Chapter 25 Days Like This
DAYS LIKE THIS
CORBIN
The puck drops, and I’m off, skating hard down the ice at the start of the second period. Chicago has possession, but I’m closing in fast, stick ready to steal it away. Lake’s calling for it, and all I have to do is snag it, then pass it to him.
Instead, my mind rewinds to this afternoon and Mabel standing in nothing but that too-small towel.
The Chicago player cuts left, and I follow—a half-second too late. An image of the towel falling flashes before me, and I lose my focus and the puck.
“Fuck,” I mutter, skating hard to catch up. Chicago doesn’t score, but that’s not the point. That’s not how I play the game, not who I am on the ice. I’m the goddamn playmaker. I ought to act like it.
I reset my mind and blot out anything but hockey.
It works.
Mostly.
Later in the third period, Lake passes to me, and I snag it clean, skating around the back of the net. For a second, everything clicks—the ice, the stick, my blades. Then I see the towel falling to the floor. Revealing her creamy flesh, her glorious tits, her pert nipples, and—
The puck slips off my stick.
Again.
By the end of the game, we’ve won 3-2, but when I look at that scoreboard, I don’t see the W.
I see three goals scored by my teammates with zero assists from me.
Three opportunities where I should have been there, should have contributed, and instead I was thinking about the way Mabel’s skin smelled like sweet peas, and fantasizing about how she might taste. Everywhere.
In the hallway after I’ve showered and changed, Theo catches up to me, slapping my shoulder like he didn’t even notice how scattered I was when I played.
“Tomorrow. Be there. Don’t forget,” he says.
I laugh, because of course I’ll be at Afternoon Delight. “What would I do without your reminder?” I deadpan.
He starts to walk away, then turns back with that grin that means trouble. “And don’t forget to show up on the ice too.”
I wince. Shit. He noticed. He fucking noticed.
But then he adds, “Just kidding. You’re always here, buddy. I don’t know how you do it.”
My head feels like it has whiplash. Is he saying I played badly? Is he giving me a hard time? But then I remind myself that Theo’s always given me a hard time. That’s what we do. That’s our friendship.
“Thanks, man,” I say, then ask him how he’s doing. He talks about the job a bit, since he works too hard, but then mentions he had a good date the other night.
“Nice,” I say, offering a fist for bumping. “You’re getting back out there?”
He knocks back but shrugs. “Maybe. We’ll see.”
He’s skeptical, since like most people, he’s been burned by love.
When Ginny left, he was devastated, and I did my best to help him through it.
Sometimes that meant golfing with him, which was no hardship.
Other times, it meant just having him over for dinner with Charlotte, Mom, and Ray. “I’m rooting for you.”
“I know. And I appreciate it,” he says, then takes off, leaving me standing in the corridor with the uncomfortable realization that for the first time in my career, hockey wasn’t the only thing on my mind during a game.
His incomparably sexy, incredibly flirty, and big-hearted sister was.
Yet even though I wasn’t on top of my game, I just can’t seem to shake these thoughts of her. They chase me home as I leave the arena. They follow me along the highway as I drive. They whisper in my ear as I park my car in the garage and head into my quiet home.
I should review the to-do list for tomorrow morning. Do some light yoga. Ice my shoulder since my shoulder’s always sore.
But nope, as soon as I’m inside, I set the basting brush in my nightstand drawer.
Put the towel next to it. Then, I take the panties out of my pocket and put them on top of the nightstand.
I get ready for bed, and when I get under the covers, I grab the panties, bring them to my nose, and inhale them for a good long time.
Long enough that I replay her coming undone that afternoon.
That I rewind the sounds of her pleasure and picture the way she looks, blissed out and beautiful, as she comes.
I’m a grown-ass man spending the night with a pair of stolen underthings, hoping to catch the fading scent of a woman. This is beyond pathetic.
And yet, I don’t stop till I imagine her spread out here on my bed, legs wrapped tight around my head, fingers gripping my hair, calling my name.
The fridge is humming, cooling drinks. The café tables are polished, inviting soon-to-arrive customers.
The mismatched plates from Reprise are stacked and ready to hold cakes, bars, and cookies.
The speakers are itching to pump playlists, which I’ve programmed.
The shelves are stocked with merch. And they’re apropos because we have our Fuck Mornings line of tees, mugs, and plates, with the swear word spelled with an asterisk.
