Cupcakes and Crosschecks (Golden Stars Hockey #1)

Chapter 1

Levi

DoorDash Delivery

The antique doorbell chimes, echoing throughout the house like a medieval gong. “Your turn,” Joey says in a distracted tone, his eyes glued to the screen where he concentrates on winning another video game.

“You’re the one who placed the order!” I grouse, but within seconds I capitulate. Hopping to my feet, I jog to the door. Joey snickers, knowing I’m so predictable.

The ancient hinges screech loudly as I swing open the heavy wooden door of the rental house—one of the typical 1930’s Cape Cod-style homes that are predominant in this sleepy New England university town. Standing on the porch is a female, who’s maybe a few years younger than me, peering at me with a pair of chocolate brown eyes you could lose yourself in. She’s wearing a red flannel shirt and faded jeans, perfect to ward off the chill in the air. There’s a smattering of freckles across her nose and she’s sporting a baseball cap with the distinctive DoorDash logo on it . Her all-natural beauty shines through and packs a wallop that I’m not prepared for.

I want to get to know this woman.

“Delivery for...Josef...Svenson,” she says haltingly, reading from the receipt attached to the white paper bag clutched in her hand. Her eyes peruse me, probably wondering how a tall brown-haired guy is named Svenson. Leaning back, she tries to do a double take of the house number posted above the door, but her baseball cap topples off her head, landing behind her.

“Let me get that for you,” I say as I scramble around her, then we bump bodies as she bends to retrieve the cap. For a handful of seconds we do this awkward two-step, she reaches for the cap while I block her, then I move aside, and she does the same.

Reach, block, step aside.

Reach, block, step aside.

Considering I’m a Division One athlete, she’s making me look like a clumsy oaf.

“Excuse me,” I say.

“Excuse me,” she says in unison.

The uncoordinated dance continues until my honed athletic skills eventually enable me to nab the cap from one of the porch steps before she does. I pivot and present it to her with a flourish. “Your cap, Madam.”

Her brows draw together as she squints at me. I can only imagine what she’s thinking, and it’s probably not, “wow, he’s so smooth and debonair.” I cringe.

“Um, thanks,” she says as she slides the cap back on her head, then adjusts the Velcro on the strap, making it fit tighter on her head. “These dang caps are worthless,” she mutters.

Suppressing a laugh at that statement, I respond, “My housemate is Josef Svenson...We all call him Joey...He placed the order...I’m sure you’re wondering how a Swede has brown hair.”

Stop oversharing! Can this encounter get any more awkward?

After that rambling explanation, her eyes flit to mine and she looks at me as if I just sprouted a second head.

“I’m Levi Nyberg,” I add, pointing to my chest like a geek, compelled to not only introduce myself, but to make sure she knows who I‘m talking about . Is there a hole I can crawl into?

She blinks and I swear there’s an amused twinkle in her eye. Handing over the bag and turning on her heel, she says, “Have a nice day, Levi Nyberg.”

“Wait! I didn’t catch your name,” I shout in a panic, thinking that I’m possibly letting my dream girl get away.

Peering over her shoulder, she hesitates, uncertainty in her eyes. “Do you always make introductions with your DoorDash delivery person? Although we’re technically called DoorDashers,” she says with a snort.

Otto, another one of my housemates, strolls up the sidewalk, holding his always present Starbucks cup. The man drinks coffee 24/7, I swear. “Smooth moves, Nyberg,” he says as he climbs the rickety steps, swipes the bag from my hand, and strolls inside, the door creaks and clicks shut behind him.

Can’t any of my lazy housemates purchase some WD-40?

“I’ve got another delivery to get to,” she says, as she edges her way down the steps, then points to an ancient sedan parked at the curb.

Is that a Pacer? I didn’t know any of those were still on the roads.

With my vast repertoire of pick-up lines depleted, I blurt out, “Do you like hockey?”

“Hockey?” she repeats, as if I’ve asked a trick question.

An uncomfortable chuckle escapes. “Yes, you know, the sport played on ice with sticks and a puck?”

“Ah, that hockey,” she says. “I’ve never been to a game.”

“What?!” My eyes go wide as saucers at that admission. “We need to fix that immediately. I have a game tomorrow night; would you like to attend?”

“Are you hitting on me Levi Nyberg?”

Ouch! I’m rusty in the “ask a woman out” department and apparently it shows.

“I’d love to introduce you to the game of hockey,” I say, hedging, without answering her question.

She stares at me for several beats, and I’m not sure whether she’s going to accept or turn me down. It could go either way, based on the look on her face.

“Okay, Levi Nyberg. I’ve always had a mild curiosity about the game played on ice. I’ll meet you at the rink. Do I need a ticket to get in?”

She thinks I’m asking her to a pick-up game.

“Well, we’re playing at Spotify Arena, so you’ll need a ticket.”

Arching an eyebrow, she says, “You play intramural hockey there?” she squeaks.

Yep. She thinks it’s a pick-up game.

“You ever heard of the Golden Stars?”

Her mouth falls open. “You play Division One level hockey for the university?”

I guess after my bumbling attempt to retrieve her baseball cap, I shouldn’t be surprised at her shocked expression.

“I do and I’d love to leave you a ticket at Will Call. I’ll also get you a pass to meet me outside the locker room after the game.”

She rocks back and forth on her feet.

“We can go out for Harvey’s Famous Pizza afterwards,” I rush to say, trying desperately to sweeten the pot.

A small smile tips her lips, and she says, “Okay, Levi Nyberg. Can you text me the time and anything else I need to know?”

My heart soars at her acceptance. “Sure, what’s your number?”

Shaking her head, she laughs, but gives me her number. When her phone jingles in her pocket with my text, she jogs on down the steps. “Thanks! See you tomorrow night.”

As her feet hit the sidewalk, I panic again, then shout, “Wait! What’s your name?” Otto’s smooth moves comment echoes inside my head, reminding me of how awkward I’m making this interaction.

Turning, she bestows her million-dollar smile on me. “Bailey. Bailey Adams.”

“I’m looking forward to introducing you to hockey, Bailey Adams.”

Before she climbs into her rusty car, she shouts, “How will I recognize you with your uniform on? Do you have a number?”

“Look for number Forty-three,” I yell back.

She nods, slides into her car, and drives away.

Whistling at the expectation of my date with the cute DoorDash delivery girl, I saunter into the house. Joey and Otto are sitting at the dining table, snarfing down the burgers we ordered.

“There better be a burger left for me,” I say in a semi-threatening voice. Last time we ordered food, Joey polished it off by himself. The guy’s a human vacuum.

“We saved you one, Mr. Smooth Moves,” Otto replies.

“You heard everything?” I sputter.

Joey points towards the open bay window. “Yep.”

Shrugging off their eavesdropping of my clumsy exchange with Bailey, I sit and retrieve a burger and fries from the bag.

“Oh dear! However, will I recognize you in your uniform?” Otto says in a falsetto voice.

Joey flutters his eyelashes. “I’m the big strapping guy wearing number Forty-three,” he teases.

“Oh my!” Otto says, fanning his face.

I throw one of my French fries at Otto’s head. “She didn’t say that.”

They both laugh.