“You’re late,” her father called out when Sophia walked through the kitchen door of Lanzi’s Thursday night.
She bit back her grimace and grabbed the specials menu, ignoring her grumbling stomach as the scent of baked cheese and rich Bolognese hit her taste buds. Her sad turkey sandwich just a distant memory from a rushed lunch hours ago as she’d packed up the small box of her personal items.
“I know, but I’m here now, and Becky’s got the front covered.” She peeked out of the swinging doors and scoped out the hostess stand. Two parties stood waiting as Sophia’s cousin Becky led a nervous looking couple to a booth in the corner. Probably a first date. Sophia would make sure there was extra bread in their basket. Carbs always smoothed things over.
Their hands would bump as they reached for a fresh slice. Mumbled apologies and awkward smiles. They’d debate over wine, both wanting a little liquid courage. Would it be red or white? Sweet or dry? You could learn a lot about someone by their wine selection. Along with who caved first. It’d better be him.
As much as Sophia didn’t want to spend her life at Lanzi’s, she loved the memories people made in her family’s restaurant. Because they always came back. For anniversaries and graduations, or a Friday night date away from the kids. And her family prided themselves on their regulars, their repeat customers who became family over the years.
She held back her smile and turned to her father. He meant well, tugging her into a side hug. He smelled like this kitchen. His kitchen. A mixture of spices and her great-grandmother’s homemade gravy. Red sauce, or marinara, to the non-Italians.
“Leave her alone. You should give her a night off,” her Aunt Rose said, shooting her a grin.
“I don’t make her work every day,” her father said, his voice gruff, but with a smile.
“Sophia, are you hungry? Bet you haven’t eaten all day. I’ll make you a plate,” Aunt Rose said.
“I’m fine, I ate lunch. I’ll grab some food later. Should get out there and help Becky. It’s only going to get busier,” she said, straightening her headband to keep her uncooperative waves out of her eyes. Her hair was that undecided type, sometimes wavy, sometimes curly, all the time a pain in the ass. She’d straighten it, but she didn’t have the time or the energy.
“You should quit that PT thing and just work here, like the rest of the family. Then you wouldn’t be late,” her father grumbled.
“You should be proud of her. She’s starting at a new place next week. Her new boss is the best PT in the city.” Aunt Rose chastised her brother-in-law.
Sophia grinned. “Thanks, Auntie.” She turned back to her father. “And not everyone in the family works here.”
Her father harrumphed, and focused back on the chicken he was sautéing.
“You should be here,” he muttered again, not looking back at her, and Sophia ignored him. He would never change. She’d accepted that. For the most part. Every so often she had the overwhelming urge to knock some sense into him, but he was set in his ways. If you had Lanzi blood in your veins, you worked at the restaurant. Three generations had continued to serve her great-grandmother’s recipes. They had traditions to maintain, and she understood that legacy, but she wished her father would be proud of what she’d accomplished outside of the restaurant’s walls.
She would prove that with her new job. As of Monday morning, she’d be a PT assistant for Dr. Anders, and she was still pinching herself that she’d landed the position. The competition had been steep, and she’d stared at the phone after accepting, unbelieving at her luck. Her hard work had gotten her the job, and she’d do everything she could to prove she deserved it.
Her family had protested when she’d gone to college at twenty, not for restaurant management, but for physical therapy. They’d humored her because she always came back to the restaurant, but one day she wasn’t going to come back. She was still working on how to tell them, but for now, she could hold down both jobs. Sleep was overrated.
“You going out there?” her father asked, cutting into her thoughts that she had no desire to dwell on tonight. She didn’t miss his narrowed eyes and wrinkled brow.
“I’m going. Anything I need to know?” she asked, smoothing down her shirt.
“Nope. Now that you’re here, we’re at full staff. Kitchen is running on time,” her father said.
“I’ll be back for a plate later,” she said, grabbing a piece of bread and shoving it in her mouth to tide her over. She pushed through the swinging doors and said hello to George, another cousin who was manning the bar with Nick and Caitlyn, also her cousins.
