Chapter 7 Cutthroat Mabel
CUTTHROAT MABEL
CORBIN
I’m not someone who’s into pumpkin spice anything.
But my daughter is, and it’s fall, so I grab the cinnamon from the fourth shelf in the pantry, then the pecans from the third.
I set them on the kitchen island next to the monkey bread I made late last night to unwind after the game.
I’ll give it out to my neighbors later. The ingredients will be ready for Charlotte’s return from her mom’s house in—I check the digital clock on the wall—about three hours and five minutes, and we can make brown butter chocolate chip pumpkin blondies with nuts, as per my daughter’s request. Sure, it’s early, but I like to be prepared—that’s how you can do it all.
After I select the other ingredients, along with mixing bowls, and line them up neatly on the counter, I swipe open my kitchen inventory app on my tablet, marking what I’m using and what is running low.
Done. Do I need to inventory items in my home kitchen? Technically, no, but it doesn't hurt to be prepared for the bakery I’ll open someday, just like Mom always wanted.
Someday far, far away.
And would you look at that? I haven’t even thought about Mabel’s text from last night. The one where she wrote: We’re all good! Glad you enjoyed the cake!
Fine. I’ll admit I’ve thought about it a few times today.
Mostly to ask myself why I’d been so damn invested in one kiss yesterday when I should have been focused on scoring on the ice.
Hell, that kiss is probably what knocked me off my game.
But the real answer is simple. You can’t just kiss someone like that—impulsively, out of the blue, like your soul is on fire—and not acknowledge it.
Especially since it was more than a kiss. I didn’t plan to kiss her, back her up against the door, grind against her. Or groan like she was the best thing I’d tasted in ages.
But she absolutely was.
And yet, here I am, reminding myself—like I did when I left the arena last night—that nothing more can happen.
A secret hook up with my friend’s little sister is definitely not part of my plan for the season.
It won’t help me stay healthy, guide my team deep into the playoffs instead of getting humiliatingly swept in round one, or take care of my little family.
But I don’t want to be a little dick with Mabel, like the jerks she dates. Because most men in their twenties are little dicks, and I’m pretty sure she’s been dating guys in their twenties.
My jaw clenches, along with my shoulders. I roll them, working out the kinks. Only, all this stretching isn’t helping me relax. Everything’s still tight.
Maybe you should stop obsessing about one stupid text, then, dumbass. Especially since you were texting to say, “We can’t do that again.”
Damn voice in my head is right. Mabel really meant it when she said all good. Code for it’s time to move on. I ought to let it go.
I text my kiddo, keeping my focus right where it should be.
Corbin: Here’s the blondie report. I’ve got everything lined up and ready. I repeat—all baking systems are a go.
World’s Best Daughter: Copy that! I’ll be reporting for baking duty in three hours! Also, good job with the mise en place.
Corbin: Nice job with the culinary words.
World’s Best Daughter: I have a good teacher. Also, can we save some blondies for Benny? I want to train him to like pumpkin from an early age.
I shudder. Pumpkin should really be abolished, but I reply with a resounding yes, since I’m damn grateful Charlotte has a three-year-old half brother and I had nothing to do with it.
I know firsthand how tough it is to be an only child, and I seriously appreciate that I didn’t have to produce another kid for her to have a sibling.
In fact, her mom deserves some treats for doing that for our daughter.
I tap out another message.
Corbin: Why don’t we give some to your mom and Travis too?
World’s Best Daughter: Mom says she loves pumpkin anything!
I laugh. Yup, Sarah does, though that’s not the reason Charlotte’s mom and I didn’t work out after a two-night stand.
When she learned she was pregnant, we toyed with the idea of trying to be together, but after a few more trial dates, it was clear we didn’t have that forever kind of spark, and we were both okay with it.
We agreed, too, that we wanted to raise Charlotte together here in Cozy Valley, where Sarah lives and works.
I set the phone down, and I swear this time I don’t ask myself if I should have replied to Mabel’s text from last night.
What was I even going to say if she’d wanted to talk?
“Life is complicated, with my schedule and your brother working for my team, but, hey, I want you to know if I were in a different place, I’d want to take you out.
But I can’t right now. Sucks because I can’t stop thinking about you. ”
I shake my head.
