Sweet as Pie by Alicia Hunter Pace

Chapter Six

Jake took off his helmet and stored it on the shelf of his new stall. He knew the stall was his because it had a flat-screen TV mounted above, complete with the training camp schedule and scrolling messages.

Welcome, #8 Jake Champagne!

Yellowhammers, Hustle and Heart!

Skate Hard, Win Big!

The locker room was sweet. The lounge, hydration bar, weight room, and team meeting room were pretty standard, but there was nothing standard about the stalls—at least none Jake had ever had. His own personal TV aside, he’d never had one that hadn’t been defiled by some former player’s hockey stink—and that was just the beginning. There were USB ports, a ventilation system, and fans for drying skates, gloves, and helmets. Jake found the compartment with a keypad lock a little sad. He’d never use that. Teammates wouldn’t steal from each other.

But then again...

He opened the compartment and put his lucky puck inside. Teammates might not steal from each other, but they would jerk the hell out of your chain.

“Locking up my puck, are you?” Beside him, Robbie sat down and began to unlace his skates.

“It’s not your puck.” Jake stripped his upper body down to his sweaty Under Armour, sat, and began to unlace his own skates.

“It will be.” Robbie shucked his jersey and pads.

Jake opened his mouth to reply, but was stopped.

“Silence!” Glaz belted out. The noise in the locker room ceased and those who were still shedding their newly sweat-christened gear stilled. “That was somewhat acceptable, though you look like hill of ants in rainstorm. Is expected. You know nothing of each other. Soon you will dance together as one. In ten days is first preseason game. It will not end in a loss to the Northern Lights. Understood?”

“Understood!” rang out.

“Good.” Coach nodded. “Team meeting first thing in the morning.” Yep. At eight o’clock. It said so on Able Killen’s TV, which was right across from Jake. “That’s all.” And Glaz disappeared through the door.

“I’m starving.” That came from Miklos Novak, the Czech defenseman seated on the other side of Robbie.

“Me, too,” Robbie said.

They all were. No matter how much they ate before, everyone came off the ice ravenous.

“Anyone want to go to Hammer Time?” Logan wandered up.

“Ne,”Novak said. “I would like more of what we had earlier. I am going to that pie shop.”

The hair on the back of Jake’s neck stood on end. Novak had made Evie laugh at the lunch. What was that about? So far, Jake hadn’t noticed anything funny about him.

Able sauntered across the room, careful not to step on the logo. “I’ll go with you, Magic Man,” Able said.

Magic man? That was his nickname? Why? It couldn’t be because his given name—Miklos—sounded like it. Ought to be milkman.

Ryan Bell called out. “I’ll go, too. The pie was okay, but did you see the tits on the pie maker? Wouldn’t mind getting my hands on those.”

Jakes insides turned to concrete and his mouth went dry. He opened his mouth to speak, but no words would come.

Able, however, didn’t have any trouble speaking. “Hands off.”

“You will not—” Jake was surprised that his voice didn’t come out louder.

“Sparks.” Robbie laid a hand on his arm and stopped him. “Not cool, Bell. The lass is Sparks’s pal from childhood.”

“Oh,” Ryan said. “Sorry, man. It’s just talk.”

Jake forced himself to dial it back. What Bell had said, they’d all said—and much worse. He wasn’t going to tell him it was all right, but he did nod in his direction.

Robbie cut his eyes at Jake and grinned. “Let’s all go to Hammer Time. You know. Decent steak, maybe some decent cleavage.”

“To hell with steak and tits,” Novak said stubbornly. “I will have that meat pie.”

“See you there.” Able took off for the shower.

Jake finished undressing as quickly as a fifteen-year-old virgin who’d just been offered a roll in the hay. He needed to get to Crust first.

“Champagne!” Jake turned toward the sound of his name to see the equipment manager, Leland Puckett. “Come by my office before you shower.” And he was gone.

Damn.

A few minutes before closing time, Evans slid the apple pies into the oven and set the timer. Neva stuck her head in the kitchen.

“Evans, there’s a man here to see you.”

Déja vu. Jake? “Who is it?”

Neva shook her head. “I don’t know. He has an accent, but I don’t know what kind.” That would not be Jake. Neva spoke Mississippi Delta. “He wants—I quote—‘that little pie with meat and other stuffs inside such as I have before.’”

It was a hockey player wanting a pasty.

“I can tell him you’re busy,” Neva said. “I was about to lock the front door.”

But she was curious. “I’ll talk to him.” She wiped her hands. “Go ahead and leave. I’ll lock up.”

The guy at the counter was all decked in Yellowhammer gear and looked familiar. He smoothed his straight brown hair behind his ears and produced a smile that he had probably practiced in the mirror.

“Hi, Evans.” He smiled wider, leaned on the counter, and inclined his head in her direction.

“Hi.” There was no point in pretending she remembered his name, if she’d ever heard it.

“I am Miklos Novak. Thirty-nine.” Then he laughed a little. “Not in years. That is my sweater number. In years, I am twenty-seven.”

She nodded. “How are you?”

“Good,” he said, “but hungry. I just come from practice. Whole time I’m on ice, all I think of is the little pies you bring us.”

Did he really think she would believe a professional hockey player thought about anything except hockey when he was on the ice? “I’m glad you enjoyed them.”

“I was hoping to purchase some, but I do not read them on your menu.” He gestured to the chalkboard wall.

