by Julie Cross
Tate reaches behind me, easily finding the strings to my apron and pulling them into a bow. “See? I’m handy. Just don’t corner me in the storeroom and we’ll be fine.”
For the first time in I don’t know how many days—it feels like forever—I’m laughing. I shake my head, completely confused and amused. “Okay, goalie boy. You are totally going to regret this.”
He places his hand on the doorknob and opens it. “Ten bucks says I don’t.”
...
I wipe sweat from my forehead and skid into the kitchen, snatching two orders Manny has finished filling. I’ve never seen a post-game rush this big before, not even after a winning night like tonight. It’s after midnight and we’re still serving food. We’re packed, so there’s no closing the kitchen on time tonight. From a business standpoint, it’s great—especially with Late Night at O’Connor’s having been on hold for two weekends in a row. But my huge to-do list is calling out to me. I wrote it on the ride from Minneapolis and pinned it onto the bulletin board in the office, but I’ve been waiting tables nearly the entire night, not even able to look at it again, let alone complete any tasks.
Table twelve is eagerly awaiting their food when I drop the orders in front of them. I fly past the bar, shouting to Petey. “Another Guinness and a Bud Light for twelve.”
I look around for Tate, but he’s nowhere in sight. I haven’t seen him in the dining room for at least two hours. Maybe he got tired and went home out the kitchen door. I don’t blame him. He had a game tonight. He’s probably exhausted. And bored. Doing inventory isn’t exactly the most exciting job. Plus it’s freezing in the storeroom.
“I think we’re ready to order drinks,” one guy at the table says before they’re all even seated.
I force a smile. “Of course you are. Go ahead.”
Petey is done with twelve’s beers when I hand over the new drink orders.
A couple of minutes later, Mike Steller walks in, glancing around until his gaze lands on me. My body tenses. Several tables have noticed Mike’s presence, and whispered conversations break out. I take a breath and cross the room to stand in front of Mike. A few people even glare in our direction.
“Wow, the place is hopping tonight.” Mike taps his fingers on the wooden hostess stand and ignores the buzz all around us. “I heard your dad is doing a little better?”
I nod, feeling the relief from this morning all over again, when I’d watched that tube come out of his throat. “Yeah, he’s coming around. We’ll know more in the next few days. What are you doing here so late?”
He shrugs. “Just got off work. Leo told me Tanley was here, so I figured I’d stop by, see how he’s doing.”
Mike’s voice drops to nearly a whisper when he mentions Leo and Tate. Guess Bakowski still has his Mike Steller ban up and running.
And me, well, I’m frozen to the spot, not sure what to say. Maybe Tate left. But if he didn’t, am I supposed to say he’s not here? I know Tate thinks he and Haley are done, I just don’t know if she and especially the rest of the town knows this. I’ve been too preoccupied to really think about what the kiss in the storeroom could turn me into—the other woman.
“Relax.” Mike looks me over and laughs. “I’m glad you guys are hanging out. Or whatever you’re doing.”
“Hanging out. That’s all.” My face heats up. “Oh…yeah, so I’ll go see if Tate’s still around.” I point to a booth near the back. “You might want to hide out over there.”
I head past the bar, toward the kitchen doors, and call over my shoulder to Petey. “Can you close out three and four for me? Pretty please?”
Petey fake sighs, like super lazy, then flashes me a grin.
The second I’m out of the dining room and in the kitchen, I hear the sound of a drill coming from the office. I sprint down the hall. Tate is kneeling on the desk, a power drill in his right hand. My eyes widen. “What are you doing? I told you to count stuff in the storeroom!”
He glances over at me and smiles like this isn’t totally ruining my night. “How’s it going out there? Still busy?”
“It’s fine.” I shake my head. “Why are you putting holes in our wall?”
Tate hops down from the desk and grabs a piece of wood leaning against the wall. “This shelf was sitting here and there was a Post-it here…” He taps the wall above the desk. “It said, new shelf here. So I figured I’d put the new shelf here.” He scratches the back of his head. “Bad idea?”
