“So how many weddings does it take to make one a professional?”
“How many? Good question.” He counted silently. “I guess this is my seventh. There was my older sister’s. Then, a high school friend and two of my college teammates. And three more since I’ve been with the Sound—Glaz’s, Sparks Champagne’s—that one went bad—and now Emile’s.” And there was sure to be an eighth one coming up. Bryant Taylor and Emile’s sister, Gabriella, were just holding off on announcing their engagement until after this wedding—something about not wanting to steal Emile and Amy’s thunder.
For the life of him, he couldn’t figure out where he’d gone wrong. Jarrett prided himself on his good values and morals, and actually longed for a wife, children, and settled life. Yet he remained a professional groomsman.
He couldn’t think of a reason to not want to be married and have a family. Before his father died, Jarrett’s parents had been dancing in the kitchen, blissful. Everything about that life had been warm, secure, and happy for him and his sister. He most remembered how much they had laughed. It had just run out too soon. Life with his grandparents in Wisconsin had been a good life, too. The big log cabin where his father had grown up had always been a second home, and there had been plenty of room for him, his mother, and his sister. But there had been a hole where the bigger-than-life Scott MacPherson had been. Jarrett wanted that complete life back, and the only way he knew to get it was to create his own family. He wanted a wife to dance in the kitchen with and children to teach to skate on a pond.
He needed that, had been looking for it for too long.
Meanwhile, his friends all slept around, raised hell, and claimed they had no interest in giving up the single life and then—boom—not only were they married, but married to good, smart women—even Emile, who had been the one most likely to end up with a puck bunny.
It wasn’t as if Jarrett hadn’t tried. He always went into relationships with an eye toward forever—even at sixteen, maybe especially at sixteen since that’s the age when his parents had fallen in love. Kristen had been his high school sweetheart and receiver of his virginity. He would have waited for her and married her, but she had broken up with him when he left for the University of Wisconsin. He was pretty sure his parents had only ever had sex with each other, and he’d thought to follow in their footsteps.
In college, he’d almost learned his lesson the hard way about puck bunnies. It was during his sophomore year when Lorelei, the second prospective Mrs. MacPherson, had broken his heart that he’d gone off the rails and decided to hell with relationships, he’d just have freewheeling sex like everybody else.
Sherry. He’d barely known her, but when she’d claimed she was pregnant, he’d been willing to marry her right then and there, no questions asked—though not because he’d wanted to, but because it’d been the right thing to do. Good thing his mother had intervened and insisted on a paternity test. Turned out, Sherry wasn’t even pregnant. Finally, someone had wanted him forever, but only because by then it was clear he was going to the NHL.
After that, he’d sworn off puck bunnies forever—swore he’d never have sex with anyone he wouldn’t be happy about marrying. And he never had.
After a year of the life of a monk, others had followed. Every time he’d been sure it would work out, but it never did. Chloe had proven to be a liar and a gold digger. Kara had called him by the wrong name in bed. He’d been close to buying Joy, a sweet pediatric nurse, an engagement ring, when she announced her plans to go into the mission field. Things had gone well with Thea, so well that he’d taken her home to meet his family over a three-day break last February. Then he’d overheard her making fun of the supper club’s retro menu and his grandfather’s corny jokes.
He’d put her on a plane and blocked her number. Since then, he’d had a few random dates, but no relationship, which meant no sex. It had been a long nine months and three weeks—not that he was counting.
“Seven weddings.” Merry, with her copper hair and green eyes, brought him back to the present.
“But this is the first one where I’ve tended bar.”
“Hopefully, the last.” Merry gave him a high beam smile and his stomach turned over. She was gorgeous. “At least I would hope that awful woman won’t hit on you again.”
Krystal Voleck was awful, and he liked that Merry thought so, too. Krystal had been a notorious puck bunny until Jan Voleck, fresh from the junior hockey league and wet behind the ears, had come from the Czech Republic to play for the Sound. Homesick and nineteen years old, he had been an easy mark. Krystal had a ring on her finger to prove it.
“She was drunk.” This wasn’t the first time he’d turned her down, but the first time since Jan had come to the Sound. She probably saw Jarrett as a personal challenge, but he doubted she would have been so bold if she’d been sober. Still, it had been a long time since he’d been touched, and his body had reacted. He was ashamed of that. Krystal had known it and had laughed when he’d pulled away from her and stormed out.
Merry’s eyes narrowed. “You’ve got a little sauce on your face.” And she leaned forward, napkin in hand, and wiped the spot beside his mouth.
Warmth shot through him and his body reacted with the speed of light—lots faster and with less reason than it had reacted to Krystal. If Merry touched him the way Krystal had, he could only imagine . . . Imagining was going to be his undoing. He wanted to grab the napkin from Merry so that her fingers would be skin on skin on his face.
But she lifted her hand and leaned back. “I got it,” she said with satisfaction.
Yes, you do—in spades. Her breasts were fantastic.
His penis pounded. It had been too long.
Maybe it was time to try again—maybe with this girl. The pieces of what he knew about her snapped into place—Vandy Law School. That meant she was smart. Two jobs, and willing to work a temporary one like tonight. That meant she had a strong work ethic, even if she couldn’t mix drinks or didn’t know much about liquor—which, come to think of it, probably meant that she wasn’t much of a party girl.
He sifted through his family and looked at her through their eyes—Mom, Grandma, Papa, his sister, Lea, brother-in-law, Thomas. He could see them all liking her. Four-year-old Patrice wasn’t old enough to have much of an opinion, but he could see Merry being sweet to her. He even reached back to his ten-year-old self and considered what his dad would have thought of her before he died of leukemia. He would have liked her, too, would have introduced her to people as his daughter, never his daughter-in-law.
