Chapter 15 Patton
PATTON
As the puck sinks into the goal, my breath comes in white clouds from the frigid air of the outdoor rink.
“Nice hustle, Maverick!” James calls from center ice.
Austin adds, “Save some energy for Saturday.”
I’ve been preparing for the Fire & Ice Fest hockey game all week with extra practice sessions, reviewing plays, and making sure the crew, er, team is ready. We’ve won five years running, and I don’t plan on breaking that streak now.
“Again!” I bark, setting up for another drill.
Hayes groans. “Dude, it’s Tuesday. The game isn’t until the weekend.”
“Which gives us four days to not get sloppy.”
Reese skates over, tapping his stick against mine. “Someone is intense today. What has you so wound up?”
“Nothing. I just want to win.”
Austin glides past. “You always want to win. But you’re extra Maverick today. More grouchy than usual. It’s impressive, really.”
My glare would make lesser men flinch. Austin just looks wildly amused.
“Speaking of Saturday, Winnie is coming to the game, right?”
I keep my expression neutral, focus on adjusting my gloves. “Yes. It’s her job. She works for Parks & Rec. Probably has to handle logistics.”
Scotty grunts.
Austin chortles. “Her watching definitely isn’t the reason you want to win.”
“You want her to see you play.” James waves his stick at me as if he’s just figured out the mysteries of the universe.
“I want everyone to see us win.”
Reese skates in a lazy circle around me. “That’s why you asked three times if she confirmed her attendance.”
“I asked once. For scheduling purposes.”
“You asked me,” Austin says.
“And me,” James adds.
“And Mayor Barbie,” Hayes finishes.
Scotty mumbles, “Who told Winnie, by the way.”
I’m going to murder all of them. Slowly. With hockey sticks. Death by a thousand pucks.
Austin slides to a stop in front of me. “So … about the bet. You’re still good on that, right? No arguing with her?”
I grumble. The stupid bet I agreed to in a moment of competitive stupidity. They think I can’t get through the Fireman’s Ball planning without fighting with Winnie. It’s as good as done. I do not plan on taking all the holiday shifts for a year. Not that I have anything else to do.
“I’m not arguing with her,” I say.
“Because you like her,” James sings-songs.
I shoot the puck so hard that it ricochets off the goal post and nearly takes out Reese’s kneecap.
“Or because if there is one thing Patton Cross is afraid of, it’s holiday shifts.” Austin’s tone is ten degrees past sarcasm.
Hayes asks, “Is he really?”
Scotty elbows him.
I skate off the ice without responding, because anything I say will just give them more ammunition.
The truth is, when I’m around Winnie, I forget how words work. My thoughts dart in different directions. I can’t think.
The thing that I thought was permanently frozen inside of me is thawing, just a tad.
I brought her coffee and a doughnut hole on Valentine’s Day.
I couldn’t stop thinking about her and then we were locked in my office together—an honest mistake on my part.
Whether Austin is in matchmaking cahoots with Joyce is another question altogether—she probably wants to pitch him a dating show.
It would be about firefighters finding love.
She’d call it Sparks Fly! I’ve been hearing rumblings around town about this mad idea.
My thoughts instantly dart back to earlier that evening, in the dim light of the cottage, Winnie and I were so close, I could almost imagine our lips meeting.
The truth is, I’m in trouble.
That afternoon at the old firehouse, I’m mercifully alone, working on finishing the live-edge wood bar top by the windows. The space is coming together with classic firehouse charm mixed with modern bakery equipment, with a nod to our mountain environment. Captain Kendrick would’ve loved this.
The front door creaks open.
“We’re not open yet—” I turn and stop.
Winnie stands in the doorway, backlit by the late-day sun, holding a container that I’d bet money contains brownies.
“Hi,” she says, slightly breathless, like she walked fast. “Sorry to just show up. My grandmother insisted I bring you brownies. She said, and I quote, ‘I know Patton liked them better than Judy’s, and he’s working too hard.’”
