Darkroom: A Moo U Hockey Romance, Kate Willoughby [best books to read for young adults .TXT] 📗

The welcoming hug started out with just me and my parents, but after several moments, my dad waved an arm at Hudson, who joined in for the latter half of it.

“It’s so wonderful to see you again, Hudson,” my mom exclaimed as we finally made our way inside. “You and Indi will be up in her old room. Why don’t you go up and get settled? Kevin and I have some work to do but we can all head over to Slice around eleven thirty, if that’s okay.”

“Pizza for lunch sounds good to me” Hudson said.

I led the way up the stairs and down the hall to my room. Even thought it was larger than my room at Carter Hall, it seemed smaller. Maybe that was because, with his large frame, Hudson seemed to fill up all the empty space.

“This is so embarrassing,” I said, looking at the posters, the purple walls, stuffed animals, and flowery comforter.

“Don’t be embarrassed. I love this. I didn’t know you were a reader of anything but textbooks and prep manuals.” He knelt to peruse my bookshelf which held everything from Dr. Seuss and Harry Potter to Julia Quinn and Anne McCaffrey.

“It’s hard to find time to read for fun these days. Someday, I’ll get back to it.”

“I hear you. Same, except I’ve got studying and hockey. I sometimes listen to books while I’m working out, but I like reading actual books better.”

We spent the next two hours sitting cross-legged next to my bookshelf talking about our favorite books. My parents were avid readers too, so lunch at Slice was spent discussing even more books and then books that had been turned into movies.

Hudson was fascinated by the restaurant, so before the dinner rush, we took him into the back and showed him how to make a pizza. It was pretty hilarious to watch. He got cheese everywhere and his crust was comically uneven and misshapen, but it was a testament to our ingredients and the recipe for the salami and hot honey creation my parents had recreated that his pizza still turned out delicious.

“Since we saw you last, we tested, what, Bonnie?” my dad asked. “About a dozen different honeys?”

“That sounds about right. All from local honey producers.”

“And how many salamis?”

“Six or seven. We settled on finocchiona sourced from Tuscany. The fennel in it really complemented the honey.”

I had to agree. The version we’d had in Boston had been tasty, but you could get Genoa at the grocery store. My parents preferred higher end ingredients.

“So it’s going on the menu?” I asked.

“It’s going to be launched as our Black Friday special,” my mom confirmed. “People will be able to get it at half price for one day only.”

“Nice,” Hudson said.

“What are you going to call it?” I asked, because while we had no problem using other people’s recipes, for some reason, we didn’t poach the names people came up with.

“We decided to call it the Bee-licious Special,” my mom said.

“Love it,” I exclaimed.

Hudson and I ended up staying to help with the dinner rush. Hudson wanted to “perfect” his pizza prep skills and to everyone’s surprise, it didn’t take him long to get proficient. Before long, he was speedily rolling and stretching out the dough, then adding the toppings like a pro. Several times during the evening, I got meaningful looks from my parents that said they were impressed with him.

“You know what it means if you serve a pizza in hockey?” Hudson asked, spreading tomato sauce with the small ladle.

None of us did. In the kitchen, there was me, my dad, and four other cooks.

“It means your pass went right up the center of the ice only to be intercepted by the opposing team. If you’re serving up pizzas on the ice, your teammates aren’t going to be happy with you.”

“Hey, that reminds me,” my dad said. “I saw on the news that the Zamboni driver at the local rink is missing.”

“Really?” Hudson said. “I hope nothing’s wrong.”

“Well, last I heard, they think he’ll resurface.”

A pause and then Hudson laughed. “Good one, Kevin.”

“Oh no,” I said. “Now you’ve done it.”

“Done what?”

“Dad loves telling bad jokes.”

“Hey!” my dad protested. “That Zamboni one was good!”

“And if you encourage him,” I continued, ducking the piece of pepperoni my dad had thrown at me, “it’s like throwing fuel on the fire. Don’t waste the product, Dad!”

“I’ll show you fueling the fire,” he said, then yelling, “Team, why do hockey rinks have rounded corners?”

Everyone in the kitchen, including Hudson, said, “WHY?”

“Because if they were ninety degrees, the ice would melt!”

I gave Hudson a look but he was laughing with everyone else and thus, we were rewarded with several more minutes of hockey jokes that I knew my dad had looked up and memorized just for our visit.

When we got home around midnight, my parents said good night and went to their room while Hudson and I went to mine.

“My parents were so impressed with you. Everyone was. In fact, my dad said if you ever flunk out of hockey, you could have a job at Slice.”

“God forbid,” Hudson said. “I mean, it was a lot of fun, but night after night? I couldn’t hack it. I had no idea how much work was involved in running a restaurant,” Hudson said. “It was nonstop for hours. And then when all the customers are finally gone you have to clean everything.” He shuddered for emphasis. “And the heat! I finally understand that saying about it being too hot in the kitchen.”

“I’m convinced that’s why so many restaurants fail. People don’t realize how hard it is.”

He took me in his arm and nuzzled my neck. “You smell like pizza,” he said.

“You do too. It’s an occupational hazard. I usually take a shower after I work a shift there.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

He started undressing, but I hesitated before I began rubbing my face with one of my makeup-removing wipes. When I finally joined him in