Little Treat

Chapter 1

There was nothing I could do to save us right now. We were in free fall on all counts. I stared out across the rink, looking at the disappointment on all the players’ faces. I looked to the head coach, Dane. His face was like stone, unmoving. He turned to me and shook his head.

It was on me. I’d failed the team as their assistant coach for their defense training, and we’d let every goal slip right through like the other team had greased the pucks and sticks. It was a fucking failure, and all I could do was tell them we’d get them next time.

Dane’s lips twitched as he looked at me. “Take an early break,” he said.

“But we’ve got games.”

“I’ll square it with Thompson.” He shook his head.

“I just can’t deal with you bringing me down right now, Logan.

Take that break, go—I don’t know, wherever that rookie went.

He seems to have actually got a pep in his step.

” He called a player over, and even amidst the defeat, he came right up to the box with a smile, pulling his helmet off.

The owners of this place, the Thompson family, were some rich folk. Something to do with tech. Anyway, they’d funneled a lot of money into this place and our stadium. Their son, Rooney Thompson was the face, the owner of this place and our team.

“Yes, Coach?” Lucky said.

“Lucky, you might be earning that name,” he said. “Just have one question before you get called over for interviews. Where did you just go?”

His brow furrowed. “I’m—”

“With your friend.”

“My boyfriend,” he said. I loved that kids these days were so open. Back when I was starting out, as a player and then coaching, there wasn’t a single gay guy in the NHL, and now they were all so open to express themselves. I envied it. “Snowflake Springs. They’ve got a great spa.”

Dane nodded to me. “There you go,” he said.

* * *

It was December twentieth. I should’ve been at the away game in Pittsburgh against the Penguins, and instead I was all checked into a fairly nice hotel suite. There was a nice wrap-around view of the snowy mountains and the town.

I’d only brought a small duffel bag with me, a couple of T-shirts, underwear, jeans, and whatever winter clothes I was already wearing. Dane ordered me not to watch the games but to focus on destressing, because the team could feel it when any of their coaches were stressed, and I believed that.

There was a lot to be stressed out about.

There were quite a few openly gay men on the team.

The Vermont Maple Kings was a fairly new team, backed by some large sponsors who’d recently pumped money into the town.

Otherwise the team would’ve been defunct, just like other previous teams in this state.

I headed out of the resort and into the town.

There was a happy, friendly spirit here.

Snowmen had been built with hats and scarves like they were small monuments.

I tried not to think about the team, even though I knew right about now they were all probably preparing for their game and rallying around with chants and screams—you know, whatever it took for them to get all the nerves out.

Kicking my boots at the snow, I hadn’t meant to get anyone, but I did—a small dusting of snow had made its way across the legs of some guy.

He stood outside a lit store with a tray of chocolates in his arms. He wasn’t dressed for the cold, with his red hair, all unruly curls, collecting snow. “You want a sample?” he asked.

“Huh?”

“Chocolate,” he said. “I made this one myself. I’m just seeing what people think. It has pop rocks in it, so they’ll fizzle on your tongue. Also rice crispies, so there’s a bit of a crunch.”

I knew I shouldn’t indulge, but I was on a forced vacation. I could reward myself with a small bite of chocolate. “You know how many calories are in that?”

“Sure,” he said, going into detail. He was so enthusiastic.

The calorie content wasn’t too much of an issue, but I liked to know what was going into my body—I was preached to every day by the Maple Kings’ nutritionist. “Honestly, it’s such a small amount, and unless you’ve got an allergy or there’s like something that means you’re not allowed chocolate—in which case I’d probably skip this one—you should head inside.

You’ll definitely find something you’ll enjoy. ”

As I looked him over, I wondered for a single moment if he was on the menu.

That was probably not where my mind should be going, but nobody knew me here, and I was feeling all the warmth tingly things I’d been putting to the side for the longest part of my life.

“Cooper’s Chocolatier,” I said, reading the sign above the door.

It was in all gold, somewhat etched into the ornate red wooden paneling.

“Yes, that’s us,” he said. “It’s a family business.”

“Nice. I love how—how—”

“How amazing this town is?” he chuckled. “Because I will absolutely agree with you there. Snowflake Springs is probably the only place on earth where the calories you eat here don’t actually count on the outside. I’m kidding, of course.”

I couldn’t help but laugh at that. There was something about this town that made you feel like you’d been transported somewhere else, and I wanted to be anywhere else but stuck in my mind—or thinking about the upcoming game against the Penguins.

“I only came out here for a minute, so if you want, I can help you find something inside,” he said.

“Sure,” I said. “I’m Logan, by the way.”

He pushed a shoulder forward slightly to reveal the name tag on his apron. “I’m Jamie, or Jam, sometimes Jammy.”

“Jam?” I asked.

“Yeah, when I was a teen, I was super into making homemade conserves and jams, and it’s kinda part of my name,” he said.

“Then I guess this is the perfect place for you to work,” I said.

As he led me into the shop, he snickered. “Hard not to work here, my dad owns the place.”

The chocolate shop smelled like heaven. A sweetness cloud hit me, and I could’ve fallen into a pile from the sugary contact high I was getting. There were several people inside, and a couple of kids picking out single chocolates at the counter.

“So, we make a whole bunch of different chocolates here,” Jamie said. “And chocolate-adjacent things. We were actually featured on one of those reality shows. You know, where those rich women come in with their camera crew, do something dramatic, and then leave.”

“Real Housewives?” I asked. My guilty pleasure—nobody knew about it. In fact, it was the first time I’d said it out loud, admitting that I even knew what it was. Relief dropped from my shoulders.

“You know Real Housewives?” he asked, gasping and placing a hand to his chest. His face was tinged pink—probably from coming in out of the cold—but it only added to how adorable he was.

I shrugged, feeling the heat come up into my cheeks.

“I guess, it’s everywhere,” I said. “It’s probably difficult not to know who they are.

” I think I might’ve saved myself with that one.

Although Jamie was now eyeing me with a curious smile that seemed to have me melting right out of my skin, as if I were the chocolate itself.

It was playful, teasing, fun. It was everything I needed.

“So, what types of chocolate do you like?” he asked. “Or should I just give you the tour?”

“I—uh—”

“Say less,” he snickered. “I’ll give you the tour.”

He was looking around at the customers, and yet his focus and eyes were on me. “Are you sure?”

“Of course. Besides, I think you’ll be walking out of here with a large bar of chocolate,” he said.

And he was probably right. At this moment, I felt like he could try to sell me absolutely anything and I would buy it.

It was almost infectious, the energy he was giving out.

Half of me didn’t want to buy anything so he’d keep on talking to me, but in the end, I walked out of that store with a large bar of milk chocolate filled with nougat and whipped caramel. It was divine from the taster.

The intense cold of the outside hit me hard.

It was much darker now, although I could’ve sworn I only spent half an hour in there at the max.

I walked around town as the townsfolk were cradling cups of hot cocoa and mulled wine.

I went right up to the Christmas tree and felt the warmth of all its lights glowing intensely.

I pulled out the small paper bag that I’d folded around the bar of chocolate and slipped into my green puffer jacket, and as I removed the chocolate from the paper, the receipt came out with it, something scrawled in black pen across it.

I read the note. Here’s my number. I’m Jamie, don’t forget it.

Looking around to see if I was being Punk’d, I slipped the chocolate and the note back into my pocket.

Now I had a decision to make—call the attractive younger guy, or don’t, and mull over that for the rest of my life.

Clearly, it was a difficult decision. I chuckled to myself with the decision made, but as I pulled the note out, it was whipped up into the frenzied breeze around me.

Damn.