Page 7 of Fated Shot

Coach Cameron, Beverly Cameron, and squeezed between them, smiling wider than I’ve ever seen, Mia Cameron. I can’t understand how I didn’t make the connection before. Coach always talked about his ‘little Amelia,’ a relative term obviously, since the girl ahead of me has to be in her twenties. She looks just like her mom, vibrant dark blonde hair and bright eyes, though she’s much taller and a hell of a lot curvier. As I take in the view ahead of me, I notice her looking toward us, offering apolite smile as the camera flashes one last time before hurrying off with her family.

The boys and I take a few pictures and make our way off the ice. As we exit, we meet up with the remainder of the Brooks clan, Nancy and Neill. Nancy wraps me in a giant embrace immediately, then plants a warm kiss on my cheek.

I smile, “It’s so good to see you Mrs. Brooks.”

“Oh, will you stop with that? Always so formal.” She rolls her eyes. “It’s so wonderful to see you too, honey, we’ve missed you.” Nancy Brooks has one of the biggest hearts of anyone I’ve ever met, second only to my mom. Probably why they were so close—kindred spirits those two.

The greetings continue with an outstretched hand from Neill, a man of immense stature who has one of the most commanding presences that I’ve ever witnessed. No doubt where Penn and Reid got their builds from. Neill Brooks, however, was never much for athletics, more of an intellectual. I always remember him cooped in his study, staring at stacks of papers and occasionally punching numbers into his calculator. Even as a kid, I admired him. So respectable, a family man, working hard at a desk job and always making time to join family dinners or watch our games.

I learned when I was older that Neill Brooks, number puncher, was the CFO of a development firm. He wasn’t your typical accountant. Their generosity and comfortable life made a lot more sense when I connected those dots. Reid takes after his dad, a presence about him and a quiet air of leadership. He was always stronger and faster than I was, but I never saw him as competition, more of someone to aspire to. Penn is all Nancy, the life of the party and a heart of gold.

“Good to see you, kid,” Neill offers as I take his hand and shake firmly, like he taught me and Reid at fourteen.

I nod, “So happy you were able to make it, Sir.”

We start to make our way out of the arena as Nancy loops her arm through mine and slows her pace. I hold her hand on my arm and match my steps with hers, a difficult feat considering she’s barely pushing five foot two. With her naturally cheery disposition and round face, she perfectly embodies maternal energy, radiating warmth and suspiciously always smelling like cinnamon buns.

Once we are a few feet behind the three Brooks men, who are passionately debating the best route to take to the restaurant, she leans toward my ear and whispers, “So, when were you going to tell me about the girl?”

Giving me a knowing look, with eyebrows raised, there’s nothing I can do but chuckle. Nothing gets past Nancy Brooks, but I attempt to play it cool, “Which one?”

She laughs as she rolls her eyes comically, sarcasm doesn’t come naturally to her. “The only one you couldn’t keep your eyes off today.”

I do my best to maintain a casual tone and brush it off as nothing more than offering help to someone who was going to fall on the ice. She looks at me unconvincingly and leaves me with a, “Sure, dear,” patting me on the arm as we continue forward to join the others.

Chapter 5

Mia

The drive back to Wyndham after the game was bittersweet. The feeling of being out of the city, roads starting to wind, buildings getting further spaced apart, and trees cluttering the view is one of my favorites. Taking the usual exit, I pull to a stop at the light, looking at the town ahead of me. The end of summer is always hard, knowing I’m leaving my favorite corner of the world. I try to shake off the thoughts of saying goodbye to Wyndham, though.

“It’s going to be great,” I state as if saying it out loud would convince me. I’ve done it before, and I can do it again. Another new city where my only friends are my parents and Bean, awesome and not at all sad and pathetic.

I have one final weekend at the cottage, and I’m determined to enjoy it. I’ve already started to pack up the boat house, as Bean has been living his cardboard box dream. The sun is setting, showcasing the pier, still flooded with people. The few restaurants in town have back patios overlooking the lake and are usually filled to the brim in the evenings. I love seeing our little town come to life, but very few get a chance to experience it in its true beauty, while it’s sleepy and tranquil. I continue driving across the one-lane bridge that traverses the small channel looping through Main Street. The orange glow of the sky deepens as the sun dips below the treeline, and after a fewminutes, my headlights are the only thing illuminating the remaining route as I make the final turn on our street.

