Page 72 of Skating and Fake Dating
However, I can’t get the team song “Ice Ice Baby” out of my head. It’s an earworm, but it’s a price I’m willing to pay. Believe it or not, the tune is now in the playlist rotation at the diner.
But there’s no time to pick apart the Bailey-Carson Pucker Up situation because I’ve already sold out of my whipped andinfused apple cinnamon, vanilla bourbon, and pumpkin spice flavors. Thankfully, there’s plenty of the classic and the sleeper hit, blueberry walnut. But it’s only noon.
It might help that we’ve been giving out free samples of fresh sourdough slivers slathered in maple butter, along with blondies that Nanna made topped with the spread. She and Mary-Ellen McCluskey went to her house to get some more stock for the table with the help of the arena’s custodial manager. Word on Main Street is that Mary-Ellen has found love later in life with Murray. My romantic heart swoons.
Carson must be done with his daily shift at the Ice Breaker’s meet and greet table, signing autographs and taking selfies with fans, because he approaches with a purposeful stride. Holding two cups of hot cider, he looks blindingly handsome in a flannel shirt and jeans. The casual outfit is a stark contrast to the polished gentleman in a tux, the hockey star in uniform, when he’s wearing workout gear, or wedding attire, but all versions compete to see which can make my heart race fastest.
Taking the cup, our hands brush, reminding me of when we held hands on the way into the Bash, when we danced, and later when we kissed.
“Thanks for thinking of me.”
His grin reveals his dimple. “Of course.”
“Looks like you recovered from the dunk tank.”
“Clément is wicked when it comes to goal saves, but man, does Marcy have an arm on her.”
“Oh look, there she is now.”
With a wave, she comes over and asks, “How are you feeling after yesterday’s swimming lesson?”
Carson groans, but there’s a smile tugging at his lips. “Don’t remind me. That water was freezing.”
“At least you looked good in those trunks.” The words slip out before I can stop them, and heat rushes to my cheeks. “I mean?—”
Marcy chuckles as Clément strides to her side.
Carson points an accusatory finger at him. “Nine shots and not a single hit. Some teammate you are.”
“I was building suspense. Creating dramatic tension.” Clément bobs his eyebrows.
“You couldn’t hit the broad side of a barn,” Carson counters.
Marcy slides a jar of maple butter closer, examining the label with excessive interest. “The target wasn’t that big.”
“Yet you nailed it on your first try.” I smile at Marcy because, although the dunk tank was all in good fun, sometimes these hockey stars get a little too gloaty for their own good.
Clément mutters something in French, and although my two years of language arts in high school are rusty, I’m quite sure he’s not using an insult. Possibly the opposite in reference to Marcy.
“I’ve never seen anyone move so fast to hug someone who just dunked their teammate,” I say to Clément, raising an eyebrow.
His ears turn pink. “It was a congratulatory hug. Good sportsmanship.”
“Very sportsmanlike,” Carson deadpans. “Especially when the guy in the tank is on your actual team.”
“I got excited,” Clément says with a flourish.
“I think what we learned,” Marcy says, straightening a row of jars so all the labels face in the same direction, “is that accountants have hidden talents.”
Carson rolls his eyes. “And hockey players have fair-weather friends.” He bumps his shoulder against mine. “Except for Bailey here, who at least offered me a towel.”
“And now I’m offering you maple butter. It’s a nice addition to the cider,” I say, handing him a sample on a tiny wooden spoon.
“Sweeter than revenge. Though I haven’t forgotten that you laughed so hard you snorted.”
“I did not snort!” I protest.
“You absolutely snorted,” all three of them say in unison, and we dissolve into laughter that floats up to meet the swirl of autumn leaves above us.
