Chapter Seven Ezra
Chapter Seven
Ezra
I almost kissed Summer.
And I don’t mean a spur-of-the-moment kind of kiss. I mean, I consciously decided to kiss her. I was this fucking close, could smell her vanilla cupcake perfume, could see the look in her eyes like she wanted it too.
But I didn’t. I came to my senses before I could fuck this thing up even more and got the hell out of there.
That was two days ago, and I haven’t spoken to her since.
I was shocked when I stopped by the cidery yesterday to find my watch sitting on my desk.
She must have put it there before she left.
I had completely forgotten about it, which is surprising, because it’s one of the only things I have left of my father.
Fuck, I can’t believe I told her about my parents.
Almost nobody knows what happened to them.
It’s not something I like to advertise, mostly because I hate the pity that fills their eyes.
But she told me about her mother and now what’s going on with her dad and .
. . shit, I don’t know. I wanted to share my scars too.
I had no idea that Daniel Turner was having heart problems. I get why he didn’t announce it to the town—this place is full of busybodies—but I wish I’d known. Maybe I’d have been a bit less of a jerk to him or would have accepted this arrangement with Summer a little easier.
Or maybe not.
Either way, I shouldn’t be kissing his daughter, that’s for damn sure. Not just because Sheriff Turner is doing me a favor either. She’s my employee for fuck’s sake. I don’t care if this deal was done under the table or not. I’m still the one signing her paychecks.
It’s wrong, no matter how wrong it didn’t feel.
I push that thought aside and try to refocus.
A kid—Joel—skates by, his blades swishing across the ice with that sound that’s so damn familiar to me at this point that I swear it’s embedded in my brain.
“Doing good,” I say to him as he holds the puck on his stick.
We’re doing simple drills today at Stick Taps Community Iceplex, and I’m thankful as fuck to be away from the cidery for a few hours. I don’t need the memories of the way Summer looked at me on that kitchen counter at every turn.
And it wasn’t just the almost kiss either. It was more than that. It was how she looked at me when she was talking about owning a restaurant one day. It was obvious watching her work that she loves cooking and that it’s her passion. It saddens me she’s not following it.
It did get me thinking . . . she was right that the Stick Taps kitchen is lacking.
We don’t sell a lot of food, and I’ve always told myself that was okay because it wasn’t what drew people to the cidery anyway.
They came for the drinks, the entertainment, and that beautiful fucking view.
If they could grab a bite to eat, that would be great.
And yeah, we’ve had some caterers bitch about the lack of kitchen space, but we’ve always handled that.
But what if we did have a real kitchen? And a better menu? My gut tells me that more patrons, better profit, less space going to waste, and stronger relationships with the catering companies are all possible. It would be a win-win all around.
And even better, we have a wedding coming up—Noah’s.
It’s only ten weeks away, so we’d have to get started now if we were going to overhaul things, but if I play my cards right, we could complete the renovation before then and use it as a test run.
It would be perfect, especially if Summer ran the kitchen for us.
I know it’s a stretch, and asking her to take that on when she’s already being forced to work at the cidery is a lot.
Still, if she was able to create something like that mac and cheese I had the other night on a whim, I can only imagine what else she can do with the proper equipment and ingredients.
I could bring her on as a consultant for the renovation too.
It would make sense. She has more experience in that area than I do.
Hell, she could even make the menu. It might not be her own restaurant, but it would be damn close.
The thought gets my heart racing in a way it hasn’t since . . . since I almost kissed her two nights ago.
I scratch at the scruff lining my face—something I desperately need to shave off—then run a hand through my hair.
Shit. This could never work. She’s never going to help me. Not after that. What the hell was I thinking? I wasn’t, that much is obvious. Thank fuck I caught myself at the last moment, or that could have been an even bigger disaster.
“Coach Rawlings! Did you see that goal?”
I snap out of my thoughts and give Jensen a thumbs-up. “Looked good, buddy. Nice technique.”
I was only half-ass paying attention, but the kid doesn’t need to know that.
“I’m going to do it again!”
He does, and this time I watch every second of it, which is why I notice the goalie is out of position.
Though my strides are choppy compared to how they used to be when I was playing, I skate over to Marshall, who has his head hung low with disappointment from getting scored on twice in a row from the same move.