“That’s been there for months,” I say. “Since my dad…”
“I figured.” He nods. “All the more reason to get it done.”
“I guess.” I blow out a breath and stand there watching him set the wood in place, creating a perfectly level shelf. Then he uses a mini-broom to brush the dust from the desk. “Did the inventory get boring?”
He snatches a few sheets of paper from on top of the file cabinet and holds them out for me. “I finished that a while ago.” He pops open the laptop and spins it to face me. “I also entered the numbers into the spreadsheet labeled inventory, so you might not need those papers.”
I lift an eyebrow and Tate manages to look a little guilty. “You really shouldn’t use your birthday for a password.”
He knows my birthday?
My gaze travels to the wall with the bulletin board where I pinned my long to-do list. I walk closer and look it over. Tate has crossed off seven items. “Did you really Google recipes for Irish potato soup?”
He spins again and hands me a stack of printed pages.
I give the papers a quick glance and then place them on the desk. Okay, so I’m in shock. I didn’t even think he’d get through inventory. I knew he could take toasters apart but I didn’t know he could enter stuff and print stuff and build stuff. What else don’t I know about Tate Tanley?
I have no choice but to reach into my apron and hand over a ten-dollar bill.
Tate takes the money from me, smirking the whole time he’s removing his wallet and placing the bill inside. “Impressed you, huh?”
Um, yes. “Do you have a bunch of elves shoved in a closet or something? They hopped out and went around fixing things?”
“Yeah, we call them the JV hockey team. They were in here a while ago, doing all your chores.” He steps closer, his gaze flitting to the open door and back to me. My heart gives a quick thud, thud. “I sent them over to your house to fold your underwear.”
“Funny.” My neck gets hot, just looking at him this close up. I back away a step, but my heel makes contact with the wall and I can’t go any farther. My throat turns dry.
Tate places a hand on the wall beside my head. My arms are pinned at my sides, my heart so loud the dining room noise is nonexistent.
“One question…” He lifts his free hand to my cheek. My skin warms under his fingers.
“What?” I manage to whisper, lifting my eyes to meet his.
“Have you overindulged in whiskey tonight?”
I squeeze my eyes shut, the punch of guilt hitting me again. “Tate, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”
His mouth meets mine, his lips so hot and yet so soft. My insides turn to mush. I sink farther against the wall, my legs weakening.
It wasn’t the whiskey.
I didn’t imagine anything the first time. It really was amazing. It is amazing.
But it’s over too quick. He pulls away, gliding his fingers across my cheek, then leans in to kiss the side of my face.
“I’ll come by again tomorrow,” he whispers, right next to my ear. “After practice.”
I rest my head against the wall and let the air rushing into the now-empty space between us cool off my face. My eyes are closed when I feel a tug on my apron.
“Claire, you okay?” he teases.
“Hmm,” I mumble. “Tomorrow. Yeah. We can do this again.”
Tate laughs and leans in to kiss me again. “Yeah? All of this?”
“Grown-up Tate. Such a smooth talker.” I open my eyes and rest both hands on hi
s face. “You still look like you, ya know? Curious. Stubborn. Sweet. Adorable. Just with more…” I stroke his cheeks with my thumbs, feeling the stubble. “Facial hair.”
He breaks out the killer grin. “So you did have a crush on me.”
“Um…no. Sorry.” I laugh at that thought. I mean, he was little Tate Tanley. Then the laughter dies quickly when Tate covers my mouth with his again. Something pulls at my thoughts, through the haze of this killer kiss. I shove him back a few inches. “Wait…what am I doing here?”
Tate’s face turns dead serious. “Relax, okay. Don’t think about it too much. Let’s just focus on tomorrow. And then move from there.”
I shake my head. “I mean here in this office. I came in to tell you something and now I can’t remember what.” I jolt upright, remembering suddenly. “Mike. Steller.”
Tate’s playful expression drops, his forehead wrinkling. “What about him?”
