Page 1 of Slapshot & Sweet Potato
Chapter
One
WENDY
“Never thought I’d perfect the art of pie stacking,” Cassandra giggles as we load the back of the bakery van for the Desperadoes’ youth league event, Pucks and Pies.
“Comes with the territory when your bestie’s a baker.”
“Will you be bringing some of these bad boys to Thanksgiving?” she asks, throwing her long brown curls over her shoulder and eyeing me with her piercing baby blues.
Cassandra and her new hockey player boyfriend, Liam, are hosting, which means there’s a high possibility I’ll have to see Wallace “Slapshot” Lemoille. Ugh!
“What’s that frown for?”
“Just thinking about the sacrifices I make for my BFF?—”
“You mean, having to hang out with?—”
“The most insufferable, egotistical man on the face of the earth.” The corners of my mouth turn down.
“Wait,” Cassandra says, scrunching her eyebrows. “I thought that was George.”
George. My cheating ex. Hate that guy. But still, he’s not nearly as annoying or obnoxious as Wallace. “I haven’t seenGeorge since the breakup,” I counter. “He’s been too much of a coward to meet up in person for me to return his belongings and vice versa. Maybe that’s why I’m hating on him less these days.”
She laughs. “So, you’re seriously still dropping off and picking things up at his storage unit?”
“Yep. Peak maturity,” I deadpan, loading another pie carrier.
Cass snorts. “Thirty going on thirteen.”
“Well, we both know he wasthatin droves.”
I snort laugh, then cover my mouth, cheeks glowing.
Cassandra giggles. “George is much worse than Wallace, though.”
I pause mid-air, carrier in hand. “And your point?”
“I don’t get what the deal is with you two.”
“Good old-fashionedantagonism.” I shrug. No other word for it. “Cass, I promised I wouldn’t let it get awkward now that you’ve hooked up with his best friend, but don’t expect me to like Wallace or anything.”
“That’s the problem,” she replies, handing me another bag. “I think youdo. More than you’re willing to admit.”
I huff a laugh. “What are we, in high school again or something?”
She presses her thick, pink lips into a thin line. “Just my opinion.”
“Well, it’s wrong,” I say too emphatically.
Her eyes spark, more curious than convinced.
Inside the van, Cass fiddles with the dial until Eartha Kitt’s “Santa Baby” fills the van. We belt the lyrics like backup singers on a sugar high.
At the rink, we pull up to the team entrance, and a couple of rink staff members come out to help with unloading.
“Want to come inside and see the full setup?” Coach Xander asks.
