Sweet as Pie by Alicia Hunter Pace

Chapter Three

Fifteen minutes later, the hostess at Hammer Time ushered Jake and Robbie to a table in the bar and asked for their drink orders.

“Sam Adams, please,” Jake said.

“Harviestoun OlaDubh.” Like he always did, Robbie asked for his favorite Scottish dark ale. He wasn’t going to get it. He almost never got it.

But the hostess—Gretchen, her name tag said—only nodded. “Coming up. And Mr. Champagne, I’ll bring your pie out when you’re ready to go.”

She knew who he was?

“Wait, lass! Hold up!” Robbie said as she started to walk away. “You really have Harviestoun OlaDubh? And you know who Sparks is?”

She nodded. “And you’re Robbie McTavish. Forward. Number five. Our owner gave us a roster of the team with pictures and tested us on it. She has made it her business to stock the favorite drinks of the players and coaches.” She turned to Jake. “We’re carrying Sparkle water, too.”

“How does she even know that?” Jake asked. The commercial he’d shot for the sparkling water he endorsed hadn’t even been released yet.

“That’s a good question,” Gretchen said. “Claire knows a lot of things. I’ll get your drink order turned in.”

“I like it here,” Robbie pronounced.

“Of course you do. They know your name and have your beer.”

“Ale,” Robbie corrected.

“Whatever.” Jake looked around at the time-worn marble floor and the wood-paneled, brass-trimmed walls. “This place is old. I heard it used to be a department store.”

“Not so old.” Robbie looked around. “Couldn’t be more than a hundred years. Come to Scotland. I’ll show you old.”

“You’re such a snob.” Jake opened the menu. “I’m going to have the double bacon cheeseburger with a baked potato.” Despite the pie and milk he’d had earlier, the smell of grilled meat had made him ravenous.

“Sounds good. I’ll have the same.” Jake had expected that from Robbie. Except for sweets, which he loved, Robbie didn’t much care what he ate as long as there was plenty of it. “Maybe some wings, too, though did I hear we have a pie to eat? Where did it come from?”

“I have a pie to eat. I might give you some when we get home.” He and Robbie both had condos in The Mill, a renovated defunct textile mill, but, except for a piano, Robbie didn’t have any furniture yet so he would be sleeping on Jake’s couch tonight. Aside from a bed, television, and his gaming systems, a couch was all he had. He planned to do something about that, though. It was time he stopped living like he was camping out. “I have a friend from home who has a pie shop here. Crust. I stopped by to see her and she gave me a pie.”

Robbie frowned. “You didn’t say you had a friend in town. Her name is Crust?”

“I haven’t said much of anything to you. We haven’t had time. And, no. Her name is not Crust, dimwit. That’s the name of her shop. Her name is Evie—Evans.”

Robbie brightened. “Is she pretty?”

Yes. Though lovely is a more accurate description. I don’t know why, exactly, but that’s what she is—lovely. And sweet.

“Doesn’t matter if she is or not.” Not to me or you, but especially not to you. Jake studied the flavors of wings on the menu. “She’s off-limits.”

“Ah.” Robbie nodded. “Then she’s like a sister.”

Jake’s head jerked up in surprise. “No. I wouldn’t say that.” He took a deep breath. “She’s Channing’s cousin.”

Robbie let out a low whistle. “Freaking fuck me.”

“Watch your language,” Jake said. “Here come our drinks.” Jake—like most hockey players—had a pretty colorful vocabulary himself, but he didn’t hold with saying certain words in front of women. His dad and Blake had taught him that.

“If Glaz has his way, bad language is all we’ve got left.”

The waitress set down their drinks and Gretchen appeared behind her. “This is Casey. She’ll take your order.”

Jake looked at the menu again. “We’ll start with two dozen hot wings, half honey barbecue and half maple chipotle. Two double bacon cheeseburgers, medium, with loaded baked potatoes.”

“Very good,” Casey said. “Anything else?”

“No.” Then Jake eyed his beer. “Wait. We need waters. Could you maybe bring us a whole pitcher?”

“What the hell, Sparks?” Robbie asked after the waitress had gone. “I only drink water for hydration purposes. Not recreational.” He gestured to the table. “This is recreation. Fish fu—” He looked around. “Have sex in it.”

“Then order a Coke,” Jake said. “You heard Glaz.”

“One beer with lunch does not make for public intoxication,” Robbie said.

“And you’re having one beer. Ale. Whatever.”

Okay. Time to have that talk with Robbie. And he opened his mouth to begin when two tall, leggy blondes entered the bar. Their shorts were short, their hair was long, and—unless Jake missed his guess, and he seldom did—there was glitter powder in their cleavages. They cast their eyes around, barely hesitating upon catching sight of Robbie and Jake. They slid onto bar stools in full view, turned toward each other, and crossed their legs.

Jake had seen this dance a thousand times and today it made him tired.

