The tallest guy on the football team, who was an inch taller than Carter, saluted me as they skedaddled. The stench of stale soap remained, however, especially with my mouth hung open, in pure amazement. She was simply going to hand me this opportunity?

“I never have too much homework. It’ll take more than that to get rid of me, O’Connor. I’ll come.”

“Really?”

“No. I was talking to someone else. Yes, really. Need me to pick up anything?”

“Funny. Maybe some chicken? I kind of undercooked mine and, like, freaked out and burned the backups . . .”

“Chicken?” My pulse quickened, like I’d been informed about a pop biology quiz, where the questions were pictures and the answers had to be made from silly putty. “Like what kind, are there different kinds of chicken? How does one pick out chicken . . . ?”

“Just get a pound of whatever’s cheapest. It’s chicken. Bawk bawk.” She hung up.

I paused over the locker room sink, reflecting on what was happening. Lukewarm water (the hottest the sink would go) helped me get my game face on. I was going to cook with Eliza O’Connor. Cooking. Eliza.

I couldn’t tell which of those made me more nervous.

Twenty minutes and one successful quest for chicken later, I found Eliza O’Connor fretting about her kitchen as if the queen of England were coming over. She flipped between three pans on her stove and two cutting boards with a mismatched array of tomatoes and white vegetables I didn’t recognize. Later, when they left a sad, forgetful impression on my taste buds, I discovered it was cauliflower.

“Thanks for coming,” she said.

“Cooking together? This is a big step in our relationship.”

“I’m impressed you know the r word.” Eliza stirred a sizzling pan, which smelled like too much garlic and watery tomato sauce.

“Really? See, I know two.” I set the grocery bag on the kitchen island.

“Olivia’s catering some fancy thing at a law firm,” said Eliza, “And apparently got four new clients out of it. They make her ninety-seventh, ninety-eighth, ninety-ninth, and—”

“She got her hundredth client?”

“Hashtag girl boss.”

Eliza wanted to celebrate in style.

“Is this chicken okay?”

“It’s great,” she answered without looking. Eliza flitted around the room, throwing ridiculous amounts of vegetables into one pan and slicing her newly acquired chicken for the other.

“How can I help, Chef? Usually the parentals have me stand out of the way.”

“Don’t think you’re getting off that easy. This recipe is a monster. I need like ten extra hands.”

She passed me her huge, plastic cutting board with the chicken, gesturing for me to continue.

“Okay. Here I go. Cooking. Yup.”

“Nick Maguire, intimidated. And by a breast no less . . .”

I wagged my eyebrows. “What’s this? Smack talk from Eliza O’Connor?”

She cranked open a can of tomato sauce, tossing the top towards the sink, where two more empty cans sat, patiently waiting to be rinsed.