The Whole Pucking Pie (Love and Leftovers #13)

Chapter 1

Meg

Watch out for flying pucks. That’s what the sign reads as I enter the Soltero Beach Arctic Arena’s East Rink hauling my box of pies. Ice-chilled air blasts out of the open doors the facilities manager, Eva, holds open for me.

“You’re a bit early. The charity game doesn’t start until seven. Doors aren’t even open to the public yet.”

“I know,” I quip. “I like to be prepared.”

“You sure you don’t need help with that?

I promise you, the rookies are used to grunt work.

Half of them aren’t suiting up for today’s event.

” She nods at a nearby table where a few tall, athletic young men in Soltero Beach Scorpions Hockey gear are bent over jerseys, sticks, and pucks, scribbling their names in black or silver Sharpie.

Next year’s superstars, I’m sure.

“Thanks, but I’m used to doing this on my own.”

Learned a long time ago that it was easier that way.

“Okay, if you say so. Who are you supposed to hand these off to?”

“Sierra Darby, the fundraising coordinator.”

“I think she’s just setting up in the back room. Give me a minute.”

I adjust my grip on the box and murmur my thanks as she heads off in search of my friend.

Without her, I wouldn’t be here taking a monumental opportunity to boost my business in the Soltero Beach community. Today’s pre-Thanksgiving charity game is an annual community fundraiser to fight hunger, and I’ve come to donate fifty pies for their raffle.

After three years of hard graft, my micro bakery is finally gaining traction and local interest. I want to double down on Crust & Crumble’s momentum, and solidify my reputation as the number one place to go in Soltero Beach for pies and pastries.

And winning the Beach’s Best Taste award in the bakery category might just be the thing I need to level up.

That’s why I jumped at the chance to participate when Sierra asked if I was willing to donate some pies to their raffle.

Free marketing? Hell yes.

Over on the ice, a group of men skate in circles, donning jerseys in scarlet and white, or black and gold. Some skate with skill, while others look like they’re goofing off.

But when one hulking black-and-gold player skates past the glass, flashing me a grin so wide, I almost drop my box.

He’s beautiful. The kind of beautiful that belongs on the cover of glossy magazines or splashed over a freeway billboard, selling underwear. Rich chocolate brown eyes, sharply defined cheekbones, and thick, dark lashes any girl would kill for.

I shouldn’t stare, but I can’t tear my eyes away from the dimple digging into his cheek.

Then, he taps the glass and I snap out of it, furrowing my brow in silent question.

Do I know you?

He lifts his chin, gaze dipping to the box in my hand. Then, he says something.

I can’t quite make it out. Was it, are those for me?

Wait for me?

No, that doesn’t make sense.

But he doesn’t repeat himself, just turns his back to skate away, and I glimpse the number 15 positioned under the name ASLANOV.

Then, because it’s too weird an encounter, I peek behind me to see if he’d been talking to someone else, and I’d been standing there like a fool, thinking he was talking to me.

There’s no one else around, though.

So, what was that? Flirting?

The last thing I have time for during my personal hell week is flirtation, but a tingle of interest works its way up my spine, anyway, because… well, it’s been a while.

Still—no. Not this week.

“Oh my God, why are you holding all of that?” Sierra laughs and tries to pry the box from my hands.

“Ah, ah, ah, no touching. Not yet.” I twist away from Sierra’s grasp as she rolls her eyes and Willow pops up, looking stressed and holding her ever-present event coordinator clipboard. “Just tell me where they’re going, and I’ll put them there. You know I like to set it up myself.”

“Have you got them all?” Willow asks, staring down at her list. “Fifty pies?”

“This is half. I’ve got the other half in my car, waiting.” I glance at Sierra. “Plus a couple spares for the staff and team.”

“Yessss!” Sierra pumps her fist. “I got assigned dessert this year, and now I won’t have to make it.”

Willow smiles, but it looks a little wobbly.

“Okay, great. I’ll get one of the rookies to set you up with a table.” Willow hustles away, waving her clipboard at the group of guys signing equipment.

“Is she okay?” I ask.

Sierra quirks a brow. “You know Willow. She stresses out about every event we put on. Last Christmas, she almost had a meltdown over our festive market event.”

We watch as two of the rookies rise and follow her down another hall.

That left one bored-looking player reclining with his flip-flop-covered feet resting on the table. He looks over at us, and Sierra snorts. “Figures. Lazy-ass legacy won’t move his ass for anyone but my dad.”

“That’s because your dad’s the head coach and basically his boss.”

“Only on the ice. The general manager’s really who he has to keep happy.” Sierra shakes her head, and turns to me. “Anyway, why don’t you just put those down for now? Then I can help you bring in the rest.”

I stare at her as if she asked me to lick the concrete flooring.

“These are my precious, prize-winning pies, Sierra. I’m not putting them on the floor. Besides, I still have half of your order in my car.”

I heft the box up to shift its weight, and my gaze drifts back to the ice where the low-key warm-up seems to turn into a skills competition.

Number 15 throws pucks at the net the way I throw dough around my kitchen. He must’ve outdone his opponent because a round of cheers goes up, and he raises his hands in victory.

A player in Scorpions scarlet shakes his head while Number 15 laughs and jostles his shoulder. But those chocolate eyes of his catch mine again, and this time, he winks like he’s caught me looking and wanted to show off.

Something warm and fluttery flares in my belly, and I frown back at him.

“Who are we checking out?” Sierra whispers, craning her neck to see.

“Nobody. I’m not checking anyone out,” I snap, feeling my ears grow hot. “I’m just daydreaming of bed. This is my last stop before I head home and put my feet up.”

“Oh, okay, sure. Daydreaming of bedding one of the guys, I bet.”

“Not what I said,” I grumble, stealing another glance at Number 15 as he skates to my end of the ice.

“No time for it anyway. Thanksgiving week is my busiest week and my most profitable holiday. Usually, I’m baking batch after batch through the night, but not this year.

This year, I’m all ahead of the game. For once. ”

All I have to finish up is packing and prepping for tomorrow’s big pie pickup day. I’ll open at dawn and dole out every one of the 200 hand-baked pies I’ve made by noon.

I love knowing that families and friends all over town will dish up a little slice of my hard work as they give thanks and make memories.

My pies on their tables makes me feel part of their festivities, an extension of my family to theirs…

even if it’s just for one night. A tradition that started in my family long before me, but one I’ve continued—

A loud crack crashes through my memories, and a deep, masculine, lightly accented voice yells, “Heads up!”

It’s him—Number 15 shouting—at me.

There’s no time to react. No time to think. Because the thing he’s screaming about is a puck flying at my face.

“Oh, shit!”

Without thinking, I raise the box of pies and duck.

Not fast enough.

The vulcanized rubber disc slams into my shoulder, and I lose my grip as pain radiates down my arm. The box gets tossed, the pies go flying, and I let loose a couple of choice words as I tip backward.

But the last thing I see before my ass slams against the floor is all my hard work going splat.