“Hey, man,” I say to him. “You good?”
“No. I suck. I don’t . . . I don’t know if I want to play anymore, Coach.”
His voice is so dejected, and I hate hearing him talk about himself like that and giving up on the game so quickly.
“You think if I had given up every time something didn’t go my way, that I would have been in the NHL?”
He sniffles a little. “No.”
“And that’s what you want, isn’t it? You want to play in the NHL?”
“Yeah, I want to be the next Arthur Fox. That guy is amazing.”
I grin. “Yeah, the Seattle Serpents goalie is pretty dang good, isn’t he? Do you think he was ready to give up after a few missed saves?”
“No, Coach.”
“Exactly, so you shouldn’t be either. Especially not when we can fix this really easily.”
He looks up at me, his eyes filling with hope. “We can?”
“Yep. Here, let me show you.”
I drop down next to him, my hip stretching uncomfortably. I disregard the twinge of pain and show him how he should hold himself if he wants a better chance of stopping the puck.
“Makes sense?” I ask.
“A lot. Thanks, Coach Rawlings. You’re the best.”
That swell of pride I get every time something clicks with one of these kids hits me again, and I give him a small smile. “No problem. Now get out there and stop the next one, yeah?”
He skates back into his crease, ready to go, and I make my way to the center of the ice, where the other kids are lined up to practice their one-on-one shots.
I blow the whistle and watch closely as the eight-year-old beside me takes off full speed—or as fast as a kid can at that age—and charges in for the shot.
He’s going for the same move the kid before him just did, probably because he saw how successful it was.
Marshall is prepared this time.
He drops at the exact right moment, and the puck soars through the air and straight into his glove.
“Yes!” I shout, clapping for him. “Well done, Marshall!”
Much like his idol, Arthur Fox, he nods in response, then gets set to go again. I love the dedication and that he doesn’t let it go to his head, especially considering his young age.
He plays well the rest of the session, and when I finally call time on it, he’s in a much better mood than earlier.
“Still want to quit?” I ask him when he skates to the open door.
He shakes his head, his grin wide and damn near contagious. “Not a chance in hell, Coach.”
I should probably say something about him saying hell, but I can’t find it in me, given how happy he is.
So instead I pat him on the helmet and tell him to get out of here.
I help the other coaches clean up the equipment, and we prepare for the next set of kids to arrive.
By the time I make it back to the cidery hours later, I’m beat, and my hip is aching in a way it hasn’t in a long while.
I spent a lot of time getting up and down on the ice today, and I know I shouldn’t have done it, but dammit, I’m supposed to be teaching these kids.
I need to be able to show, not just tell, them how to play.
I’m just going to have to push through and keep up on my meds.
I head to my desk first, waving at some of our regular customers on my way. I pop a few ibuprofens before things get too out of hand and I’m back at the doctor’s office, begging for another cortisone shot.
“Hey, man.”
I lift my head to find Noah standing in my doorway. We haven’t really had a chance to talk much this week, so we still haven’t cleared the air about the whole Summer thing.
Summer.
I know she’s here somewhere. There’s no way she isn’t, seeing as it’s a Friday night, and all hands are on deck.
Besides, I’m like 95 percent certain I smelled vanilla cupcake on my way in here.
I also swear I can still taste that incredible mac and cheese she made, which only makes me wish I could bring her on as our new kitchen lead even more.
“Can I?” Noah asks, pointing to the chair across from my desk.
I wave him in, and he closes the door behind him. “Sure.”
I take a seat opposite him, forcing myself not to grimace as I do.
Fuck, I really overdid it today. Maybe I can talk to one of the other coaches tomorrow and see if they can handle it on their own so I can take an actual day off.
Maybe.
“So,” he starts, folding his hands together behind his head and reclining.
Something about the relaxed position puts me on edge, which is funny.
But that’s Noah for you. He acts like everything is good, then he hits you with the real shit.
I have a feeling this will be one of those real shit conversations.
“So,” I repeat in the same calm tone.
“You got another ticket, huh?”
And there it is.
“In the end, no. I was threatened with one, and the idea of taking it to court because there’s no way it wouldn’t land there. So I chose the lesser of two evils and hired Summer. Are you mad?”