“Well, well, well,” Robbie said. “Our lucky day. A couple of charming companions. And they aren’t joining anybody. Do you want to do it or should I?”

Jake and Robbie had a dance of their own. Just as the bartender approached to take the women’s order, one of them—usually Robbie—would move toward the bar, lean in, and say, “Run a tab and give it to me.” The girls would protest but they would all end up at the same table and, more often than not, leave together.

“Which one do you want?” Robbie asked.

Jake looked them over. “Neither one—but if I did, it wouldn’t matter. They look alike.”

Robbie let his eyes settle on the women. “They look nothing alike.”

“Not interested.” Jake sipped his beer.

“Come on, Sparks. I was only kidding about bad language being all we had left. Glaz said no scandal. He didn’t say we had to be saints. I know he wasn’t much of a player even before he married Noel, but he wouldn’t think buying two pretty young ladies a drink was out of line.”

“No.” Jake sighed and ran his hand through his hair. Was this going to be the end of his friendship with Robbie? Was their relationship based solely on raising hell in and out of the bedroom? “It wouldn’t end there. It never does. You do what you want, but I’m done with that. And it has nothing to do with the lecture we just got.”

Robbie’s expression turned serious. “What’s up, Jake?” Robbie almost never called him Jake.

“We talked about why I asked to be traded...” Jake let his voice trail off.

Robbie took a drink of his beer and nodded. “Channing is pregnant and you’re tired of seeing her picture plastered all over the society page.”

That had been the easiest long-distance explanation at the time, though he didn’t much care anymore that his ex-wife had moved on at the speed of light. Casey appeared with their food, and Jake pondered his response as she placed the dishes and Robbie made small talk with her.

“That’s what I told you,” he said after she’d gone. “And there’s some truth to it, but it’s more than that. I need to slow down, take stock. I was never that guy—drinking, carousing, with a different girl every night. That last morning in Boston I woke up with a woman whose last name and marital status I didn’t know. Hell, I had to think hard before I remembered her first name. Then I got the call about my uncle.”

“That was a bad time,” Robbie said quietly.

“I’m better now, but I need to slow down.”

“I don’t.”

“You, in fact, do—that is, if you want to play for this team. But I’ve made my choices. You make yours.”

“Let me get this straight. You don’t plan to drink or have sex anymore?”

“Why do you take everything to the extreme? No. I did not say that. I’m drinking now.” He held up his beer. “I don’t intend to drink a six-pack every night and sleep with someone I’ve never had a conversation with beyond, ‘Nice ass. Want to put it in my lap?’”

Robbie’s face relaxed. “That’s good to hear. The boozing, you could take or leave alone, but the women—that’s a different story. You couldn’t make it three months.” Robbie brushed his hand against his shirt, leaving a wing sauce stain.

Couldn’tdo it? That didn’t set well. “I could. I did it all summer.”

“Ah, but trotting around Europe with your auntie and cousins did not lend itself to romance. You’re back on the ice again, now. No chaperones.” He nodded toward the bar where the shiny blondes sat. “Temptation all around.”

Robbie had a point. Plus the exhilaration of playing hockey tended to heighten his senses—all his senses. Truth was, he had never intended to swear off sex—only to be more discriminating.

“I could do it, if that’s what I decided.”

Robbie narrowed his eyes. “Really? Then why don’t you? Swear off sex for three months?”

“Maybe I will,” Jake said. “You’ll be sorry when you don’t have a wingman.”

Robbie took a drink of his beer. “I don’t need you, Sparks Champagne, to help me get a woman. But the fact remains—three months, no sex? There’s no way. You will fail, my friend.”

Would he? There was a time when he hadn’t known the meaning of the word failure. He’d had it all—looks, beauty queen wife, great family, amazing hockey career. Then his marriage had failed, and his self-control tanked along with it.

He needed to do this. Maybe just to prove to himself he could.

He turned his phone on and looked at the screen. “It’s September thirteenth. I, Jacob Hunt Champagne, hereby declare myself celibate until this time in December.”

“Really?” Robbie stopped with a wing in midair and shook his head in disbelief.

Jake did not like being doubted. “Want to make it interesting?”

Robbie laughed. “Sure you don’t want to give up gambling too?”

“It’s not even a gamble.” Jake spread ketchup on his burger. “It’s a sure thing. Just me taking your money. What do you say to a thousand?”

Robbie shook his head. “No. If we’re going to do this thing, we’ll do it right. Money wouldn’t make it interesting. You have money; I have money. It needs to be something else—something more important than money.” Robbie closed his eyes and wrinkled his brow.

Jake’s mouth went dry. Robbie was going to ask him to bet his puck—the puck, the Miracle on Ice puck that Blake had given him. Of course, Robbie didn’t know Blake had given it to him. He only knew that it always resided in Jake’s hockey bag or locker room stall and that, sometimes between periods when he was having a bad game, Jake took it out and turned it over in his hand three times.

