Page 4 of Skating and Fake Dating
As the Player Assimilation Liaison, I’m a traveling NHL employee for the Western division, and typically work with guys and their families when they’re unexpectedly traded or otherwise experience something like a significant injury that interrupts play—suspension and mid-season trades, for example.
Approaching my temporary cubicle on the main floor, I open the folder, glance at the photo of the man with blue-green eyes under the paperclip, then startle when I look up at that same man sittingonmy desk with his arms crossed, and wearing a stupid, charming smile on his lips.
Carson Crane, with his formidable build, looks comically large, taking up nearly all the space in my cubicleandall the air as it catches in my throat.
CHAPTER 3
BAILEY
My workspace isn’t a chaotic mess, but it doesn’t look like one belonging to any of the other roving staff. I try to keep it professional with my five-piece, coordinating office supplies accessories, including a pen cup, a sticky note holder, a letter tray, and a few other items. But I also personalize it with photos—me in an apple tree at Nanna and Pappa’s, the big family photo from last Christmas, and my one and only Tiny—she’s the greatest of Great Danes. I also have a cute otter tape dispenser that reminds me of home and a candy bowl because who doesn’t like the gal in the office with candy corn? Sure, it’s still technically summer, but blame the Hy-Vee for putting it on display already, not me.
I stop short, the heel of my pump snagging on the industrial carpet. Carson won’t have to catch me this time and I won’t careen into his chest again—which is how I originally got the name Blondie. We will not have a three-peat of him helping me remain upright, thank you very much.
Come on, Bailey, be a boss girl!
His eyebrows lift as he reads the determination on my face.
“Excuse me? Did you come back to comment on my attire again or see whether I changed?”
Arms slung across his chest, he chuckles. “Neither.”
I inwardly want to make faces at him like a child. Why does this man get under my skin while simultaneously staining it the color of tomato sauce?
He glances pointedly at my bare wrist. “I see you’re not often on time.”
“The meeting went late.” I take the last bite of my pastry. “And I missed breakfast.”
“So blue is your favorite color?” His eyes sparkle, accenting that shade more than the green.
“Yes,” I say slowly, cautiously, edging around him as I maneuver to my seat. Despite being on the ice every day, he radiates warmth. My stomach flutters again. I have a quick and strongly worded conversation with my cheeks, ordering them to stand down and remain their normal shade.
Carson pivots to face me. “In case you’re wondering, the punctuation onFridayended abruptly with a full stop. How’s this going to go?”
Snapping to, I realize his file being in my folder can only mean one thing—he’s been traded to a new team pre-season. I steal a peek at him again, worried about what I see. Sadness? Disappointment? Remorse?
His blue-green eyes are flat, like a day that promised sun and fun but clouded over, matching his shirt.
“Maybe Friday would have an exclamation point if you wore a Hawaiian shirt instead of that boring gray button-up.”
He slides his hand down his front as if suddenly self-conscious. “You don’t like it?”
I tip my shoulder up. The man could wear a burlap sack and make it look good. The last breeze of the summer seems to somehow gust in this sealed office building right then, threatening to send me into a full-body flush.
The Knights’ head coach, Tom Badaszek, appears and claps Carson on the back. “Crane, I see you’ve met your new PAL.” The man doesn’t smile, but his words are encouraging.
At least, that’s what I tell myself.
Carson says, “You mean Blondie? We go way back.”
My cheeks go as red as the little candy hearts dotting the buttercream frosting, bacon bits, and drizzle of maple butter on top of the blondies that I brought on the fateful day Carson Crane named me Blondie.
Like some women my age, I became briefly obsessed with cupcakery—my friend Neesha, back home, is the cupcake queen. She mastered her swirls of silky frosting. Even though I’m more of a maple butter and blondies gal myself, I periodically indulge in the desire to use a piping bag and decorate each happy miniature cake with tweezers. However, this occasion demanded my nanna’s famous blondies, which I decorated with panache—not to be confused with ganache, which tends to be grainy rather than smooth when I try to make it.
See, when I start with a new team—or high school club, book group, whatever—I want to make a good impression. And who doesn’t love a gal who brings in baked goods?
Confession: The Knights are only my second team since landing the job as the Player Assimilation Liaison. I’m generally an overachiever, but didn’t do my hockey diet research. The team nutritionist chewed me out for offering the guys empty calories and a diabetes-inducing blood sugar spike.
Then, because I also tend to be clumsy, I tripped and ended up wearing half of the batch of blondie bars, but not before Carson, laughing, sort of caught me, christening me with the nickname Blondie. Tears welled in my eyes and I made a hasty apology and exit. That was the last time I visited that section of the building. Since then, I haven’t once cashed in my all-access employee pass for games.
