Chapter 6: The Gala

The Blizzard's season gala was held in the arena's club level, with three hundred guests in black tie and one very small kitchen.

I had four cooks, nine sheet pans, and a menu I'd fought for.

"The sponsors want canapés," Delphine said, standing in my door with her tablet.

"The sponsors will get braised short rib on potato rosti."

"Canapés are lighter."

"Canapés are a snack for people who aren't hungry," I said. "I'm cooking for hockey people."

She smiled with her teeth.

"The kitchen door stays closed tonight, Ms. Prendergast. A woman from Ironhearth Cookware is coming, and she has asked about the team's chef."

I put down my knife.

"Then she should meet the chef."

"She will meet the dinner."

She left, and I stood there with my hands curled around the edge of the counter.

An hour later, my cooks and I were deep in service.

I was plating short ribs at the pass with a towel on my shoulder.

The kitchen door swung open.

Doran Beaulieu walked in wearing a black tuxedo that had been cut for him alone.

Every cook in the room froze.

He crossed the floor, pulled out the stool on the other side of my pass, and sat.

"Captain," said my sous chef. "Sir, the gala is out front."

"I'm eating back here."

"Sir."

"Chef," Doran said to me. "Is there a plate?"

I looked at the door.

Through the round window, I saw Delphine Hartley.

Beside her stood a tall woman in a deep green suit with a silver pendant shaped like a skillet.

They were both looking straight at us.

I looked at Doran.

He raised one eyebrow, the one with the scar through it.

"Ask me," he said.

I understood.

"Do you want me to feed you in front of her?" I said.

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