Sweet as Pie by Alicia Hunter Pace

Chapter Fifteen

A losing locker room was no place to be, and this one felt worse than any Jake had ever been in—probably because he had never felt so personally responsible before. He reminded himself that it was only one period and they hadn’t lost yet, but it didn’t make him feel any better.

He put his gloves and helmet on the drying rack, stripped off his jersey, and collapsed onto the seat in his stall.

Robbie sat down beside him and began to loosen his skates, like he did between every period. “We got what we wanted,” Robbie said with an edge to his voice. “Skating first line.”

“For now.” Jake accepted a bottle of water from the locker room attendant, opened it, and swallowed half of it in one gulp.

Blake had always said skating first line would come eventually, and it had. Too bad it probably wouldn’t last. At least Blake hadn’t had to see it.

Having redeemed himself at today’s morning skate after his lackluster performance at yesterday’s practice, Jake had expected to be one of the first line defensemen. Likewise, he had expected Luka to skate center, with Robbie and Logan as the other two forwards. Wingo in goal was a given. What he had not expected was for Killen to be the other defenseman. He’d thought it would be Miklos Novak—or maybe that’s what he’d hoped, because he’d felt that Miklos complimented him more than any of the other defensemen.

Jake had played hard, but that didn’t mean he’d played well. The score was 4–2. He would love to blame the opposing team’s points on the goalie, but there was no way that was true. If not for Wingo, the score would have been even worse. He was doing his job.

It was Jake who wasn’t doing his.

“It’s only the first period,” Robbie said.

Jake let out a bark of a laugh. Leave it to Robbie to be positive.

“Holy family and all the wise men,” Robbie muttered under his breath. “Don’t kill him, Sparks. Please.”

Jake looked up to see Wingo headed for them like a man on a mission. He had his helmet under his arm and a don’t-fuck-with-me attitude. Still in his full goalie pads, he looked like an abominable snowman lumbering through the snow. Jake expected him to start yelling as he closed the distance, but he didn’t.

Instead, he stopped in front of Jake and leaned in to say in a low voice, “I don’t know what’s wrong with you, Sparks. You know defensemen have to work together, and you aren’t working with Killjoy. He’s doing all he can to communicate with you, but you’re in another world. You’re better than that.”

“Hold on there, Wings,” Robbie said. “We’re a team. We win together and we lose together. It’s not the fault of one man.”

“Yeah?” Wingo said. “We haven’t won anything yet and if things don’t change, we aren’t going to.”

Robbie rose, clearly intending to keep up his defense of Jake, but Jake stood and laid a hand on Robbie’s arm.

“No, Robbie. He’s right.” A goalie could see it all—the good, the bad, and the ugly. All he’d seen out of Jake tonight was bad and ugly—missed blocks, a disaster in front of the net, and two—two—trips to the penalty box because he’d been sloppy.

Wingo looked taken aback. He glanced from Robbie to Jake, gave a half nod, and then walked away.

Robbie and Jake settled back into their seats.

“The nerve...” the ever-loyal Robbie began.

“No. Stop,” Jake said. “I’m a disgrace to this team tonight, and you know it. He was right to say so.”

Robbie paused and took a deep breath. “Not a disgrace, but you are off your game. What’s going on, man? I know it’s harder to mesh with someone you don’t like, though I don’t really understand what it is that has made you dislike Killen so much.”

Because I don’t have a good reason.

“Or maybe it’s not that,” Robbie suggested. “You’ve got to be thinking about your uncle.”

That was true, but it was only part of it.

Game day had gone smoothly enough—until it hadn’t. He’d had breakfast with his dad, a good morning skate, his signature pregame meal of chicken Alfredo, and another short nap. He’d woken feeling rested and eager for puck drop.

Then it had happened again. He’d reached for his phone to call Blake—like he always did on game day.

Shaken, he’d gone to dress for the rink and was greeted by the five brand-new bespoke suits Olivia had talked him into buying in London. At the time, he hadn’t seen the point in the expense and trouble, but she’d been sad and it had distracted her to spend hour after hour helping him choose designs and fabric.

He’d dressed in one of those suits and tied a Windsor knot in one of the dozen ties in Yellowhammer colors that Olivia had insisted he needed.

Then, just as he was about to leave for the arena, things got worse. His mother and Anna-Blair Pemberton had stormed in from their shopping with a wagonload of stuff that he hadn’t known he needed—fancy towels, candles, a giant wooden salad bowl, and a few things he could not discern the purpose of.

And they started talking—and asking questions. It seemed that Evie wasn’t going to sleep late Sunday morning, after all. She was going to that breakfast with Killen. The mothers were giddy with delight, and they wanted to know all about him.

That had rattled him further. His rational self said that Evie could date who she liked with no input from him. He had certainly never worried about it before. He had no right to expect her to remain unattached so she could pal around with him.

