly crossed Gabe’s face.
“Ah, no. But close. We’re finishing up a photo shoot for our Men of The Surge Calendar in the next couple of weeks, which will be available at all major grocery stores in the city next month for the low price of twenty bucks. We expect the proceeds to pull in well over five digits for the Wish-Upon-a-Star charity, but we need your help, Seattle.” Gabe gave a smoldering look directly into the camera that had Grace fanning herself. “With your efforts, we can make sure the sick children of Seattle have all their dreams met.”
“Well, Seattleites, let’s make sure we all go out and support the Surge in their efforts. Maybe we’ll convince them to make this a yearly endeavor!” Grace said in her squeaky voice.
“Good grief,” Jaime said, slamming a metal bowl on the counter. “This is bullshit. I can’t take any more of her woman-hating favoritism. We need to take a stand. We need to show her exactly what the Falcons have up our sleeves.”
“But we don’t have anything up our sleeves,” Lainey muttered, too quietly for Jaime to hear. She watched with a mix of horror and amazement as Jaime untied her apron, fluffed her hair, and barreled her way between Grace and Gabe, snatching the microphone from Grace’s hand.
“You can make all the calendars you want, Havelak, but the Falcons have an epic fund-raiser planned that will knock your socks off. Epic! Ain’t that right, Captain?”
The cameras panned to Lainey as she tried to keep the look of shock off her face. Leave it to Jaime to betray her just as they were starting to get along. Frank was glaring at her, thick black eyebrows raised with expectation.
“Yes, that’s right,” she said lamely.
“And what is it?” Grace asked impatiently.
Lainey’s mind was completely blank. “Well . . . it’s a secret. But when we do reveal it, it will be . . . uh . . . epic, just as Jaime said. But the important thing is that we’re playing for HomeStart—a charity that helps abused women and children find safe, affordable places to live.” The morning talk show environment was very different from what she was used to. In the pressroom, the cameras kept a respectable distance. But here it was as though the cameramen were trying to inspect her gums for signs of gingivitis. She tried to ignore the camera and the fact that her scar was on full display, though she was certain that nerve-induced red hives were bursting all over her neck and cheeks.
Grace gave an unimpressed snort.
“Clearly the Falcons intend to play coy with their fund-raiser details,” Gabe said. “But I’m sure Lainey will reveal a few hints at the end of the show. Personally, I’m hoping they’ll be making a calendar, too.” He threw in a wink to the audience, instigating a round of applause. “Now let me tell you about my secret ingredient. I like to add a little flair to the sauce by adding Manzanilla olives. I encourage those of you at home—who will no doubt be trying this recipe out tonight—to not forget this special touch.”
Lainey was grateful for the reprieve, though annoyed it’d come from Gabe. She was doubly annoyed when he popped a green olive past a sly grin and the largely female audience sighed in unison.
The show cut to Grace’s cohost introducing a segment on the season’s hottest new shades of throw pillows, giving the competitors time to work on their meals.
“Thanks for throwing me under the bus,” Lainey said as Jaime walked back to the Falcons’ side of the counter.
“Oh c’mon now, Lukas. You’re our fearless leader. I have every confidence you’ll come up with something,” Jaime answered jovially. “Now pass me the thingamabob over there.” Jaime gestured to the pile of utensils cluttering the counter.
“The what?” Since Lainey was useless in the kitchen, Lynn and Jaime had insisted she be relegated to the role of utensil organizer.
“You know. The thing? With the handle?”
Lainey randomly passed a spatula to her teammate, hoping it was what she was looking for. Jaime took the spatula without complaint, so Lainey figured she’d guessed right. Then again, Jaime used it rather ineffectually to mix some sort of heavy batter.
“Good god, woman, I thought you knew how to cook!” Lynn fumed, pulling the bowl out from under Jaime and handing it to Lainey, along with a wooden spoon. “Stir this until it thickens.”