“The pasties were something I did especially for the Yellowhammer lunch. They’re not a usual menu item.”

He sighed and looked crestfallen, like maybe his village had been burned, all the hockey sticks in the world with it.

“You have none? My new favorite food?” He was a drama king, all right.

She did, in fact, have some—the imperfect ones that had a bit of filling leaking out or uneven crimping. “I do,” she said slowly, “but they aren’t as pretty as they should be.”

He brightened. “But the taste? It would be same?”

“Yes, but I don’t sell things I’m not proud of.”

He nodded and reached for his wallet. “Is the taste you should be proud of. I do not care about the pretty.” He put a little devil in his smile and let his hair fall in his eyes. “Except for pie bakers.”

She laughed. He was probably the kind who flirted with everyone, but it lifted her spirits after such a hard day. “You really want those pies, don’t you?”

“More than you know,” he said with mock earnestness.

“I couldn’t sell them. It’s a matter of integrity, but I’ll give them to you.”

“I respect your integrity, and I will take the pies any way I can get them. Is a favor you do for me. I will do same. I endorse Nike. They give me shoes. I will get some for you. Would you like that?”

“Why not? Size seven.” He would probably never think of it again, but that was okay. She had shoes.

“Good. I call tomorrow.” He placed his hands on the counter. “Now. I like the American beer Budweiser.” He said Budweiser like it was two words—a man’s name. “And I will have that.”

Oh, good cow. “We don’t sell beer, Miklos. We’re more of a coffee, tea, and milk place. And besides—”

He interrupted her. “Ah, well. Then I will have tea—not the cold tea that you like here, but hot.”

“Hold up.” She put her hands in the air. “Here’s the thing. It’s closing time.” She gestured to the empty shop. “I’m going to give you the pies. You can have all I’ve got—about a dozen. But you’re going to need to take them home and bake them yourself.”

Miklos wrinkled his brow. “In microwave?”

“No. They will need to be baked in a regular oven.”

His mouth formed an O and he looked perplexed. “Cook? No. I cannot do that thing. Impossible.”

Ridiculous. Anybody who had enough sense to make millions of dollars playing hockey could certainly use the oven.

“I’ll tell you how. It’s easy. All you have to do is preheat the oven to 375º, put the pasties on a parchment-lined pan, and bake for forty-five minutes.” With every word she spoke, he looked more puzzled. She took her tone to a bright new level. “And you can have a beer with it at home.”

“These words you speak—” He waved his hands. “I hear them, but they make no sense.”

She ran what she’d said back through her mind and tried to discern what—if anything—could have been remotely unclear.

“You don’t have parchment?” she asked.

He looked at the ceiling and shook his head. “I don’t have pan.” He looked pitiful. It was contrived, but Evans was somewhat amused that he was going to the trouble. “Could you do for me? You say is easy.”

She hesitated. Why not? She could throw the pasties in the oven and tell him to pick them up in forty-five minutes. She’d be here anyway, minding the apple pies. Unlike a lot of things she agreed to, she actually wanted him to have the pies. She wasn’t attracted to him any more than he was attracted to her, but he was cute and he amused her.

“All right.”

But before she could tell him to come back later, before she could cross the shop to lock the door, before she could even take a breath, that door opened and in came two of the guys from Jake’s table—Dietrich Wingo and Able Killen. And there were two more guys behind them.

Miklos turned. “Able! Wings! Christophe and Mick, whose name has the sound of my own! My teammates. Come in!”

No. The shop is closed, even if I haven’t managed to lock the door. Baking a few pasties for cutie pie here is one thing, but a hockey party is another. So, don’t come in.

But they did. “Hi, Evans.” Able gave her a sweet little smile, let his eyes rest on the display cases and come back to meet hers. “This is the best place I’ve ever been. And I’ve been to Disney World, the Grand Canyon, and Niagara Falls.”

“Thank you. Disney, you say? High praise.” Especially since the cases were almost empty.

Miklos piped up. “She give me meat pies. I give her shoes. Nike Air Max, I think.”

“Yeah? I just signed endorsement deals with Campbell’s soup and Gillette,” Able rushed on. “I can get you some soup and razors.” He looked like an eager puppy.

Soup? Razors? Her gut told her that Able might produce what he promised. The thought of opening her door to find cases of chicken noodle soup and plastic razors was not appealing.

“Thank you, but—”

“I’ve got a deal with Visa and Under Armour,” Dietrich Wingo said. “I doubt I can get you a free credit card, but I can get you some shorts.”

“Uh...no. I’m good.”

“Wings, Able!” Miklos burst out. “The pies are mine. She give to me, though I will share. But she has no beer. Christophe, Mick, go get us some beer while Evans bakes pies. Budweiser.”

“No!” Damn. She had forgotten about the other two—Christophe and Mick, apparently, who either had no endorsements or weren’t willing to barter for pie. But they were already leaving. One of them said, “I’ll call Davis and Dempsey.”

Wingo and Able were pushing tables together. They were about to turn Crust into a potluck, beer-swilling free-for-all!

Evans knew when she’d been beat; she always had. Practice made perfect, and she’d had plenty of practice. But what the hell? There was leftover pie in the cases. They could eat what they wanted of that, too. There would still be some for St. Ann’s soup kitchen.

She laughed and shook her head. Maybe a little free-for-all would do her good.

“I’m going to put the pasties in the oven,” she said. “Someone lock the door.”