But what he felt and what he knew were different things.

“I don’t have a good reason,” he admitted to Robbie. “He’s interested in Evie and I don’t like it, but he hasn’t done anything.”

Robbie wrinkled his forehead. “Do you have a yen for the lass yourself?”

“No!” Feeling some attraction for her did not equal having a “yen” for her. “No. It’s not like that. She’s my friend. I don’t have anyone and I want her free and clear to pay attention to me. I’m just a selfish asshole.”

Robbie nodded. “Honesty counts for something.” He leaned in. “Listen, Sparks. It’s that stupid bet. You wouldn’t feel as such if you didn’t feel imprisoned by it. Let’s call it off.”

“No.” It wasn’t the bet. It was everything else. “You know what Glaz said.”

“You don’t need a bet to be discreet. Come on, man. It’s affecting your play.”

“It doesn’t have to. I was rattled, but I’m better now. I’ll get it together.”

Robbie looked at him for a long moment. “Okay. But you know this isn’t all on you. A lot of us could have played better.”

“I’m the only one I’m responsible for.” Blake had said that to him a thousand times—more. “You’ll see a different me next period.”

He knew what to do to make that happen. He unlocked the compartment of his stall, reached for his puck, and turned it over in his hand three times, recalling Blake’s wise words.

You have a special talent, but never think you’re so special you don’t have to work hard.

Skate every play like it’s the last one of your life, even if you’re winning ten to nothing with five seconds left to play.

Don’t let your ego get in the way of excellence.

Leave your troubles off the ice. You owe that to your fans, your teammates, and yourself.

Jake stroked the hard rubber of the puck, and felt calmer and more centered. Then he remembered something else Blake had told him, when he was playing juniors. He must have been about sixteen.

Woman trouble can ruin a career.

Woman trouble was woman trouble, he supposed—even when the woman in question was just a friend.

“Sparks?” Luka’s Russian accent was unmistakable.

Jake opened his eyes. “Yes?”

“Coach wants to see you in his office.”

“I’ll bet he does.” He rose, ready for whatever Glaz was going to dish out—and ready for the rest of the game. He started to lock the puck up again, but decided to hold on to it a little longer.

“He should have stayed in Nashville,” Christine pronounced in a whisper. She was truly out of sorts. Christine, not wanting to deprive anyone in earshot of her wisdom, didn’t whisper. “I’ve never seen him play like this—at least not in his adult life.”

Evans failed to see how his locale had anything to do with his performance, but she knew better than to say so. Anna-Blair reached across Evans to clasp Christine’s hand.

The first period was over and the people around them got up to help themselves to the buffet and bar at the back of the friends and family suite. Keith and Marc rose, but Evans, Christine, and Anna-Blair kept their seats.

“We’re going to get a beer,” Marc said. “Join us?”

“No, thank you,” Christine said tightly.

Anna-Blair declined with a shake of her head. In truth, Evans would have liked to move around, but getting up when Christine was so clearly distressed seemed a little too much like breaking into a foxtrot at a funeral. Which brought up an interesting point—why was Christine so upset? While she had always been supportive of her son, she had never lived and died by his performance.

“Can we bring you anything?” Keith offered.

Could they? Evans had started her period today, and she could really use a glass of red wine and one of those brownies she’d seen on the buffet. She looked at Christine for guidance. After all, she was the mother. Christine looked down and shook her head.

“No, thank you,” Evans and Anna-Blair said at the same time. So, no moving around, no chocolate, no booze.

When the men had gone, Christine turned to meet Evans’s eyes. “What’s wrong with him, Evie?”

“He’s having a bad game?” The penalties and missed shots alone spelled that.

“But why is he having a bad game?” Christine asked. “When he was younger, this happened when he was upset, but by the time he left for North Dakota, he’d learned to leave his feelings off the ice. Even after the divorce, he didn’t play like this.” Christine ran her hand through her hair—another indication of the level of her distress. She did not like her hair messed up. “You’ve spent time with him. Has he said anything?”

“No,” Evans said. “Not to me. He’s seemed fine.”

Anna-Blair leaned in. “Maybe he’s just having a bad day, Christine. There have been a lot of changes—the move, new team, different coach than he expected. Besides, was it really that bad?” Even after all these years, Anna-Blair had never grasped hockey beyond the final score.

“It was that bad,” Christine said emphatically. “When Jake goes to the boards to fight for the puck, he almost always comes away with it. I don’t think he has a single time tonight.”

“Twice.” Evans hadn’t intended to say that out loud. Christine and Anna-Blair gave her almost identical questioning looks. “What? He got the puck twice at the boards.”

“But out of how many times?” Christine asked.

“I don’t know,” Evans said. “I didn’t count.”

