Chapter 11 Knighty Night #2
It’s one thing to brainstorm with Mabel over text—texts that I did, in fact, read several times.
How could I not? They were so very her. But how will this bakery be seen by the town and the world?
Athletes usually open bars when their careers wind down, or gyms, or they go into sportscasting.
They don’t often open bakeries with their best friend’s sister—especially bakeries with pink motifs, which ours will have, since Mabel’s made it clear it’s pink or death.
The rest of the team filters down the tunnel, and I hang back with my closest friends.
We make our way along the cavernous corridor, skates clunking against the floor, and I draw a big breath, bracing myself to share personal shit.
But then Miller claps my shoulder and flashes his signature grin.
“Guess what, boys? Knighty Night has some big news for us.”
I can’t stand that nickname, which is why he uses it now and then. To poke the bear. His favorite pastime.
“You finally learned how to use social media, Dad?” Lake asks, with an overly earnest tilt of his head, his shoulder-length hair falling in a sweaty mess around his face.
“Yes, and I figured out how to dial on a rotary phone too.”
“Sweet. I always had faith in you,” he retorts.
Miller’s practically bouncing on his skates, a kid at Christmas, eyes glinting. “Guys, this news is good.”
Riggs furrows his brow, studying me intently with nearly black eyes. Then he nods, like he’s figured it out. “We’re letting Lake into the club?”
I groan, scrubbing a hand down the back of my neck, then give Riggs a look. “It’s not a club. You know it’s not a club, Decker,” I say, using Riggs’s last name.
“It’s for sure a club if you’re denying it.” Lake sighs heavily, just so damn disappointed in us. “Whatever. I’ll let the press know you don’t like cats, and that’s why you won’t let Thor and me in. Bet that’ll go over well.”
“Wait,” Miller cuts in. “Your cat’s name is Thor?”
“Now you exclude Viking cats? Real cool, guys. Real cool,” Lake says dryly.
“I vote we let the cat in, not the owner,” Riggs suggests, then whirls around, returning to the topic du jour. “And if it’s big news, my money is on you finally dating someone.”
I scoff.
The irony. His guess hits uncomfortably close to something I almost did. Which means it’s time to get the truth out. No more joking and no more delays. I stop outside the locker room and dive off the cliff.
“I’m opening a bakery. Well, I’m investing in it, and I’m also helping out.
With Mabel Llewelyn, Theo’s sister.” Fuck, those words sound weird coming out of my throat, like someone else is saying them.
But it’s not just how this new project might look that’s tripping me up.
It’s how it might go down. It could bomb, and I don’t like failing.
There’s no guarantee that this bakery will succeed. In fact, the odds are probably against us. That’s why I feel like I’m standing here, peeling off a layer of skin.
But Riggs shoots me a proud of you smile, tugs off a glove, and offers me a fist for knocking. “Right on. It’s about fucking time.”
And I did not expect that—support.
“Right?” Miller says, enthused, coming up behind me and patting my shoulders. “I’m stoked.”
“I’m hungry. And I really want cupcakes now,” Lake adds. Then he shifts gears and gives me a serious nod. “But also…good on you, man.”
Holy shit. They’re not mocking me. They’re not giving me a hard time about working with Mabel either. “Thanks, guys. Appreciate it.”
“Anytime,” Miller says, then steers me into the locker room, where some of our D-men are already changing out of their practice gear. “And don’t worry. When no one wants to see your ugly face on the marketing materials, you can always use me.”
He gives some sort of over-the-top smoldering look.
I have no choice but to pretend to gag. “No one will want to eat there, then.”
“Wait…we eat for free, right?” Miller asks, always looking for an angle.
“You make millions. You don’t need to eat for free,” I say.
“And yet, restaurants are always wanting to give athletes free meals. Especially me since I’m so pretty.”
“Pretty full of yourself,” Ivan mutters from his stall as he unlaces his skates. Like a good D-man, he sails in and out of conversations like they’re plays on the ice, never missing a beat.
“Got that right,” Riggs says, peeling off his practice jersey, pausing in front of his stall. “But I’m with Pretty Boy here. You’ll do us a solid and not charge, right?”