I wipe my hands on my jeans, aware that I’m covered in sawdust and probably look like I’ve been rolling around in a lumber yard. “Or she wants my vote at the next Summer Street Fair baking contest.”
“That too.” Winnie steps inside, looking around. “Wow. This place has really transformed since yesterday.”
“Austin has been banned from all door-related tasks, so progress has accelerated.”
She laughs, and the sound echoes in the relatively empty space, warming it—and me—up.
I take the container she offers. “Thanks. Tell Joyce I appreciate it.”
“I will.”
Winnie doesn’t leave, though. Instead, she wanders toward my makeshift desk area, where vendor paperwork is spread out. After getting locked in the office, I moved operations down here for now. Also, it saves me from hoofing it up and down the stairs fifty times a day.
“Looks like you’re drowning in administrative work.”
“You’re not wrong.”
She picks up a form and scans it with sharp brown eyes. “Patton.” She turns to face me fully, and my attention snags on the beauty mark above her lip, the one I definitely don’t notice every time I see her.
“Let me help. It’s the least I can do after you fixed my grandmother’s light yesterday.”
“You don’t owe me anything.” I heft the container. “Plus, brownies.”
She rolls her eyes. “I want to help.”
I hedge, but if I know Winnie at all, it’s that she’s stubborn and won’t move now that she’s planted herself on the stool by my makeshift workspace.
“The office is quieter.” I point toward the second floor.
“I don’t hear any jackhammers and I’m happy to work down here in case I have questions.”
“Don’t want to take any chances with the door situation?”
But what about taking a chance on me, on us? My pulse stutters. I ought to send that thought back to wherever it came from. I give my head a hard shake.
Thankfully, she doesn’t know about the detour my brain just took as she reviews all the papers, quotes, invoices, and who knows what that’s been building up.
I should argue. I should tell her I don’t need help, that I can handle this alone like I do everything else.
However, the paperwork is endless, and she’s already calling a supplier. I realize I don’t want to argue. And not just to win the bet so I can avoid a year of holiday shifts. I want her here.
“Fine. But don’t blame me if you want to pull your hair out.” Her hair is so silky, so shiny. Or I’ve inhaled too much polyurethane. I return to applying the protective finish to the wood.
We work in comfortable silence for a while, broken only by her occasional phone calls and my sandpaper against wood.
She asks me a few questions about flour weights and when I shrug, clueless, she explains the different types used for baking and pasta.
I worry that I’m burdening her and as if reading my mind, she says, “I grew up in the kitchen of a restaurant. Vendor paperwork is basically my second language.”
“I thought that was Italian?”
“Sì. But I started working at the restaurant when I was around eight years old. Dad put me on a step stool to roll meatballs. I thought I was so important.”
I recall her sitting alone in her car and working late.
Wonder if there is a man who sees how important she is.
How special. If he appreciates her. However, this town has one big collective fat mouth, and I happen to officially know that Winnie is single.
Otherwise, I wouldn’t have brought her a Valentine’s Day treat.
“I bet you were.”
She laughs. “I made terrible meatballs. Too big. My Nonna said they were like cannonballs. But eventually, I got the hang of it.”
I can picture tiny Winnie, eyes fixed with concentration, rolling misshapen meatballs while her grandmother watched with patient love. “I bet you were cute.”
Her hair falls in front of her face and I wonder if my comment made her blush. Then we go quiet again, returning to our tasks for another hour, at least.
“Do you still cook?” I eventually ask, getting hungry for dinner.
“The plan was someday to take over the restaurant, but—”
“But that’s not your calling?”
“I don’t think so. I love it, don’t get me wrong. But it’s all I ever did. I mean, I wouldn’t object. I’m not exactly passionate about Parks & Recreation, but I like serving the community.”
“Restaurants do that too.”
She tips her head from side to side. “The restaurant is my parents’ entire life.
I try to keep things balanced. -Ish.” She pauses, eyes following my movements, before she says, “Your father was a smoke jumper, so why aren’t you?
” Her question isn’t a challenge, but maybe my answer will help her understand her own decisions.
“I was.”
“Oh.”
Emotion rushes toward me. What do I do?