1. Dean
DEAN
I like certainty. There are two things I know for certain this morning: One—I hate not having structure to my day.
Two—every business owner in Kenton, BC, was high when they named their stores and restaurants.
A lesser version of me would need a barrel of whatever it is they’re smoking to get through the week.
But I have other tools in my toolbox. And if I’m going to use all of them, I’ll need a few things, most of which I can get from Main Street.
One of them I might have to drive an hour or two outside of town to pick up.
We didn’t make the playoffs. It fucking sucks.
But it’s a setback, not a failure. I spent thirteen years of my life being trained to respond instead of react to adversity.
I spent the last four years training other guys to understand you can only control the process, not the result.
The result of the last game sucked. Since Saturday night, we’ve been processing the elimination.
A lot of logistical unwinding happened fast. I have so much respect for how Coach Barrett handles things and I’ve already learned a lot from him in the past week and a half, but it’s my job to read each of the players and figure out what they need.
He doesn’t have time to give me the rundown on everyone.
The guys are still learning to trust me.
I was so locked in on observing and managing the players’ emotions while we ran the exit interviews along with the GM.
Coach and Tanner asked the guys how they felt the season went and I was figuring out who needs a challenge, who needs an arm around the shoulder.
But I haven’t had time to focus on my reality.
My reality is I can’t control anything else for the team until next practice, and next practice is six months from now.
My reality is I need to get to the gym so I can work out until the only loss on the board is sweat and a thousand calories.
My reality is I need to get laid, but I’m the new assistant coach of a major junior hockey team in a small town that’s obsessed with hockey.
And I can’t fuck around the way I did in Calgary.
Which is why I might have to head over to Kelowna for a night or two.
Or Peachland. That sounds like my kind of land.
My other reality is I’ve been living in a nearly empty apartment for a week and a half, ordering pizza from Higher Crust for the last two days.
So it’s time to buy kitchen supplies and get my house in order.
By kitchen supplies I mean things to eat off of and with—a blender, a pot, a hand-flipper thing, and an oven-tray thing.
Which I assume I’ll be able to find in Whisk It Good, as long as they don’t exclusively sell whisks…
which they might, because it’s that kind of town.
I don’t think I’m ready to eat breakfast at the diner everyone goes to—Locally Forked.
It’ll be nonstop conversation about what they want to see from me next season, and this morning my tagline is the same as the one on the sign outside that restaurant: We’re fresh out of forks.
As I enter Whisk It Good I see that it is, as the ladies would say, super cute.
Super cute, filled with around five million kitchen supplies, and exactly no people other than me.
Over the soft classical music that’s playing through the speakers, I can hear an elderly lady talking in the back room.
It’s probably her job to tell me where to find the hand-flipper things, but I guess I’ll just pick up one of these baskets and spend an hour checking out every shelf and table since that’s obviously a better use of my time.
The bell on the front door jingles, but I don’t look back, because there’s a display table set up near the front of the store.
It looks like the design concept was brunch for the Golden Girls if the Golden Girls had just discovered crafting and edibles while dabbling in witchcraft.
Why are the forks, knives, and spoons tied with twine?
Do I have to buy the little pieces of pink crystal and the dried flowers that are in the bowls?
Why does it look like that stuffed black cat is following me with his glass eyes?
Why does this stone that has the word Namaste painted on it in cursive cost twenty-five dollars?
Is that a joke? Since there’s no one around to ask, I reach for two of the clusters of forks, spoons, and knives so I can move on.
“Trust me—you don’t want to buy those,” a young woman says from behind me.
Looking over my shoulder, I find the prettiest damn face smirking at me.
I’m not usually into blondes, but she’s got the softest, shiniest hair I’ve ever seen and her face is so sweet I feel my entire body relax.
I turn to face her, and I don’t even care that I’m staring.
I am no longer the hotshot assistant coach who flew in from Calgary at the end of the season to turn things around for the Comets and then didn’t turn things around.
I am now the idiot whose brain doesn’t work anymore because a beautiful young woman said one sentence to him.
“Huh?” I say, with the dazzling wit and charm I’m known for far and wide.