“I never said I could cook. I said I needed to be here so that the Falcons look good on camera. Physically. I know it’s early, but would it have killed the two of you to wear a little mascara?”
Lainey plunged the spoon into the batter and glanced over at the guys’ side, where Johnny was expertly slicing and dicing vegetables while sneaking glances at Grace’s cleavage as she hovered. Earlier, Johnny had mentioned he worked under the table as a sous-chef for one of the top restaurants in the city as a teenager. Lord help them, the girls were doomed. Lainey prayed Lynn could really cook. She was their last hope.
Over the next half hour, the women worked frantically to prepare their five-star Scottish-inspired meal, which, much to Lainey’s relief, wasn’t haggis but rather a fancy salmon dish wrapped in a pastry. En croûte, Lynn said, though Lainey had no idea what that meant. Fortunately, her teammate was proving to be quite capable as a chef. Since Jaime’s only real qualification in the kitchen was looking good in an apron, Lynn had taken over the dessert in addition to the main, giving Lainey the side—an elaborate vegetable soufflé—and reassigned Jaime to chopping and measuring. Somehow, Lainey was even managing to have fun with her teammates as they worked together in their own special, chaotic way.
Lainey picked up the set of red measuring spoons and read the labels. Quarter teaspoon. Teaspoon. Three-quarter tablespoon. No milliliters. “The recipe says thirty-five milliliters of cream of tartar. What is that in cups?” Lainey asked her teammates.
“I don’t know, but make sure it’s exact or the whole thing will fall apart,” Lynn ordered in a Gordon Ramsay–esque voice.
“What’s the equivalent of thirty-five milliliters in tablespoons, Chen?”
“How the heck would I know?” Jaime said while frantically picking up the diced veggies that had spilled onto the ground. Streaks of white flour stood out starkly against her deep black hair.
“You’re Canadian. Don’t you use the metric system up there?” Lainey asked.
“Not for cooking!” Jaime shouted back, a hint of panic in her voice.
“Come on, ladies. We need that cream of tartar or this dough is going to fall flat,” Lynn shouted impatiently.
Lainey craned her neck to see if there were any other measuring cups around and nearly knocked her head into a heavy black camera that had come in for a close-up. She picked up a measuring cup that had millimeter equivalents. If 250 milliliters was one cup, then all she had to do was figure out what the equivalent of 35 milliliters was, then figure out how many tablespoons in a cup and do that math as well. She drew every ounce of concentration in her body to help her focus on the complicated math in her head. She could do this . . .
“Looks like the Falcons are having some trouble,” Gr
ace said in her condescending way. She dipped her microphone in front of Lainey’s face, breaking her concentration. “With only fifteen minutes to go, I’d hate to see your soufflé droop.”
Jaime picked up a knife and pointed it in the reporter’s direction. “Listen, woman. The only things at risk of drooping are your fake ti—”
“Not at all,” Lainey interrupted just in the nick of time. Frank looked ready to throttle them all. “Everything is under control.”
She scanned the room for anything that could help her. Her eyes settled on Aunt Marnie’s frantic waving and hand signals in the back row. Lainey silently gestured that she couldn’t understand her aunt’s cryptic instruction. With her mouth pursed in a tight line, Aunt Marnie marched her embroidered blue sweatsuit–clad self through the row of seats and down to Lainey.
“It’s two and a third tablespoons, dear,” she instructed her niece. Lainey breathed a sigh of relief and poured out the white powder as the audience chuckled at her expense. “You need to whip this at a medium high speed if you want it to stay fluffy and airy.”
“Looks like someone isn’t above a little cheating,” Gabe boomed out. “Perhaps I should get my ringer down here to help, too. Come on, Mama! Let’s even out this competition!”
To Lainey’s dismay, the portly, gray-haired woman wearing a Surge tracksuit in the front row instantly jumped up and made her way to Gabe with a beaming smile on her face.