Christine shrugged. “I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. Blake’s death on top of the divorce has been hard on him. But he came back from Europe in a much better state of mind. I was so relieved. He was in such bad shape when we were in Vermont for the funeral.”

WasJake in a bad place? Had she been so preoccupied with her own feelings that she hadn’t noticed? She knew how close he’d been to Blake. How could she have ignored that?

“The condo is beautiful,” Christine added out of the blue.

“It certainly is. Just lovely,” Anna-Blair agreed.

What? They had gone from the state of Jake’s mind to the state of his home?

“I took that he seems to care about his surroundings to be a sign that he was in a good place,” Christine went on.

Ah. That made sense, but it didn’t make it true. Jake having his condo decorated had nothing to do with anything except not wanting to hear Christine complain that he was living like an animal. He didn’t care about his surroundings as long as he had a TV, gaming system, some beer, and a towel that hadn’t gone too far into the mildew zone.

“Evie, has he talked to you about any of this?” Christine asked.

“No. Not a word.” Wasn’t that telling in itself? And it was telling that she hadn’t asked, hadn’t considered. She’d sent the flowers, said so sorry, and moved on. She’d been too busy hoping he would love her to be much of a friend. That was a hard truth to face.

“Maybe he just needs time,” Anna-Blair suggested.

Christine nodded. “I suppose.” She smiled and turned to Evans, signaling the discussion was over. “Evie, I’ve been so preoccupied with watching Jake, I haven’t noticed much of anything else. How is your young man doing?”

“Good question!” Anna-Blair piled on. “Is he playing well?”

Her young man?For a moment, Evans was confused, but then it all snapped into place. Able. They were talking about Able. Had he played well? Evans didn’t have an answer. She hadn’t noticed Able or anyone else. She’d been too busy counting how many times Jake had come away from the boards with the puck—and, if she were to be honest, watching him sit on the bench between his shifts.

“Well, you know,” she said evasively. “Fine.”

“Why don’t you ask him to join us at Hammer Time after the game?” Christine said, then added, “His family, too, if they’re here.”

How had that happened? How had Christine gone from concerned mother to procurer of information in such a short time?

“Yes, Evie,” Anna-Blair chimed in. She looked around. “Do you see his parents? I’ll just go invite his mother.”

Holy hell. Was there a convent in Birmingham and did they accept Methodists? Because anything was better than this. She loved these women—her mother in particular, of course, but Christine, too. But they exhausted her.

“I, uh...” she began, having no idea where she was going.

“Look!” Christine interrupted her. “Isn’t that Noel Glazov? Over there, in the ice suite across from us.”

There was a petite woman with sandy blond hair standing against the glass, a baby on her hip. She spoke into the child’s ear as she pointed to the Yellowhammer mascot, who was skating around with the ice girls.

Evans had no idea if that was the coach’s wife and child or not, but she was grateful to her for distracting the women from hunting down Able’s family. She could be Lucrezia Borgia for all Evans cared; she’d swear fealty to her right now.

Anna-Blair leaned forward. “I believe it is. Do you know her, Evie?”

“No, but it could be. They’ve bought a second house here, and she’s opening a new quilt shop in Laurel Springs.”

“She’s a famous quilter,” Christine said. “She makes every one of her quilts completely by hand. The wait list is horrendous.”

Now, there was a woman who would appreciate a handmade pie. Maybe she’d take her one when her shop opened.

“Just where have you come by all this information?” Evans wanted to keep them going, so they’d forget about Able.

“There was an article about her in Garden & Gun,” Anna-Blair said.

“I hope we get to meet her at the breakfast,” Christine said. “The article made her sound really nice. Let’s hope her husband is, too, and will show Jake some mercy.”

As the buzzer sounded, signaling the beginning of the second period, Marc and Keith rejoined them.

“It’ll be interesting to see if Jake is still playing first line,” Evans heard Marc say to Keith in a low voice.

But he was. Not only that, in the first ten seconds of play, he took the puck, skated to the other end of the rink, and handed it off to Robbie, who put it in the goal. The crowd went wild and the tension lifted in their little corner of the world.

From there, everything got better. Jake was a different player and the Yellowhammers a different team. Evans was riveted—and relieved.

She didn’t hope for victory. That would have been too much to ask for; it was enough that it was better. Then, in the last thirty seconds, Able fed the puck to Jake, who scored to tie the score. That meant overtime. Evans hated overtime—but she loved that Jake got a goal.

In the end, there was no overtime. For his second assist of the night, Jake sent the puck down the ice, to Luka for another goal and the win.

The Yellowhammers pulled it off. Technically, it might have been a struggle win, but it felt like the victory of the century. In addition to his goal and two assists, Jake had shown the world and himself that he was still king of the boards.

“Well,” Christine said as they were leaving, “I guess he was just off his game.”

“It happens,” Anna-Blair agreed.

“Just nerves.”

Evans hoped it was true.