“He’s here. For you.”
I push off the wall and grab the front of Tate’s sweater, pulling him out of the office. I can’t be alone with him anymore. I don’t trust either of us to be good. Besides, I left Petey with all my tables plus the bar customers.
Jesus Christ. I forgot about my tables.
I hurry out of the kitchen and into the dining room. I can’t help but watch the silent exchange between Tate and Mike. Tate glances at him and then walks straight out the front door. I check on my tables and deliver more drinks and then Mike finally gets up and goes out the door.
Trying to be discreet, I drift casually toward the window facing the parking lot. Mike and Tate are walking side by side. They pass up Mike’s truck, but he snatches skates and a hockey stick from the back and then both of them head straight for the side entrance to the ice rink.
What are they doing at the ice rink at nearly two in the morning? I pull out my phone and send Tate a quick text.
ME: night skating?
TATE: something like that. Don’t tell anyone, pls
ME: you hockey boys and ur secrets…
TATE: not with u. U know all my secrets
My heart squeezes; my insides are all warm and fuzzy. I stare at Tate’s text for way too long before going back to my tables.
Chapter 27
–Tate–
“I know a lot of you are worried about checking.” Dad skates in front of the line of kids here for the winter break clinic. “But some of you probably can’t wait to reach Bantam so you can pin someone against the boards legally.”
A few of the kids nod. One tiny girl on the end lifts a hand in the air like she’s pledging her allegiance to knocking over boys on the ice.
“Body pinning is what we’re going to learn today…” Dad continues.
He goes on with details of the partner drills he wants the kids to do. My eyes wander and land on Claire in the lobby of the rink. She’s setting up tables. O’Connor’s is catering lunch for the kids. Claire catches me watching and smiles, just enough for me to notice.
“…unfortunately my only partner option for a demonstration is a goalie and probably very out of practice.”
I snap my head around to face Dad again. What demonstration? At the other end of the rink, Jamie, Leo, and Stewart are working with the youngest kids and have spent the morning doing basic skating and shooting drills and giving lots of high fives.
The kids on our end are laughing and looking at me now.
I’ve got basic gear on today, not my usual goalie gear, but for some reason the idea of me in any other position has become comical. It’s not like I didn’t play other positions before high school. Everyone does.
“Think you can handle a little pinning demo?” Dad challenges.
My entire body stiffens. “Maybe we should—”
“Come on, Tate. You’re not afraid to take on an old man like me, are you?”
The kids laugh louder. My heart pumps hard against my chest. Red flags wave in front of my eyes. “Fine,” I snap.
As soon as the word is out of my mouth, Dad passes me the puck. I stop it with my stick but stand there near the wall like an idiot, not sure what I’m supposed to do next. The laughter dies the second my dad pins me against the boards. His side digs into my back and my helmet presses against the glass. My heart pounds faster, my breaths coming quick and ragged.
“Make sure your leg is placed between your opponent’s,” Dad says.
I’m trapped in place, my skates slipping and sliding. Panic sets in, followed by the instinct to fight, to get out of his hold. I shove him back and take control of the puck again. He comes at me, attempting a check.
“Sloppy form, Tate,” Dad practically growls into my ear. “Come on, don’t hold back.”
The fire inside builds and pushes me over the edge. I hit Dad hard from behind, causing him to stumble back, to lose his balance. I freeze, my heart drumming so fast I can’t hear the kids cheering us on. Dad stares at me for a beat, like we’re complete strangers, and then he charges forward, snatching the puck away from me. I skate backward, switching over to defensive mode. The kids yell louder, cheering. But I can’t focus on anything besides Dad.
“Get your head up,” he tells me. “Can’t be afraid of a little contact.”
I look him right in the eye, and then I turn in a circle and steal the puck the second it gets a few inches out in front of his stick. I break away toward the empty goal and the kids part their line, making room. I’m about to take a shot when Dad plows into me from behind. The stick gets caught beneath me and I slide on the ice, flat on my stomach until my helmet bashes into the post, clanking loudly against the metal surface.