Sophia had worked at her family’s restaurant since she was old enough to hold a pen and ask if you wanted penne or linguine with your meal. She’d been the head hostess since she graduated from high school. And as much as she loved her family, she had no desire to spend her life directing people to their tables with a smile.
One day her family would understand that. They’d have to.
“Good evening, three?” Sophia asked, addressing the couple and their teen son waiting at the hostess stand. At their nods, she scanned the table breakdown in front of her, and grabbed three menus. “Follow me. I hope you’re having a nice evening. Have you been here before?”
“Last month was the first time. We’re new to the area,” the woman said.
“Welcome back. I recommend the Bolognese tonight. With a cabernet. My mouth watered just walking through the kitchen,” she said, gesturing to the booth and sliding the menus in front of them. “Sean will be your waiter tonight and should be right over with water and bread. Let any of us know if you have questions.” She gave them one last smile before heading back to the now-empty hostess stand. Her gaze darted around the room. They’d be on a wait shortly, only a few empty tables remained and the dinner rush was just about to hit.
***
“I’m ducking back to grab a bite,” Sophia said when they finally had a moment to breathe, almost two hours later. True to form, fifteen minutes after she’d seated the couple and their son, the dinner rush had picked up, and they’d ended up on a forty-minute wait. It was steady now, with only a few parties waiting. She scanned the restaurant, a handful of tables had their bills, and guests were finishing off their final glasses of wine.
“Go. Go,” Becky said, with a wave. “Bet you’ve been non-stop today. At least you have tomorrow off.”
Yes. One glorious day off since her new job didn’t start until Monday, and it was Thursday night.
She laughed. “Yes. Day being the correct word, since I’m here again tomorrow night.”
“This isn’t work. It’s family,” Becky said with a grin, and Sophia rolled her eyes at the family motto. At least it should be the family motto.
“Don’t I know it,” Sophia said, before she headed back to the kitchen.
“Thought you’d be back by now,” her father said, dishing up the Bolognese over fresh linguine that she’d been salivating over all night. She’d do an extra twenty minutes on the elliptical tomorrow to make up for it. She ignored him, and dipped a slice of homemade bread in the bowl. Her family might drive her crazy, but at least she was well-fed.
“Since you don’t have that other job tomorrow, you should come by during lunch. Joy can’t come in,” he said, referring to their part-time hostess, and not a Lanzi.
“You always ask for favors after you’ve put food in front of me,” she said, glaring at him. “And I have plans tomorrow. I never get a day off.”
“You would if you only worked here.”
“Can we not do this tonight? Joy just let you know this today?”
“Yep. That’s the problem with hiring people who aren’t family,” he grumbled, and she didn’t miss his pointed look.
“I’ll be here,” she muttered, before taking a bite of rich Bolognese.
“That’s my girl,” he said. She heard the smile in his voice. She refused to look up. He wrapped his arm around her, squeezing her tight.
How many times was she going to cave?
Eric Finnegan, known to his teammates as Finn, slammed his car door shut Monday morning, and reached for the crutch he’d rested against the frame. He hated that fucking thing, but at least he was down to one, and the cast with the never-ending itch he couldn’t reach was gone. Buzzed right off last week, revealing a calf muscle that he swore was shrinking each day. His footing still wasn’t what it used to be, so he’d kept the crutch handy. It taunted him, reminding him that he wasn’t at one hundred percent. As did the bulky walking boot that had replaced his cast.
Not that he should be, months after being on the receiving end of a slap shot fired by one of the hardest hitters in the league. A shot that had broken his ankle in two places and required surgery. Now, numerous plates and screws held the bones together. It hadn’t shattered, but it’d been close. Too close.
After seven years in the pros, this was the first injury that had ended a season early for him, and hobbling around wasn’t how he’d planned to spend his offseason. But now that the cast was off, he could start physical therapy. He knew guys who’d been back on the ice within five to six weeks of starting PT, and he was going to be on that list. Not in fighting form, of course, but he at least wanted to strap on a pair of skates and hear the smooth ice as he skated around the rink. He’d never gone this long without being out on the ice. The last three months had been endless.