“No. I’ll charge you all double.”
“That’s fair,” Ivan says with a wry wink as he snaps on his Gucci watch. The dude loves his designer duds.
I turn around and change out of my gear, grateful that’s done.
When I’m showered and back in jeans and, of course, a gray T-shirt, I head out.
Riggs and Miller catch up with me in the corridor.
Riggs gives me a chin nod, then scrubs a hand across his dark beard.
“Seriously though. If you need help lifting heavy shit or whatever, hit me up. Since we all know I can bench more than anyone.”
“Keep telling yourself that,” I say, since I’m seriously strong.
“So that’s a no,” Riggs says dryly.
I heave a sigh. “I’d love the help.”
“Besides, Charlotte already booked us,” Miller says to Riggs. But then, like something just occurred to him, Miller turns his gaze to me. “Dude. This is a sneaky-ass way to make sure Theo doesn’t trade you in your final years. Going into business with his sister.”
“Oh shit. You’re an evil genius,” Riggs says.
“Exactly. I’m sucking up to the acting GM,” I say, mostly to steer the conversation away from the acting GM’s sister.
But to no avail. Riggs wiggles a brow. “Or maybe he’s trying to get closer to the woman he wanted to see in the baking contest. Haven’t seen you this into someone in…” He tilts his head, considering my romance timeline. “A long-ass time.”
Fuck me. This is the problem when you work with people who are good at reading other people. They can see through you. And in this case, they can see there’s something different about Mabel.
“It’s just a good investment. That’s all,” I say, then head toward the kids’ lounge, leaving that conversation behind me.
I don’t need either of them getting wind of these feelings I have for Mabel.
It would only be a matter of time before word circulated around the organization and right back to Theo.
I shudder at the thought of how he’d react.
He hates everyone who’s ever dated his sister, and the depth of his disdain has only ramped up since his longtime girlfriend split and moved to Tokyo a couple years ago.
He’d probably hate me even more now that I’m also Mabel’s brand-new business partner. Especially since I’m very much looking forward to seeing her tomorrow.
And I’m wondering if she’ll be wearing a new bra.
That night, as I do a light stretch in my home gym once Charlotte’s in bed, my thoughts are entirely too tangled up. There’s so much to do to open a business. I knew that. Of course, I knew that. But still, one thing smashes into another like bumper cars in my head.
What to make.
How many items to offer.
What people want the most.
What will surprise them.
I’m not sure I have any answers after I finish my hamstring stretches on the foam roller. I leave the gym and head to the kitchen on autopilot, the faint counter lights guiding me there while the fridge emits a welcoming hum.
I breathe a little easier when I reach the kitchen island.
This room feels like it has a heartbeat and has been a safe space ever since my mom taught me to bake and cook.
I never knew my father; he was a no-name, one-time kind of guy, and that’s fine with me.
Growing up, it was just Mom and me baking until she met Ray, my stepdad, when I was ten or eleven.
After that, it was often the three of us in the kitchen, the one place where I stopped thinking only about hockey, stopped running plays, stopped picturing wrist shots, stopped imagining how to make them better.
It was relaxing.
Tonight, I don’t need to relax. I do need to work through some of these ideas though. I lean on the counter and click on the tablet I keep there. I swipe open my recipe app, jotting down some notes.
Maybe something with pretzels? The salty snack is a secret weapon when it comes to baked goods. Mix it with chocolate, and it’s heaven on a plate. I note a few more ideas, then close the tablet, ready to hit the hay.
Except…
I check the time. It’s earlyish.
Ah, hell. Why not?
I open the pantry and grab the ingredients, then find a playlist on my phone that’s usually better suited for a gym. But the workout music keeps my rhythm as I mix and measure, whisk and bake.
Finally, my mind settles as I finish making a sweet and salty bar with a graham cracker crust and salty pretzels, topped with bittersweet chocolate chips and a sprinkle of sea salt.
I take a bite, and damn. This is fucking good. So good, it’d be a sin to keep them to myself.
I find a delivery service and place an order for pick-up in the morning. Can’t hurt for my business partner to taste these too.