“That’s good, son,” she said in her thick eastern European accent, patting Gabe on the cheek. She turned to Johnny. “Now, you. Add a little more salt to this dish.”
“Whoa! Hold up, lady. You can’t possibly know this needs more salt. I’ve got it handled,” the young player said defensively.
“It needs more salt,” Gabe’s mom said firmly, grabbing the box of salt and liberally pouring it into the pot in front of him. Lainey and her teammates snickered, glad to see Gabe’s plan backfire. Unfortunately, their laughter drew the attention of the staunch woman. “And you, ladies! You need nutmeg in that soufflé.”
“But the recipe doesn’t call for it,” Lainey stammered.
“Well, it should.” Mrs. Havelak slammed her hand on the counter. “In my generation, young women knew how to cook. It’s the secret to keeping a man happy.”
“This recipe has been passed down through generations in my family. It’s perfect,” Lynn said, wielding a scraper in her hand. “And my man is plenty happy!”
“It really would help the flavor, dear,” Aunt Marnie chimed in, much to Lainey’s shock.
“Get outta my kitchen!” Lynn yelled.
“Yeah, we don’t need you!” Johnny impetuously shouted as well, earning a smack on the head from Gabe.
No, no, no! Not again! Things were escalating fast, drawing the attention of the cameras. Lainey could feel the panic creeping into her chest. The Falcons couldn’t afford another public embarrassment. They were so close to picking up a full-season television deal, and a stupid argument about spices was about to unravel everything.
“Kids today. They just don’t appreciate their elders,” Mrs. Havelak huffed to Aunt Marnie.
“So right you are. We could teach them a lesson if they’d just listen,” Aunt Marnie clucked. Lainey knew it was bad whenever her aunt reverted to her schoolteacher voice. She dearly loved the woman, who was more of a mother than an aunt, but once that voice came out, Lainey knew there was no way to win.
“I make a mean goulash. Can you handle dessert?” Mrs. Havelak asked Aunt Marnie while stealing a baking dish right from Lainey’s hands.
“Best stove-top peach-blueberry crumble this side of Spokane,” Aunt Marnie responded, walking behind the counter and poaching the ingredients she needed from the competitors’ respective sections like it was her own kitchen. She and Mrs. Havelak settled into the space between the Falcons and the Surge and got to work with the efficiency of a military strike force.
“What the hell?” Jaime said, watching the older women working like they’d been cooking there for decades.
“Ignore them,” Lainey whispered. “We don’t have much time left and we need to spend every last minute of this competition concentrating on crushing the Surge.”
“Right on, Captain,” Lynn added, garnishing her salmon with flecks of parsley.
Lainey tried hard to follow her own advice and not think about her aunt’s crumble, which was her favorite dessert. She also tried hard to not think about Frank scowling from the wings or even Gabe casting sideways glances at her. She especially tried hard to not acknowledge that the reason she was noticing his sideways glances was that she was casting some of her own. The man looked awfully good in a faded pair of jeans and simple gray button-up shirt. Her own outfit—jeans and a clean shirt that her aunt had lent her—wasn’t much different, but she didn’t look anywhere near as effortlessly put together. Once the season was over and her victory was in hand, she’d buy herself a proper wardrobe. That was number eight on her list.
But Lainey had to focus on winning this competition right here, right now. Winning meant ten more points. Winning meant inching a step closer to her dream. Winning meant watching Gabe clean the mud from her shoes. She wasn’t going to focus on what losing this challenge would mean.
“Ten more minutes! Time to finish up those dishes and get them plated,” Grace chirped. Somehow, Aunt Marnie and Mrs. Havelak had completely stolen the show out from under the Falcons and the Surge. The cameras were glued to the two matronly women, who managed to bicker as much as they agreed, and narrated their every move like they were the stars of their own cooking show. In the five minutes they’d been working, their simple meal looked leaps and bounds ahead of what the Falcons were putting together, despite the fact they kept sneaking ingredients to each other’s dishes when their backs were turned.
