Chapter 7 #2
I head to join him, Jake, and Van, slipping right past the girl that was about to make her move. Looks like management pushed a couple of tables together for us.
“What can I bring you, sweetie?” a waitress asks me in a rusty voice.
She’s middle-aged and super pretty, but her expression is like she just stepped in something, and I can tell she doesn’t want to call me sweetie.
One of my many fans, then.
“A Coke, please,” I tell her. “And a couple orders of wings, hot.”
“Coming right up,” she says, rolling her eyes.
“A Coke?” Van asks from across the table. “Are you up past your bedtime, little girl?”
The truth is that I don’t usually drink when I’m in training, but I don’t want to say that and sound like I think I’m better than anyone.
So I just shrug instead.
“He’s messing with you, fifty-eight,” Sokolov says, gesturing to Van’s glass. “That’s ginger ale.”
Van raises it to me and then knocks back a sip.
“Coke,” the waitress says in her rusty voice, thunking my drink down on the table in front of me hard enough that some of it sloshes over the sides.
“Thank you,” I tell her. “What’s your name?”
She pauses and I brace myself because I suddenly have this awful feeling that she’s going to slap me.
“Brenna,” she says at last.
“Thank you, Brenna,” I tell her. “I’m Caleb. I’m new on the team.”
“Oh, I know who you are,” she laughs as she walks away. But she sounds very slightly less mad at me.
“People here don’t like you,” Sokolov says, like he’s confiding something I don’t know. “They wanted their championship.”
“I get it,” I admit.
I don’t like me much either, at least not the version of me that burned down my dreams. Sometimes, I wish one of those mean looks would just turn into the slap I know I deserve. It would be easier than actually being a better person.
Maybe I’ve been saving up all the good parts of myself for Daisy.
But I know that’s a coward’s excuse. Plenty of parents with kids more challenged than my daughter go to work every day and handle themselves better than I did. And I had every advantage in the world.
“Are you planning to mess things up again, Stone?” Van asks, leaning forward. He’s big enough to knock my head right off my shoulders if he wanted to, and I’m finding myself thankful in this moment that he’s also one of the nicest guys on the team.
“Nope,” I tell him sincerely. I leave out the part about how I hadn’t been planning on doing it last time.
“You’re lucky to be here, you know?” Sokolov says.
“I know,” I say. “I know I’m lucky.”
“It doesn’t show,” Jake says suddenly.
This is the first thing he’s said since I sat down. And I guess he’s been wanting to say it for a while. Jake’s a good guy, a natural leader. The other guys might be hazing me. But Jake wouldn’t say something like that just to razz me.
“It’s been hard to gel,” I say carefully. “Feels like we’re not all on the same team sometimes.”
“If you can’t take the heat,” Sokolov says, shrugging.
Brenna and another server come out with steaming trays of food and the other guys come back to the table in a hurry. It’s quiet for a few minutes while we wolf down some calories.
Only Beaumont is still by the bar, chatting up the girl that stayed behind. Her friend has returned, but she showed her true colors already, and he’s not giving her any attention now. She just looks bored.
“He’s always chasing tail,” Van says quietly, noticing me looking.
“But does he ever catch it?” Sokolov quips, his eyes dancing.
I would have guessed he did. Much as I hate him, Beaumont’s a good-looking guy. But he eventually slinks back to the table and starts eating mozzarella sticks.
“Oh, buddy,” a couple of guys call out in mock sympathy.
“She’s got a boyfriend,” he mutters, scowling.
“They always do,” Sokolov tells me sagely.
After that, everyone pretty much ignores me. It’s good to sit with them though, and hear them talk and joke with each other. And I’m glad they don’t put me on the spot. I figure I’m better off keeping my mouth shut if I don’t want to mess up this chance they’re giving me to be part of things.
A different girl comes up to me at one point, giggling, her friends at a table in the corner smiling and watching intently.
“Hey,” she says, blushing deeply.
She’s cute, but I’m not in the market for a girl right now.
Unless it’s the one who lives right upstairs, an unhelpful voice in the back of my head points out.
“Hey there,” I say. “Can we help with something?”
“You’re Caleb Stone,” she says. “You’re famous.”
“Infamous,” Van mumbles.
“I think you want to talk to Beaumont,” I tell her, pointing at my blond teammate across the table. “He had a great season last year.”
Beaumont scowls at me suspiciously, but when he sees the girl looking, his expression melts into a cocky smile.
“Hey,” he says to her. “You a hockey fan?”
“Excuse me a moment,” I say, slipping up from the table to give Beaumont his shot.
I head to the bathroom alcove and slip my phone out of my pocket.
Still nothing from Mom, but I’ve got a follow suggestion on BeeBop. I click on The Flour Girl just to kill time.
The profile pic is just a cupcake. And the first video is a pair of hands frosting a cupcake. But something about it is familiar.
I’m just realizing that those are the yellow and pink daisy cupcakes Liv made when the camera angle changes and I see it’s Liv herself.
She’s wearing an apron and her hair is up in a messy ponytail, but her smile is so genuine that I think she just might be the most beautiful woman on the internet.
This is Liv’s only online presence?
I watch the whole thing, loving the straightforward and encouraging way she talks about baking.
Then I watch the next one. And the next one.
She’s got a real gift. Her confections are incredible, and so creative.
And the way she talks to the camera is really warm and friendly.
That guarded look she has with me is gone, and I feel like she’s right here in this alcove with me, promising me that I have what it takes to make something tasty that will make people happy when they see it, and even happier when they taste it.
“Stone,” a rusty voice says suddenly.
I almost drop my phone and turn to see Brenna is standing behind me, holding out a slip of paper.
“Don’t even think about trying to climb out the bathroom window without paying this,” she says.
Maybe they’re closing up, but it’s pretty early, and it’s weird that she came back here for me instead of just dropping my check at the table along with everyone else’s.
I head back out to find that the bar is still in full swing, but my teammates are all gone.
“They opened a tab under the name Mr. Bigleague,” Brenna explains. “I guess that’s you.”
She presses the check into my hand and marches away, and I can’t help but smile as I pull out my wallet.
They stuck me with the bill. I should have seen that one coming.
And hey, maybe they think they got one over on me, but I still think tonight was progress.
Or maybe I’m just feeling good about my recent discovery of The Flour Girl.