The Winger and the Wife (Seattle Emeralds Hockey #3)

Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

Hailey

The robotic voice from my phone tells me I’ve arrived at the house where I’m delivering a large order from a local wings place, complete with sodas and desserts.

Except the GPS always says I’m at my destination when I’m really two or three doors away, so I slow down, squinting at the houses on my right, trying to make out the house numbers in the fading August twilight.

Someone’s having a late dinner tonight, but the tip on this order was already good, and there’s a note in the app that says they’re known to tip extra for good service, so I made a point to text updates while I waited and on the way here.

I’ve been at this for a few hours already tonight, and I really have to pee. I’ll pause my orders after this delivery, make a quick pit stop at a gas station for the bathroom and a snack before resuming my deliveries.

My car makes a concerning shudder as I park in front of a large house, and I pat it on the dashboard.

“Come on, little car. You’re a good car.

We can’t have problems, though. There’s no room in the budget for that.

” As it is, I’ll just barely scrape enough together to pay my portion of the rent and electricity.

I need a few more good deliveries like this, and I’ll be able to pay Whitney, my roommate, once the money hits my bank account on Monday.

I would’ve done more food delivery, but I had a gig coming up that I needed to prepare for. Except it got canceled last minute, leaving me a few hundred dollars short. Which I absolutely did not need.

I park on the street, even though there’s plenty of room in the broad, curved driveway for me to pull in.

I always feel weird parking in people’s driveways when I’m doing food delivery, even though I do it anyway when there’s not really another option.

But with the fancy houses like this? I don’t want to risk my little Pontiac Vibe suddenly springing a leak somewhere and getting it all over their fancy concrete, despite the fact that there are no cars in the driveway and there’s room for a whole fleet.

The cars are probably all parked in either the double garage in front of the driveway or the smaller single garage off to the side of it.

Between the lush landscaping—green grass and gorgeous blooms in all the flower beds—and the large half-brick house with columns spaced along the large front porch to support the peaked roof with its large dormer windows over the main entrance and the garages, I can see why this house is known for tipping well.

Though, to be fair, some of the fanciest houses can be the stingiest with tips.

I almost got stuck in a no-turn-around driveway in the winter because I accepted a cheap order without realizing where I’d end up.

I hadn’t been delivering long at that point, and I hadn’t quite worked out the finer points of knowing when to accept and when to decline an order.

I should’ve declined that one. Especially since they certainly could’ve—and should’ve—tipped more than $2.

75 to take food all the way out to their snow-packed, tree-lined, gated driveway, knowing I wouldn’t be able to turn around and would have to back up a hill to get back to the road. Fuckers.

“At least these people know how to tip,” I murmur as I collect the food out of my insulated bag and head up to the door. Despite not being a high-mileage order, the guaranteed pay is close to twenty dollars. I did have to wait a bit longer than I like at the restaurant, but sometimes it’s worth it.

I set the food on the front step and click through the delivery pages on the app, noticing they want me to hand the food to them.

After ringing the doorbell—a Ring camera, of course—I pick up the food and step back, pasting on my best customer service smile and forcing myself not to do a pee pee dance.

“Please hurry, please hurry, please hurry,” I whisper, clamping my mouth shut when the door opens.

It’s a good thing, too, because if I hadn’t, my jaw might’ve dropped.

The hottest guy I’ve seen in a long time opens the door, a polite smile on his face.

“Hey! Thanks so much.” He pushes open the storm door and reaches for the food, but freezes before he takes the bags.

“Hey, wait a sec. You look familiar. Do I know you?”

Bouncing a little, because I really do have to pee, I shake my head. “I don’t think so.” Though I have to admit, he looks familiar to me, too. I try to remember the name in the app, but I’m drawing a blank. “I think I just have one of those faces.”

But he shakes his head slowly, studying my face, squinting a little. “No … no. We’ve definitely met before.” Then he snaps his fingers. “Hang on. Aren’t you Hailey? Hailey MacKay?”

He actually pronounces my name correctly—like MacEye. My grandpa insisted that was correct, as passed down from his own grandfather who moved to the US from Scotland in the late 1800s. Everyone else always says MacKay like it rhymes with hay.

And that gives me pause. Enough that I can’t deny that’s my name. Frowning, I shake my head. “Sorry. I don’t think I know you.” I know my first name and first initial of my last name show up on the app, but the fact that he actually knows my last name and said it correctly? How would he know that?

“Yeah! It is you! It’s me. Jason. Jason Chalmers? It’s been ages! I probably should’ve texted that I was in town, but I wasn’t sure where you were these days. And my folks aren’t exactly living in Poynette anymore either.”

Some weird mix of relief, grief, and apprehension washes over me. “Oh, uh, yeah. Hey. Yeah. I went to college in Appleton, but I’m over here because being closer to Madison is better for work.”

“Right. Music. How’s that going?”

I let out a self-deprecating chuckle. “Uh, it’s going. But, y’know, sometimes you need a few extra bucks, so …” I hold up the bags of food, and he seems to shake himself back to awareness.