He was twitchy from lack of ice time. Even in the summer, he skated with the local proleague, keeping his legs fresh and his conditioning on track. The season might only run from October to April—June if you’re lucky, but most of the guys skated year-round.
He missed that. And he missed his teammates, but most of them had scattered to their hometowns for the summer or for extended vacations. His mom had asked him to come home to recuperate in Calgary, but the Strikers had the best team of doctors and medical staff, and if he wanted to be back and ready for training camp, staying here was the best option.
Shoving the crutch under his arm, he headed into the PT’s office, both nervous and excited to truly start his rehab. Hockey was everything to him. It’s how he helped his family after every sacrifice they’d made for him over the years, and he’d do whatever was necessary to make sure he still had his spot as a top-four defenseman when September rolled around. As it stood, they were cutting it a little too close to training camp, but hopefully Dr. Anders would have good news for him. He had every intention of being back to his bruising self by the first preseason game.
Finn pulled open the office door and headed to the receptionist.
“Can I help you?” she asked.
“Eric Finnegan. I have an appointment with Dr. Anders.”
“Oh yes, Mr. Finnegan, please have a seat. Someone will be right out,” she said, flashing him a smile as she typed.
Within minutes, the door opened and he was being ushered into an exam room by the intern.
“Dr. Anders will be right with you,” the intern said. “And I’m glad to see you up and moving. That break looked brutal,” he said, shaking his head before shutting the door behind him.
No shit.
Finn rested his crutch against the exam table and sat down in a nearby chair, stretching his leg out and ignoring the twinge. Damn stationary bike. He’d used the upright one, knowing he should’ve stuck with the recumbent bike, but he’d wanted to test himself. The steady—okay, brisk—pedaling he’d done on the machine yesterday shouldn’t have caused the twinge he was feeling now. Stupid ankle.
He stared around the room, white walls were covered in posters with motivational quotes and stretching exercises, but he wasn’t feeling very motivated. He eyed the crutch with disdain. He’d wanted to leave it at home, but the last time he’d gone through PT, during his first, and only year of college, he’d always been in more pain when the appointment was over, so having the crutch would help him look less pathetic hobbling out of the office when they were done twisting and turning him.
There was a soft knock on the door before a woman in her mid to late forties entered the room, followed by a younger woman who looked vaguely familiar.
“Good morning, Mr. Finnegan. I’m Dr. Anders,” the older woman said, holding out her hand. He braced his palm on the chair and pushed himself to stand and shake her hand, ignoring the pain in his ankle. Fuck. He was tired of this.
“Good morning, Dr. Anders,” he said, biting back his irritation at the pain. “Please call me Finn. Everyone else does.”
“Finn, this is my PT assistant, Sophia,” Dr. Anders continued.
Sophia. Why did she look so familiar? Please let her not have been some random hookup—although those were few and far between, so the odds were good that he hadn’t slept with her.
Wait. He remembered meeting her when he’d helped crash Cheesy’s girlfriend’s dinner with friends a few months ago. She looked different. Her hair pulled back in a slick ponytail, but a few elusive strands had slipped through and he had the overwhelming desire to tuck them back into place. He fisted his hand on his crutch and reined it in.
“Nice to see you again, Finn,” she said. Her cheeks pinked and warmth rocked through his body at an alarming rate. He’d had the same reaction to her at her family’s restaurant, but now was definitely not the place for his body’s reaction. Hell, he hadn’t been interested in anyone in ages. Not that he was interested. Shit. She was here to help him.
“You’ve met?” Dr. Anders asked, her gaze resting on Sophia, and Finn straightened, refusing to get trapped in Sophia’s dark green gaze again. He didn’t have time for distractions.
“Yes. He came into my family’s restaurant a couple of months ago with a few of the other players. The team captain is dating my cousin’s girlfriend’s best friend,” Sophia said, with a grin. “I think I got that right.”
“Yep.”
She pulled back. Maybe that response had been a little short. She pressed her tablet tighter to her chest. He was an ass, but he was here for a reason—one reason only.