Her smirk evolves into a warm smile, and I swear to God it soothes my soul.
She smells like the dessert table at a Stevie Nicks concert—vanilla and musk and whatever exotic oil that grad student I went home with that time in San Francisco used.
Those eyes remind me of a song my mom used to sing, about angels sprinkling moonlight in gold hair and starlight in eyes of blue.
Jesus.
What is wrong with me?
“You shouldn’t buy or touch anything that’s unboxed on the display tables, especially during cold-and-flu season,” she explains.
“Here or in any store on Main Street, really. I saw Mrs. Kozlowski’s eight-year-old son lick every single one of those utensils when I was in here a week ago.
I watched in awe as he licked that entire tea pot, and then he swallowed one of those fake cherry tomatoes.
He definitely had a cold, and I know for a fact that Sheryl, the owner of this store, doesn’t wash anything. ”
“Mrs. Kozlowski’s son can’t be any more disgusting than the guys I used to live with, and I put things they licked in my mouth all the time.” Wait. What?
Her big blue eyes go wide, filled with amusement. “Oh, okay!”
“That came out wrong. I meant forks and spoons and bowls or whatever.”
“Hey, no judgment. You can lick whatever and whoever you want.”
“I didn’t lick the guys I lived with. I meant—”
“No, for real—most of my favorite guys are gay.”
“I mean I don’t lick any guys. I have no problem with guys who do, but I exclusively lick women. Consensually. When and where appropriate. Until they’re fully satisfied.” Fuck. This is so much worse than being eliminated from the playoffs.
Her mouth is wide open, and she is on the verge of either laughing or running away screaming.
“Well, now. Good for you, and great for your women.” She laughs and drags her fingers through her wavy hair.
Her fingernails are shiny and pink, and they make me happy even though I’m blowing it.
“I’ll let you get back to shopping. But I recommend purchasing the utensil sets that are in sealed packages. ”
“Got it. Thanks for the tip.” I guess this is what it feels like to not be irresistible and witty.
I really fucking hate it. Turning around, I find a stack of sealed boxes of utensils next to the display table.
Utensils. Why couldn’t I think of that word before?
After putting a box in my basket I glance around, searching for my sex appeal and charisma. I know I still had them three days ago.
“You seem confused,” says that angelic voice.
Fork yeah, I’m still in the game.
I am determined to get my mojo back. Glancing over my shoulder, I give her the signature Rafferty nod with a couple of raised eyebrows and a cocky half grin. “Do I?”
“Little bit. Can I help you find anything?”
“You work here?”
“No, but I like browsing this store, and well, Sheryl appears to be on an important call in the back. So what are you looking for?”
You. You are exactly what I need to get me through the week, and you’re right here. “I need an…oven-tray thing?” Six words that have never gotten a guy laid in the history of words.
She grins at me like she finds me adorable. At least I stand a better chance than Mrs. Kozlowski’s son. Probably. I need to reset and stay present. Lock in, Rafferty. Lock in.
“You mean one of these?” She leads me to the aisle behind the display table—and speaking of behinds—wow. Just wow. She must be from Peachland. This beautiful young woman picks up the exact metal thing I need for baking frozen pizzas and tuna melts.
“Yes. One of these. Thank you. What are these called? Baking pans?”
“Around here we call it a hard bottom, but technically it’s a thermal slab,” she informs me with a straight face that is perhaps too straight.
“A hard bottom, huh?”
“Yes, it’s colloquial.” She reaches for one of the hand-flipper things I need from a shelf nearby, and when she reaches for it, her tight sweater and little pink jacket rise up, exposing a hint of smooth flesh around her waist. I like it.
I’m getting ideas, right here in a kitchen-supply store, about a sweet, beautiful stranger.
“In Kenton,” she continues, “we call this a slapper, but everywhere else in North America it’s referred to as a slide paddle. ”
Well, now. Perhaps this sweet, beautiful stranger has another side she’d like to explore. “Fascinating. I know exactly how I want to use this slapper—thanks.” Holding her gaze, I wrap my hand around the handle, brushing one of my fingers against one of hers. She blinks and stares at my hand.
Yeah, you get a good, long look at my hand, little miss sassypants.