I lay there for several seconds, my ears ringing. When I get to my feet, I pull off my helmet and glance around. The kids all still look excited. But at the other end of the rink, Leo and Jamie have stopped their game and are watching us. I turn in a circle and my gaze stops on Claire in the lobby. Her eyes are wide, mouth hanging open.
I look back at Dad. He’s got the puck now and he’s sliding it back and forth, completely calm. I drop my helmet and head off the ice, mumbling that I’m gonna find more pucks in the equipment closet. When I get inside, I lean against the door, closing my eyes, allowing my heart and breathing to calm down. That was a cheap shot from Dad, but a little longer, and I may have done the same thing. Everything inside me feels so out of control right now.
Chapter 28
–Claire–
My hands shake while I drop chicken fingers onto paper plates in the lobby of the ice rink. I can’t believe Keith did that. I had no idea things were that bad between him and Tate. It’s not right.
And today, my dad is coming home from the Mayo Clinic. He’s doing so much better. On the phone this morning, he said my name. I could hardly tell him good-bye or hang up because I was choking back tears. It should be a happy day.
The kids all crowd around the open exit of the rink, heading toward the tables we have set up for their lunch. I speed up my food distribution as more hungry kids drop into chairs around me. The chatter of thirty to forty voices all at once creates a buzz in the arena that drowns out some of the panic I’m feeling at the moment. I glance at Tate, looking him over. He had disappeared into the equipment closet a little while ago, but he’s since returned and put up his front again.
Tate, Jake, and Cole jump in and help me out with all the requests for ketchup, barbecue sauce, drinks. I slip past Tate, and he catches my waist, resting his fingertips there. My entire body warms at the touch. I’m already imagining sinking back against him, letting those fingers slide—
“You look pretty,” he whispers into my ear before stepping aside, putting a good two feet between us.
When I refocus on the lobby, I catch Cole Clooney watching us. He drops his head, squirting a pile of ketchup on a kid’s plate. Tate sees this, too, and hesitates like he might want to pull Cole aside and question him, but then his gaze drifts away from the tables, over to where Jamie and Leo are leaning against the boards. Talking to Keith.
Tate’s forehead wrinkles, his body tensing.
And soon Keith is walking toward me. My mind drifts back to that night in the parking lot, Keith’s very different tone and the way he looked at me, like my presence was ruining everything. He was wasted, probably doesn’t remember a thing, but today, when he pulled that illegal check on Tate, he seemed completely sober. That’s not right.
“So…” Keith flashes me his famous smile that has fooled an entire town of six thousand. “Are you feeding coaches, too? Or just kids?”
I clamp my jaw shut, the frustration building inside me. “Help yourself.”
The reply comes out too loud, too sharp, too angry. Keith looks taken aback. “You sure?”
Jake Hammond is standing across from me. He stops pouring juice and looks up.
“The order was for forty kids and eight coaches,” I snap. I turn quickly and head over to the buffet I have set up. I toss a pile of chicken fingers and fries onto a plate and march it over to Keith, practically thrusting it at his chest. His mouth falls open like he wants to ask me what’s wrong, but Tate takes my arm and steers me away.
“We’re out of cups,” he says, pulling me in the direction of the concession stand. When we get to the counter, he leans in and whispers, “What are you doing?”
I take a breath and glance over my shoulder. If the guys are watching us, they hide it well, busying themselves when I look at them. I drop my face into my hands. “I didn’t know it would be so hard to see him after…”
“Yeah, I know.” Tension fills Tate’s voice.
I glance sideways at him. He’s stressed. I’m adding to that by not keeping my feelings in check. “I’m sorry. I just want you to go back on the ice and knock him on his ass. Is that horrible?”
He leans on his elbows, looks at me, and the tension seems to fall from his face. His pinkie finger hooks around mine, and then he leans closer, his nose grazing the side of my face. Heat crawls up my neck. I close my eyes, enjoying this feeling for a brief moment. “Tate…”