Pointless. Just pointless. No woman wants a half-assed, if-I-were-in-a-different-place response like that. Ever.
Even though Mabel’s on a loop in my head.
What’s not pointless, though, is an extra workout.
I have the time before Charlotte returns, so I head to my bedroom, change into a pair of basketball shorts from the stack in my drawer labeled navy blue and a T-shirt from the stack labeled gray and white.
I return to the kitchen, grabbing a water bottle from next to the mugs on the drying rack.
It’s covered in stickers, thanks to Charlotte, who loves to conduct sticker sneak attacks.
I scan it for a new one, then laugh when I read it: Hold On, Let Me Overthink This.
As I fill the bottle, the rustle of leaves from the quaking aspen drifts through the open window.
I turn off the tap, then an unholy clatter rends the air. Mugs clatter and an infernal meow pierces my eardrums as a big, striped tabby cat skids past the mugs he knocked over, then leaps right onto my back.
“Seven,” I howl. The neighborhood cat might as well have dug his claws into my very soul and not just my skin. He jumps down, then immediately administers emergency bathing on his paws.
“So that’s how it’s going to be?” I ask.
He doesn’t even look up—just licks himself clean like I’ve contaminated him. “And to think, I feed you,” I add, as I check out the scratch on my arm. It hurts, but I’ll live.
Seven stops, looks up, and emits a plaintive mewl, looking like he’s about to hold out his bowl and ask, Please, sir, may I have some more.
I give him a once-over. “You’re not missing any meals, buddy.”
I’m only human, though, and not immune to those sad cat eyes.
I yank open the cupboard, wincing when a pang shoots through my back.
But I’ve dealt with worse pain on the ice and ignored those too.
Grabbing the feather toy I bought for him at Whiskers and Kisses, I serve as the cat’s personal trainer for the next fifteen minutes, working him out till he flings himself onto the floor in a dramatic, exhausted heap.
“All right. Time for my workout too. Which means you need to go home to Annabelle.”
I grab a chunk of the monkey bread, pre-sliced and wrapped in tinfoil, and a few minutes later, I pop the cat and the bread into the tote bag on the front of my bike, where he’s used to riding shotgun every time he comes to my home for one of the seven or so daily meals he attempts to convince the entire neighborhood he needs.
After I’ve secured my helmet, I ride up the street. Before I get far, my phone rings from the tote, next to the cat. The ringtone is wind chimes, so it’s Annabelle. I use voice commands to tell the phone to pick up.
“Hi, Annabelle.” I’m about to tell her I have her wandering cat, when she cuts in.
“Seven’s with you, isn’t he? I had a vision that he jumped through your kitchen window and asked for lunch.”
She’d tell me she’s a little bit psychic. I’d say she’s a good guesser. My mom taught me better than to argue with a smart, savvy woman, so I say, “Yup. Bringing him back right now.”
“You’re a good man.”
I end the call, then cruise the rest of the mile or so to Annabelle’s bungalow at the end of the street, wind chimes in her trees greeting me with a tinkle as I pull up on the sidewalk.
A few seconds after I ring the bell, Annabelle swings the door open, bracelets jangling on the warm brown skin of her arms, long black braids piled high on her head, and a reprimand in her crinkled eyes for the cat.
“Seven. You were supposed to help me garden, not wander off,” she chides, then reaches for the naughty feline. Once the critter is in her arms, she scrutinizes my face, then whispers, “I’m picking something up from you right now, honey. Your energy. It’s vibrating.”
Here we go. “Probably because I’m about to go work out. I plan to show Riggs I have way more energy than he does, which is why I can skate circles around him.”
When in doubt, throw your teammates under the bus.
But she’s not buying it. “No. It’s like lightning is crackling all around your head. As if a storm is brewing in your mind.”
Well, shit. Is it that obvious I’m thinking too much about Mabel? “Nah,” I say, with a no big deal smile, then I hand her the monkey bread. “Here’s something for you. And I assure you, the only thing on my mind is our next game.”
She takes the bread. “Thank you. You know I love your goodies, but your distraction tactics don’t work on me.
” She swings the door all the way open. “Something big is about to happen. And it’s not about hockey.
It’s happening here,” she says, gesturing to the ground, and maybe to all of Cozy Valley.
“Come inside. That way, I can give you a proper energy reading.”