The porch lights are on and illuminating my path, though the inside of the main house remains dark. I definitely beat them home. The second I popped off the ice, I hugged my parents and nearly ran out of the rink, saying that I wanted to get home to Bean. Definitely was not running from a handsome, heroic stranger with life-saving reflexes. I stopped for a tank of gas, grabbed a snack and lemonade, and continued to power through the drive. Pulling past the house, I continue navigating ahead to the shining beacon in the distance, thanking myself for leaving all the lights on for Bean when I left early this morning. It’s been a long day. It hits me the moment I walk inside and flop onto the couch next to my snuggled-up kitty. Looking around my little studio space, all the packing I’m going to have to do over the next few days floods my thoughts. I don’t dare to get a head start, though. Instead, I zap my leftovers in the microwave, flip on the TV, and fall asleep to Brooklyn Nine-Nine.

When my morning alarm goes off, Bean sleepily opens one eye to stare at me until I hit the End button that lights up my phone screen. He stretches, circles once, and sinks his head back down to fall asleep.

I love mornings. Springing off the couch, I head to the kitchen island and open my laptop. It takes just a moment to pull up the backend of my website. Saturdays are when I release the weekly menu for Cookie & Co. After hitting publish and waiting for the notification that it’s live, I enable the pre-orders.

Less than a minute later, a caching sound rings out, which is the first order of the day. Smiling like a goof at my screen, I still can’t believe this is my life. With a degree in Business Administration specializing in Marketing, I had envisioned joining the corporate world after graduating.Instead, I spend my Saturdays launching my new menu, my Wednesdays and Thursdays baking, and Fridays shipping orders.

I appreciate the routine, and there is nothing more that I love doing. In university, orders would come in around the clock, and it became hard to keep up, but I managed, knowing I just had to hustle until I had a steady stream of loyal customers.

This summer, I decided, was the perfect time to try out a new business model. The boat house is functional but certainly is not a professional kitchen, and I’d felt bad at the thought of taking over Mom and Dad’s space every time a new order came in and I needed a full kitchen.

I still remember back to the first time I posted about converting to weekly releases. I was a wreck the entire morning of the first pre-order opening, sitting in my booth at Cordelia’s. Descending into the chaos and worry that is my brain, I was writing down a few ideas for an apology post that would retract my dumb new business model, fully expecting to crash and burn. A ding rang out across the café, notifying me that we’d sold out. I’m pretty sure I squealed in excitement, out loud.

To start, I’d arranged for the possibility of forty boxes of cookies filled with a variety of my weekly menu to be available to purchase. Since then, I’ve upped my availability to eighty boxes weekly, and with the double ovens at the big house, I’m able to get everything prepped, baked, and packaged in two days, just in time to make it to the post office and ship them off. I’ve never felt more fulfilled, and with my minimal costs, I was actually able to afford a semi-decent place in the city.

Two more cachings ring out before I carefully shut my laptop, grab my apron, and make my way to the big house. I let myself in through the back door knowing both Mom and Dad would have come in late last night and are probably getting some much-needed rest before the day ahead.

My contribution to the big Bev and Doug Cameron Barbecue Bash is, of course, cookies. I loop the apron over my head and tie the string carefully around my waist as I begin prepping. By the time I finish up the dough for the four flavors—Mocha Chocolate Chip, Red Velvet, Oreo Overload, and Funfetti—I'm really hoping there's something for everyone. With only two dozen of each flavor, and the bowls now resting in the fridge, I've got plenty of time to head into town for a coffee.

As the bell above me dings, I walk into Cordelia’s, greeted with a huge smile from Harold. My eyes drift over to my available booth, the café looking more empty than usual. The cottage season is coming to a close, I guess. As I wait for my order, I can’t stop myself from thinking back to meeting Jack. I wonder if he’s coming tonight? A flutter starts in my stomach and I command myself to chill out. A cute guy looked at me during a hockey game and just so happened to save me from falling on my butt in front of an entire hockey team and their friends and family. Crazier things happen every day. But there was definitely a moment, right? We had a moment… I think.

I now can’t freaking get his gorgeous face, massive arms, and six-foot-something body out of my mind. It’s the oldest story in the book, the coach’s daughter falls for one of the players on the team. I have to physically hold myself back from rolling my own eyes. Earth to Mia, you are not in a romance novel. A professional hockey player is not going to fall head over heels in love with you. He looked at you once, and your antisocial, awkward butt said one word. Well, not even a word really, your own name, then thanked him for catching you and then proceeded to flee the scene. Smooth as always.

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