Chapter 18
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Because Junie has been busy preparing for the salon’s launch, she hasn’t been attending my away games. The arenas somehow feel colder without her here.
We’re on a winning streak and the commentators and fandom alike have been saying that my game is “Explosive,” that I’m a sensational “Stick Sniper,” and I treat the puck like a slingshot, scoring more goals this early in the season than I have previously in my career.
It bodes well. Only, Badaszek has hardly said two words to me. Okay, he’s said four. Yes, I’m counting. Vohn is more communicative, but I see our head coach discussing plays with the other guys on the team, so what gives?
It’s not like I need his approval or for him to tell me I’m doing a good job, but it’s odd, given I’m still the new guy.
The flight back to Omaha is short after this game against the Cascades—yes, my former team. It was nice to see some of the other guys, but the Knights were a six-man demolition derby and I don’t think they appreciated that.
I check my phone, eager to have eyes on the cameras at the salon. Not because I’m a creeper, watching Junie, but I set a trap and have my brothers on call should the vandal bite.
No such luck. They didn’t take the bait. Someone else will get to enjoy the bowl of full-size candy bars—like the guys at the fire station. Even though they didn’t have to put out a fire or rescue anyone, the day the smoke was coming out of the salon, they were professional and helpful.
Perhaps the series of unfortunate events were merely hiccups or it could be that I have a crazy fan or enemy. Wouldn’t be the first time.
Junie doesn’t let what seem like acts of sabotage stop her from her plans for the grand opening of the salon. Nor does she heed the advice from the moms that the Day of the Dead might bring bad luck.
I heard her telling her mother that she thought it was auspicious.
After merely four hours of sleep, I’m caffeinated and in attendance at the grand opening of “Junie’s Hair Salon.
” Yes, that’s what she named it. Short and sweet, just like the owner.
Well, and a bit spicy too, especially her third attempt at making a pumpkin pie.
Suffice it to say, she went a bit heavy on the cinnamon.
The A-2 Carpentry Crew did an amazing job bringing the old-world, modern-day vision shared by the moms and Junie to life.
Guys & Dolls back in Manhattan was a vintage ode to barbershops and Broadway. Junie claimed she wanted something sleek and sophisticated, while the moms insisted on going back to their roots in the old country—sorry, ladies. Your roots are gray and white. Plus, it’s Junie’s dream salon.
But she commented that they had a point and found a place to meet in the middle with a waiting area with cushy silk chairs, wooden furniture, and stained glass accents—except instead of the darker colors and features favored by the moms, they went light with everything, picking a white, pale pink, and pale gold palette.
It’s a contrast to Junie with her dark hair, eyes, and black dress, but maybe that’s the point. It’s her salon and she’s the showpiece, standing out against the backdrop.
She’s my stylist, my woman, hopefully, my wife. An idea forms about how I can make that happen successfully this time.
After the ribbon cutting, the photos for social media and the local news spot, along with a nearly nonstop line of people congratulating her and asking for appointments, I finally get a moment alone.
I wrap my arms around her and pass her a bottle of water.
“How’d you know that I was thirsty?”
I wink.
She shakes her head. “Of course, you knew.”
I notice the slightest change in her breathing, the dimming or brightening of her smile, and the cast of her eyes. Always have. Always will if I have my way.
“Thank you for being here today,” she says as we survey the salon.
“Wouldn’t have missed it. I’m proud of you.”
“Yeah?”
“Not sure it matters, but you’ve created something amazing.”
“You helped along with your family.”
“Our family ... and they’re all posted nearby like your very own secret service should anything go awry.”
She laughs.
I’m serious, though. We take her safety seriously and if anyone so much as takes aim at the salon or throws an egg at her again, they’re going to be on thin ice.
But for once, I’m not as she lifts onto her toes and kisses my neck, then my jaw before finding my lips.
My hand lands on the door handle of the supply closet and we disappear inside as my pulse kicks into gear and the kiss deepens.
She giggles as my hair brushes her face in the near darkness.
She laces her fingers through my hair and says, “You really need a cut.”
“Seems like I’m in the right place.”
“True.”
My gaze, finding hers in the near darkness, I add, “Wherever you are, is where I’m meant to be.”
Her eyes close and our mouths meet again.
My arms tighten around her, drawing her closer.
Junie’s palms roam across my back and her mouth on mine turns hungry, demanding.
Perhaps she needs a snack in addition to water, but the way she kisses me tells me for now, this is the only nourishment we need. The assurance that we’re on the same team, that we’re loyal to each other, and this moment.
We bump into things in the closet and it sounds like bottles tip over. But Junie doesn’t stop as if making up for all the months we were apart. I give back to her so she knows just how much I missed her.
A shelf digs into my back as her fingers tangle in my hair again, but I barely flinch. There’s a desperation in her touch that speaks volumes—the fear of losing me again, the relief of having me back.
I pull away just enough to whisper, “If you want me back, it’ll be different. Instead of the Popovik and Cruz crew, it’ll be us. But if you want your mom’s meatballs for dinner, that’s what you get. I won’t take sides.”
She laughs lightly. “It’s just you and me?”
I nod, pressing my forehead to hers. “You and me … and meatballs. Maybe we should just make our own.”
This earns more laughter and we fall together again in a kiss that’s like a promise.