“Let’s get started,” Dr. Anders cut in, and Finn could only hope that the tension in the room was his imagination. He didn’t miss the fact that Sophia didn’t meet his gaze again, instead she swiped her finger across the screen of what he assumed was his chart.
“How often are you using your crutch?” Dr. Anders asked, nodding toward the infernal thing resting against the exam table next to Finn.
He cleared his head and focused on why he was in this room. Healing was the only thing he should be focused on. He could not fall into those deep green eyes and wonder just how soft her dark hair was. Or how her black pants stretched delectably across her ass when she turned to put the tablet down on the small desk in the corner.
Definitely not thinking about that. Shit.
“Finn?”
“Right. I rarely use it at this point. Just brought it here in case I end up in more pain by the time you’re done with me,” he said.
Dr. Anders laughed. “That’s how you know we’re doing our job. No pain, no gain, right? And as long as the pain isn’t overwhelming. That’s what we want to avoid in order to get you back on the ice as soon as your body’s ready.”
“Yes. Absolutely. By the season opener, I want to be back in fighting form.”
“I know, Finn. You aren’t the first athlete we’ve had in here. Stubborn to the core, every last one of you,” she said, but there was warmth, and good-natured frustration, not disdain in her voice.
“I might be the worst.”
“We’ll see about that. Now, let’s test your range of motion,” Dr. Anders said, and Finn shifted to get up on the table. He balanced on his good leg and hoisted himself up, ignoring Sophia’s offered hand. He didn’t need that much help.
“Sophia, please take notes,” she said. Sophia picked up the tablet, swiping through it again.
“Shouldn’t take long,” he muttered.
“What was that, Finn?” Dr. Anders asked.
“My range of motion is depressing, so it should be a quick review.”
“And that’s what we’re here for,” she said.
He didn’t detect any pity in her expression. He stretched out both of his legs. One leg was definitely smaller than the other. Maybe a few extra calf workouts wouldn’t have killed him. But he’d stayed off his bad foot, just like the doctors had ordered. Well. For the most part.
“What have you done since the cast came off?” Dr. Anders asked, as she tested and rotated his ankle after removing his walking boot.
He fought back a grimace. “Not much.”
She met his eyes. “This hurts?”
“I’ve felt worse. Just a twinge. Sometimes it throbs.”
“And you’ve done nothing? No working out. No jogging?”
“Of course not.” He paused. “I might’ve used the bike a few times.”
“It better have been a recumbent one.” Dr. Anders’ brow quirked up, and Finn felt like a kid getting caught climbing the tree in the backyard that his mom told him to stay away from because the branches were stripped bare and it was only a matter of time before it came down.
He should’ve listened to his mom since it’d crashed down with him in it and he’d broken his arm. Shit, she’d been pissed. He shook off the memory. Missing his family went along with being an athlete. She would’ve babied the hell out of him if he’d gone home to recuperate.
Dr. Anders’ voice cut through his memories again. “A few times? For now, stay on the recumbent bike. I hope you kept it at a slow pace.”
He bristled at her accusatory tone, not that it wasn’t valid. “Fine. I’ll stay off the upright bike.”
She shook her head. “Did you forget that you just got your cast off after fracturing your ankle in two places?”
“Of course not. But I need to ramp my workout back up. A small push to test my limits, at a slightly increased pace, is as baby a step as I can go,” he muttered.
“And when you reinjure yourself and have a setback, you just delay getting back on the ice.”
“You think I don’t know that?” he bit out.
“We are here to help, but you have to listen to us. I know it’s frustrating.”
He tamped down the urge to mutter no shit. The woman had no idea. Every year, newly drafted players vied for veteran spots, and being unable to play when the season started was not an option. If guys could recover from similar injuries and make it back in time for the season, so could he.
“But we’ll get you back there.” She paused, and Finn met her eyes, steely determination clear. “When your body is ready and not a minute sooner.”
“I’m a fast healer,” he grumbled, rotating his ankle and ignoring the twinge. He didn’t miss the quirk of a smile as Sophia watched him over her tablet.
Focus on the ankle, idiot.