Recipe for Romance

Chapter 2-3

Preston knew Tess as “the new girl” in high school, and he’d said hi to her in the halls, but he was a grade above her so they didn’t have classes together. The only time they hung out was at football events, games or rallies or practices, since the cheerleaders were always on the fringes of the team. Most of the girls dated most of the guys, and he knew many of them had their eyes on him because he wasn’t with anyone yet. He’d dated a few of the girls, but never the same one more than once. He was only a sophomore, so there wasn’t too much pressure on him to date, but as his prowess on the playing field grew, his teammates were starting to ask him when he’d settle on that special someone.

He didn’t have the nerve to tell them his crush wasn’t on any of the cheerleaders, but on Shane McAllister, the team’s tight end. And damn, what a tight end that senior had, too!

But no, Preston had to keep that part of him hidden, tamped down deep inside where no one would see it. If any of his teammates knew he watched them undress in the locker room, or snuck peeks of them while they showered, or enjoyed the towel slapping and jock snapping that went on after a winning game, he’d be kicked off the team in a heartbeat, no matter how well he played. He’d go out with the cheerleaders if he had to, and he’d pretend to enjoy himself until graduation. Then he’d leave the small-minded Virginia town behind and head out for someplace where he might actually meet the man of his dreams, not some hotheaded redneck jock like Shane but someone he could love, someone who would sweep him off his feet.

His teammates would have found it hard to believe that their up-and-coming football star wanted nothing to do with a career in the NFL or pro ball. Instead, Preston had his sights set on culinary school in New York City, and hoped to earn his chops as sous chef at a restaurant working for one of the big names in fine dining—Wolfgang Puck, perhaps, or Gordon Ramsey. One day he might even open a high end eatery of his own, a surf and turf Asian fusion bistro he hoped to call Pruitt Place. Or maybe simply Preston’s, all done up in green neon lights against a red brick facade. In an arts district somewhere, so his clientele would be on their way to the latest shows in the early evening, and he could catch the cast and crew in the later hours, as well.

Thoughts of his own restaurant filled his head whenever he was out on the football field. Fortunately the game came easily to him; the ball would sail effortlessly into his hands, his feet would run on their own accord, he’d push through the defense with a bone-thudding impact that left players falling in his wake. All the while, his mind was on the color scheme of his restaurant’s interior, and the lighting, and the table arrangement, and should the bar be cherry or oak?

Even after the game was won and they relinquished the field, Preston followed behind his teammates in a daze, lost in a world where he was welcoming New York mayor Rudy Giuliani to Pruitt Place. Or maybe Preston’s. “Is this your first visit?” he’d say.

As he approached the cheerleaders, he saw Shane manhandle Heather what’s-her-face and suppressed a groan. Preston could’ve suggested somewhere else Shane could’ve put those large, rough hands of his, if only he were interested. Preston’s balls clenched at the thought, and filed it away for later. Something to enjoy in the shower when he got home, perhaps.

Suddenly one of the newer cheerleaders threw down her pom-poms and stormed off. It was Tess, one of the few girls not paired up with a player on the football team. “Tess!” another of her squad called out.

Tess ignored her, making a beeline for the bleachers. With her shoulders hunched and her arms hugged across her chest, she was obviously upset about something, but the other girls exchanged confused looks. What the hell?

Preston surprised himself by offering, “I’ll go see what’s wrong.”