Slapshot & Sweet Potato (Love and Leftovers)

Chapter 1

Chapter

One

WENDY

“Never thought I’d perfect the art of pie stacking,” Cassandra giggles as we load the back of the bakery van for the Desperadoes’ youth league event, Pucks and Pies.

“Comes with the territory when your bestie’s a baker.”

“Will you be bringing some of these bad boys to Thanksgiving?” she asks, throwing her long brown curls over her shoulder and eyeing me with her piercing baby blues.

Cassandra and her new hockey player boyfriend, Liam, are hosting, which means there’s a high possibility I’ll have to see Wallace “Slapshot” Lemoille. Ugh!

“What’s that frown for?”

“Just thinking about the sacrifices I make for my BFF—”

“You mean, having to hang out with—”

“The most insufferable, egotistical man on the face of the earth.” The corners of my mouth turn down.

“Wait,” Cassandra says, scrunching her eyebrows. “I thought that was George.”

George. My cheating ex. Hate that guy. But still, he’s not nearly as annoying or obnoxious as Wallace.

“I haven’t seen George since the breakup,” I counter.

“He’s been too much of a coward to meet up in person for me to return his belongings and vice versa.

Maybe that’s why I’m hating on him less these days. ”

She laughs. “So, you’re seriously still dropping off and picking things up at his storage unit?”

“Yep. Peak maturity,” I deadpan, loading another pie carrier.

Cass snorts. “Thirty going on thirteen.”

“Well, we both know he was that in droves.”

I snort laugh, then cover my mouth, cheeks glowing.

Cassandra giggles. “George is much worse than Wallace, though.”

I pause mid-air, carrier in hand. “And your point?”

“I don’t get what the deal is with you two.”

“Good old-fashioned antagonism.” I shrug. No other word for it. “Cass, I promised I wouldn’t let it get awkward now that you’ve hooked up with his best friend, but don’t expect me to like Wallace or anything.”

“That’s the problem,” she replies, handing me another bag. “I think you do. More than you’re willing to admit.”

I huff a laugh. “What are we, in high school again or something?”

She presses her thick, pink lips into a thin line. “Just my opinion.”

“Well, it’s wrong,” I say too emphatically.

Her eyes spark, more curious than convinced.

Inside the van, Cass fiddles with the dial until Eartha Kitt’s “Santa Baby” fills the van. We belt the lyrics like backup singers on a sugar high.

At the rink, we pull up to the team entrance, and a couple of rink staff members come out to help with unloading.

“Want to come inside and see the full setup?” Coach Xander asks.

“Of course!” Cass beams, always looking for an excuse to see Liam. Those two are inseparable.

It’s kind of sickening, though I’d never begrudge my bestie her current happiness. She went through the ringer to get here.

Inside, more staff members flood the ice, setting up long banquet tables for the event. Desperadoes still linger on the ice or at the players’ bench post-practice—all swagger and muscle.

Liam races toward Cassandra, wrapping her in a bear hug that lifts her off the ground. Their mouths crash together like they’ve been separated by continents instead of the inability to carpool here together, thanks to me.

“Yuck.” I gag quietly into my mitten. Not sure I’d want that even if I could have it.

“Disgusting,” a deep voice grumbles next to me.

I arch an eyebrow, eyeing Wallace grimly. Heat crawls up my neck, trying not to stare at his carved, shirtless upper body misted in the perfect amount of perspiration to make my mouth water. I swallow too loudly, croaking out, “Guess that’s one thing we can agree on, Slapshot.”

He crosses his arms, frowning, piercing me with his warm, brown-sugar eyes. “Here to grace us with more of your pies, Sweet Potato?”

“Ugh! Hate that nickname.”

He shrugs, an arrogant smile on his far too kissable lips. He runs his hand across his forehead. “Told you it’s either that or Sugarbomb. You choose.”

“Next he’ll call me Cupcake and I’ll actually bake him into one,” I mutter under my breath. Note to self: never let him near the frosting bags.

“What?” he grimaces.

“Sweet potato. Sugarbomb.” I mock yawn. “Those are meh nicknames for a baker … downright run-of-the-mill.”

“And Slapshot for a hockey player isn’t?”

I chuckle. “Can’t think of anything that suits you better. A puck to the face.”

“A pie to the heart … or should I say stomach?”

“That’s where it’s going to end up.” I shrug.

He winks, and my heart goes all stupid and soft. “You know what they say, Sweet Potato. The way to a man’s heart is through his stomach.”

I put my hands on my hips. “Then, I should have an amazing love life.”

His eyes narrow, gaze ticking to my mouth for a heartbeat. “Yes, you should.”

Heat blooms in my cheeks. Great. Now my hormones are doing jazz hands.

The air feels thick with sugar and tension.

He wheels around, walking away. My eyes follow him, ravenously devouring his broad shoulders, muscular back, solid ass, and thick thighs.

I’m not staring. Just … appreciating athletic symmetry. For science.

But the way he wears a hockey uniform is next-level, psychological warfare. He glances back over his shoulder and catches me drooling, deep laugh rumbling through his chest. “Is my favorite out there?” He nods toward the pies.

“Sweet potato?” I ask.

“Of course,” he says.

I nod. “Enough for you to eat your fill.”

He pauses, face growing somber for a fraction of a second before a lopsided grin and dimple return. “Not sure if I could ever get enough.” And then, he walks away.

Infuriating, arrogant, sexy as hell.

And unfortunately, the man who hates Thanksgiving almost as much as I love it.