A slight hip check by Mrs. Havelak reaching for a wooden spoon sent Lainey’s knife right into the soft flesh of her thumb pad.
“Dammit!” Lainey stuck her finger in her mouth to keep the blood from spilling out and ruining all the food they’d slaved over for the past two hours.
“Come on,” Jaime said, grabbing Lainey by the shoulder and directing her to a sink away from their workspace. She ran cold water over Lainey’s thumb, dried it with a clean towel, and pulled a bandage from her front pocket.
“You carry bandages with you?” Lainey asked.
“Of course. Never know when you’re going to get all nipply.” Jaime wrapped the bandage around Lainey’s finger. “We’ve done all we can in this round. We need to figure out what to say when that plastic whore asks you about the charity fund-raiser.”
“I have no idea what to say. It’s pretty clear a bake sale isn’t going to cut it.”
“We could always do a porno.”
Lainey rolled her eyes. “I haven’t had enough time to think about it. Most of us are new to Seattle, and we don’t have the same social or media connections as the Surge. I don’t see how we can raise as much money as them. All Gabe has to do is sell one of his ego cars, and they’ll have more money than we could ever earn.”
“Then we need to think of a way to get people to raise money for us, or to get something of equal value. What makes us special?”
“I have no idea what you’re getting at, Jaime.” Lainey threw her hands up.
“Cut the crap, Lukas. You are a star striker. Thinking on your feet and pulling miracles out of your ass in a split second is what you do best. So do it.” Jaime patted Lainey’s cheek, then pushed her back toward the counter where Lynn was putting the finishing touches on their plate.
“TIME’S UP,” GRACE SQUEALED, not-so-coincidentally rubbing against Gabe’s arm. At least with his mama nearby, Grace wouldn’t try anything too overt. She just couldn’t accept no for an answer. All in all, though, the morning had been a blast. He loved getting the chance to show off his skills in the kitchen for his mama. Despite her grumbling earlier, Gabe had always wanted her to teach him to cook, but she refused every time he asked
. Gabe knew it was because she desperately wanted to remain important to him. It was silly because she’d always be a huge part of his life.
He and his teammates finished up plating and carried the food over to the judges’ table, where three audience members were randomly pulled to taste their efforts. They sampled the Surge’s plate first, with noncommittal mmms and head nods. Next came the Falcons’ salmon en croute and vegetable soufflé. The reactions of the panel were a little more expressive, causing him a twinge of concern. Gabe knew it was all meant to be in good fun, but the curse of Cricket Field was real. In his first year playing for the Surge, Gabe had witnessed Mitch Elliot snap his ankle in half by catching his foot in the unforgiving, rubberized Astroturf. In this third year, Gabe was standing right next to Jimmy Riviera when he was stung by a bee and discovered he was highly allergic. The anaphylactic shock was so severe, Riviera ended up suffering a mild stroke. It was touch and go for a while, but he recovered well enough to lead a normal life. Not well enough to continue on as a professional athlete, though. Gabe couldn’t risk being next.
When the panel sampled his mama and Lainey’s aunt’s dishes, their measly attempts at remaining stoic dissolved into over-the-top food-gasms.
“Oh, we definitely have a winner,” a fortyish, blond female panelist exclaimed. The other two nodded enthusiastically. She took another bite and pointed at the dish in front of her. “This one. Definitely this one.”
Mama and Lainey’s aunt gave each other what Gabe considered to be the most awkwardly smug high five he’d ever witnessed.
“Well, folks, we have a winner,” Grace chirped. “Looks like age and experience come before beauty after all!”
“Whoa!” Gabe interrupted. “Who comes second?”
“We need to know who gets the points,” Lainey protested at the same time as him.
The panelists looked put-upon, but gathered their heads together and mumbled for a few seconds.