That’s the point of Afternoon Delight, after all.
A bakery for those who want a fresh treat in the afternoon or evening too.
And I’m yawning.
Maybe in retrospect we should have picked a date to open that wasn’t after a night game, but there aren’t that many days like this—Saturdays, when my whole day is free.
Which means I’m here at the crack of dawn hanging this cake chandelier.
It arrived yesterday—a surprise thing Mabel ordered.
She said she found it late one night on an online shopping bender.
It’s thrifted, pink, and painted like an old-fashioned, over-the-top frilly cake with chandelier teardrops hanging from the upside-down tiers.
“It’s so kitschy and cute, I can’t stand it,” Mabel told me.
The problem is you have to turn off the power to the circuit breaker to install it, so I’m here fuck-all early, mounting a cake chandelier to the ceiling.
As I finish adjusting the chain so the chandelier will hang at just the right length, I think about Riggs’s question on the plane about the pressure of being good enough to play, the ribbon Mabel’s going to wear in her hair, and whether this chandelier chain is the right length.
My head’s a mess, thoughts yanking in too many different directions.
Fuck.
If I don’t concentrate, this light monstrosity will turn into a smashed chandelier. I can’t stand it for real, but Mabel loves it, and that’s all that matters.
I climb down the ladder, grab the chandelier from the floor where it’s resting, and haul it back up. It’s not heavy, so that’s good. I spend the next thirty minutes wiring it up, and it takes so much focus I can barely think of Mabel and how she looks under a kitchen towel.
Edible.
When I’m done, I install the bulbs, then restore power at the circuit breaker and pray hard when I flick the switch.
Let there be light!
I give a fist pump. Mabel will be happy, and that’s good.
I picture her reaction, and I start to let go of some of this tension. If only I can keep it at bay during the next game.
But first, I go home and catch a few more hours of shut-eye. Well, there are benefits to our late morning store hours.
Around ten, I roll into the bakery with bouquets of irises, and I’m greeted by the warm, inviting scent of melting chocolate and mouth-watering sugary flour. My heart rate starts to settle. Tension begins to melt off.
It falls to the floor when Mabel strides out from the kitchen and into the bakery, her gaze landing on the flowers. “You really did it,” she says, with something like wonder in her voice.
I cock my head, giving her a really look. “What do you take me for? A man who doesn’t keep his promises?”
She wraps a hand around my biceps. “I love them. They’re my favorite,” she says, but she’s looking at me, not the flowers, and my heart does a funny little jump.
“I’m glad,” I mumble, since I really, really need to be careful around Mabel.
“I’ll get some vases. I picked some up at the thrift shop just for this,” she says, and returns a minute later with three vases filled with water.
We put the irises in them and set them on the pink tables.
I watch her as she arranges them, positioning them just so, moving each one an inch farther away, an inch closer till they’re perfect.
She steps back and releases a satisfied breath, clearly pleased with her work. “I love it.”
And I can’t stop looking at her. The way she works, the way she smiles, the way she wants this to succeed.
Which means I really need to do something else. Like I told Riggs on the plane, I bake to relax, and I could use a little relaxation right now. So I join Mabel in the kitchen, but blink when I find she’s not alone.
My daughter’s there, wearing a bandana and an apron. “Hi! Travis dropped me off when I told them I wanted to help. Mom will pick me up later.”
Mabel is mixing cake batter at the counter. “She’s very helpful.”
“I am,” Charlotte says, and then I join them, rolling out my shoulders and trying, really trying, to let the baking relax me.
But it’s harder when you’re baking for business rather than pleasure.
Then, this business is a pleasure.
“By the way, the chandelier is perfection,” Mabel says with a smile. And it looks like she wants to come over and hug me.
Or is that my own wishful thinking?
Who even knows? “Glad you like it. Your dress is nice,” I say, nodding at her pink-and-white outfit under the apron. The compliment is the understatement of the century.
But her eyes say she knows she looks good, she knows I like it, and she knows I can’t say more in front of my kid.
And her thank-you smile? That slays me.
I’m so fucked.
It’s almost time to open. I run a rag down the fire pole, making sure it’s shiny. I adjust a few trays in the display cases, arranging them just so, making sure the cards are out listing all the ingredients and which allergens are in them, and which ones aren’t.