“Oh! Right. Sorry. Yeah. Hey, do you have a minute? You should come in. Catch up. I couldn’t decide what I wanted, so I got a little bit of everything that sounded good and planned to have leftovers, so there’s plenty of food if you’re hungry.”

I start shaking my head automatically, but manage to force a smile.

“Oh, no, that’s not necessary.” I hook a thumb over my shoulder, grateful to be relieved of the food.

“I need to get back to work. Rent’s due, after all!

” I toss out the last as I’m turning, startled by a hand on my arm stopping me.

I follow the hand up to Jason’s concerned face. “Are you in trouble? Do you need help?”

Shrugging off his hand, I force that smile back into place.

I know why he’s offering, and maybe it’s pride, or maybe it’s stupidity, but I can’t take more of his money than what’s normal for tipping your delivery driver, though if being his childhood best friend’s little sister makes him feel a little extra generous, I won’t complain.

“I’m good,” I reassure him. “Just a few more deliveries, and I’m done for the night. Good to see you, though!”

“Hailey, hang on,” he calls after me, but I just wave again over my shoulder and head for my car.

As I climb in, I glance up to see him watching me from the front porch, arms crossed over his broad chest, his white T-shirt pulled tight over his shoulders.

Jason Chalmers was always athletic. He and my brother used to work out together, even though they played different sports.

Jason was always a hockey guy, and my brother played football.

They did the same weightlifting class in high school, though.

They’d been friends since elementary school.

They were in school together since kindergarten, when Jason and his family moved back to Poynette from wherever they’d been before.

I was just a baby then, so it wasn’t like I was paying attention.

But they were best friends, with Jason at our house as often as Hunter was at his until I was twelve.

I mentally shy away from thinking about that time. Everything changed once Hunter got sick. And after he died … my parents still barely say his name, even all these years later. It’s like they’d prefer to forget they ever had a son, at least at home.

A few years after he passed, my mom got involved with a charity researching treatments for glioblastomas, but even with that, she only talks about Hunter when she’s doing it as a fundraising effort.

I haven’t seen Jason since I was in middle school.

At some point, he moved to Canada to play hockey.

Even after that, though, he’d come see me when he was home visiting his parents.

His visits with me never lasted long, though.

He was practically an adult, and I was still pimply and awkward, and my parents always seemed uncomfortable when he came over.

He took me out for ice cream once, which I remember liking because then my dad wasn’t glaring at him the whole time.

After I got my own phone, he’d text me a few times a year, usually on my birthday, Christmas, and the anniversary of Hunter’s death.

He still does, actually. It’s sort of a ritual.

But it’s always very surface-level interactions where he says, “Happy Birthday!” or “Merry Christmas!” or “Thinking of you,” and I respond, “Thanks,” or “You too.” Because what else is there to say?

Sure, I saw him all the time when I was little, but he was five years older than me. We didn’t chat or hang out. I was the little sister. It’s not like we really knew each other.

I suppose I could’ve tried harder. Asked him how things were going with him. But … I wasn’t ever really sure why he bothered texting me at all anyway.

Climbing back into my car, I put the key in the ignition and turn it, saying a silent prayer to the gods of car engines that it’ll start without a problem, breathing out a sigh of relief when it does.

It all goes tits up when I put it in gear, though. Something grinds, and when I push on the gas pedal, the car lurches forward about a foot before coming to an abrupt halt. Pressing the gas only revs the engine, but it doesn’t go anywhere.

“Come on, come on, come on,” I plead. I have to pee, and Jason’s watching, and what am I gonna do without a car?

Even apart from food delivery, which is the only thing keeping my bank account in the black right now, I can’t get to gigs or lessons if I don’t have a car!

I put the car in park, then back in drive, and try again, but still nothing. It’s not moving. “Fuck!” I hiss, turning off the car to turn it on again.

That’s what you do with computers when they’re acting up, right? My dad works in tech, and that’s always been his go-to first step. If something’s being dumb, try turning it off and on again.

But that changes nothing, and if I didn’t know it didn’t work for electronics either, I’d say I need to be put in a bag of rice to dry out because I’m about to start crying.

I nearly jump out of my skin—and almost pee my pants—when there’s a knock at my window.

Jason’s sympathetic face is there, and he motions for me to lower the window. Instead, I turn the car off again and open the door. “Looks like you’re having some trouble,” he says. “Do you need to call a tow truck?”

My lower lip starts trembling as I realize, yes, I probably do.

“Looks like you have a little time to catch up after all.” He offers me an encouraging smile and hooks a thumb over his shoulder. “You can wait inside for the tow. And the offer to share my wings is still open.”

Sighing in defeat, I dash a rogue tear from my cheek and nod. “Thanks, Jason,” I say, my voice raspy. “I think you’re right.”

He straightens, glancing over his shoulder to make sure I’m following him as he heads for the front door.

Some night this is turning out to be. I’ve run into a few people I know delivering food, but never someone from my childhood. For it to be Jason …

I’m not even sure what to think right now. But something tells me this night will make for a good story, even if it ends up wrecking me in the process.