And now Robbie was going to ask him to risk it—something Jake knew in the bedrock of his soul that Robbie would not do if he knew where it came from. But maybe it was fitting. That puck was part of the foundation of the person he’d been and the person he needed to find again.

Sure enough, Robbie crossed his arms, laid them on the table, and leaned forward to say the fateful words. “Your puck.”

Jake could have played dumb and tried to pretend it was one of the game pucks that Jake had from various games where he’d scored the winning goal, but what was the use? His mouth had gotten him into this bet and that puck would get him out. Aside from the sentimental value, that puck was his good luck charm. Except maybe baseball players, there wasn’t a breed alive more superstitious than hockey players. On the one hand, Jake saw the irrationality in that, but on the other, the puck had brought him this far and he would not lose it.

But Robbie was going to have to risk something, too.

Jake nodded. “All right. My puck against your St. Sebastian medal.”

Robbie’s eyes widened and he clasped his hand to his chest over the medal, as he had done earlier in Glaz’s office.

“But it’s sacred.”

“No more sacred than my puck,” Jake said. “Not to me.”

“Don’t even say such a thing!” Robbie looked around like he was expecting a legion of angels to enter and take Jake away to a dungeon. “I couldn’t expect a Protestant to understand. It was blessed by the Holy Father. My aunt—who I might add is a nun—brought it to me from Vatican City.”

Jake shrugged. “If you’re afraid...”

Robbie’s nostrils flared. He hated nothing more than having his courage challenged. He nodded. “All right. There’s no risk anyway. There’s no way you’ll make it three months. Longer, if you count time served this summer. But we must agree on the rules.”

“Rules? What rules? It’s simple. I’ll remain celibate until this time on December thirteenth.”

“And just what does celibate mean? No kissing? No fooling around? How about hand-holding and dancing? You know how you love to dance.”

“None of that has anything to do with celibacy, but we’ll let the dictionary decide.” Jake whipped out his phone. “Here we go. ‘Abstaining from marriage and sexual intercourse.’ Doesn’t say anything about kissing and dancing.”

“Fair enough,” Robbie said, “but remember where kissing and dancing leads.”

“I’m not fifteen years old. I can control myself.”

“We’ll see.” Robbie bit into his burger.

“I suppose next, you’ll want to know how you’ll know if I stick to my word.”

The amusement left Robbie’s face. “I’ll know because you’ll tell me. We’ve never lied to each other.”

Jake’s gut twisted. Maybe he didn’t have to worry about the strength of their friendship, after all. “Right. Sorry. I guess I forgot that for a moment.”

Robbie grinned and cast his eyes at the women at the bar. “What you say we forget something that’s worth forgetting? Like this bet for now? Have one last go, and let it start tomorrow?”

Jake laughed. “No, I’m all in. You go ahead. But they might be ice girls, and you don’t even have a bed.”

“No bed? How is a hockey player to get any rest?” Jake heard the voice before he saw the woman. She sounded like private school and country club brunch.

He and Robbie met eyes before they looked up. She appeared to be about the age of his mother. Maybe. It was hard to tell.

She extended her hand. “I’m Claire. Don’t get up.” Telling them not to get up might have been construed as a reprimand since they had made no move to rise—but Jake didn’t think so. She just seemed like the type men always stood up for. Her handshake was firm. “I own this little establishment, and I wanted to welcome you.”

“Everything was grand,” Robbie said. “Thank you for stocking my ale.”

“My pleasure. We want you boys to feel at home here.” Jake hadn’t noticed that she carried the Crust bag that contained his pie until she set it on the seat beside him. “I see you have been to my girl’s shop. You’re in for a treat.”

Hergirl? What did that mean? He used to know everybody Evie knew.

“Ah, the pie maker. She’s Sparks’s childhood friend. She makes a good pie, does she?” Robbie prattled on.

“Indeed, she does,” Claire said. “I’m very proud of her. In fact, I have three girls under my tutelage who I’m very proud of. They all have beautiful shops on Main Street. I’m sure you’ll meet them as time goes by.”

Oh. This was the investor Evie mentioned.

Gretchen walked up. “Ms. Watkins?” Watkins? That rang a bell. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but I needed to catch you before you leave. Chef asked me to tell you he has one more question about tomorrow’s lunch.”

“Of course, Gretchen.” She looked back at them. “Jake. Robbie. Again, welcome. Let me know if we can do anything for you.”

“You can put our jerseys on the wall,” Robbie said. “The Big Skate in Nashville had our jerseys on the wall.”

Claire gave them a steely smile—one that let anyone who was paying attention know just what a force of nature she was. “I intend to do just that—one by one, as you earn it.” And she was gone in a swish of silk, leaving behind the scent of something spicy.

“Who was that woman?” Robbie asked.

“If I am remembering right, she’s our landlord—and one of our bosses. I think she owns a piece of the team.”

“I might be a little afraid of her,” said the Scot who never admitted to being afraid of anything.