For certain, Merry wouldn’t make fun of them the way Thea had. He could just tell.
Plus, she liked to eat. She’d cleaned her plate in no time. He was pretty sure she wouldn’t order a salad and then eat half of his food. She’d want her own. He was going to take her to the Butter Factory. It was trendy and expensive, but they had a filet that could make you cry. It was served with your choice of truffle or Gorgonzola butter, but his choice was both, and he’d bet Merry’s would be, too.
Unfortunately, he couldn’t ask her out tonight. He had to leave to go home for Christmas at the crack of dawn tomorrow, but he would when he got back—definitely. And meanwhile, he would enjoy helping her behind the bar the rest of the night.
He wanted to touch her. He prided himself on not lying, but maybe he could pretend she had sauce on her mouth and wipe it away like she had done for him. Some day he’d tell her and they’d laugh about it.
“Merry—” he began.
“Merry!” Gwen, of the clipboard and the headset, hurled herself into the room like a tornado. “We’ve had a little glitch. When they were moving it into the ballroom, the guys broke the round table that we always use for wedding cakes. We had to cover your bar with a tablecloth and set up the cake there. We moved your liquor to Morgan’s bar. The two of you can work together the rest of the night. Just wanted you to know before you finish here.” And she was gone.
Disappointment washed over Jar
rett. “So I guess there won’t be any room for me.”
“I guess not,” she said lightly. “I hope I can get Morgan to mix the drinks and leave the beer and wine to me.”
“If you can’t, just call my name,” Jarrett said. “I’ll come running.”
“I can’t thank you enough for that.” She stood up and put her dirty plate in a dishpan on a small side table. And, oh, God! She turned and winked at him. “Think you can find another place to hide from wayward women hungry for your body?”
“I’ll manage. I might stay in here for a while.” At least until you leave and my raging erection settles down.
She nodded. “If I don’t see you again, I appreciate your help.”
You’re going to see me again. Be sure of it.
“Merry?” he called after her.
“Yes?” She lifted her chin when she turned and looked at him.
“What’s your last name?”
“Sweet.”
“Merry Sweet?” What a perfect name.
“That’s what I answer to. Every time.”
Yes, you will.
Chapter Three
Christmas was in the books.
Jarrett had gotten in late last night—December 26—and now he was at the practice rink for morning skate. Tonight, they were home against LA, tomorrow was an off day, and then they were back-to-back against the Blackhawks and the Wild on the road. That would put them home in time for New Year’s Eve. All this meant he didn’t have much time to get a lock on Merry’s affections, which, after spending the holidays at home, he was determined to do more than ever.
The setting had been like a Christmas movie—the big log cabin on the lake that three generations of MacPhersons had called home, the landscape blanketed in snow, fire in the rock fireplace, stockings on the mantel, the fir tree that Papa Clint had cut on their property, cookies for Santa, and warm cider with rum. This Christmas had been no different from any other he’d ever known, but it struck him especially hard this year how alone he was in the perfection of it all.
He was going to get started changing that as soon as morning skate ended.
He was seated in his stall, lacing his skates, when Oliver Klepacki, the Sound’s head equipment manager, sauntered up and handed him a Starbucks cup. Jarrett was all ready to thank him just the same and explain that he didn’t like coffee, when he caught a whiff.
“Hot chocolate. How did you know?”
Packi shrugged. “Sometimes I get something right. Did you have a good trip to Wisconsin?”
“I did.” Jarrett looked up. “Did you?” The two of them had a Wisconsin bond, though Packi was a native of Milwaukee, while Jarrett had grown up in a rural area on the outskirts of the small town Lakescape. Quaint and bucolic, Thea had called it. He’d only realized later it had not been a compliment.
“I did.” Packi nodded. “It’s always good to be with family, but I’m getting too old for that northern cold.”
“Not a bit of it.” Jarrett figured Packi to be somewhere between late fifties and early sixties, but he was still strong, straight, and far from old. He’d played in the minor leagues when helmets had been optional, and Jarrett suspected Packi had never chosen to wear one. Now he was the best equipment manager in the NHL. Jarrett had never known of a Sound player missing a shift on the ice because of equipment failure. Their captain, Nickolai Glazov, swore it was because Packi had magical abilities and could anticipate what was going to go wrong and be ready. Jarrett wasn’t sure about that, but he’d never seen a man who could replace a broken visor or skate blade faster. “I think the Tennessee weather has spoiled you. It sure has me.”
“I guess we’ll just have to get unspoiled if we end up in the North next season.”
That. There were rumors going around that Pickens Davenport was negotiating with someone from Massachusetts who was interested in buying the team. Unlike most of his teammates, Jarrett hadn’t much cared one way or the other. He liked Nashville, but Massachusetts was nice, too. He could see living there—or he could have before Emile’s wedding. That had changed now. Merry Sweet—what a name!—lived here and he definitely wanted to be where she was. She might be willing to move, but she’d seemed pretty committed to that law school thing.
“Maybe it won’t happen,” Jarrett said.
“Maybe it won’t,” Packi agreed. “So you had a good time with your family?”
“Yes. Very good.” And it had been good, no doubt. It always was. But that didn’t mean Jarrett wasn’t glad it was over—not so much the time with his family as Christmas. Jarrett did not like chaos, and even Christmas-movie Christmas equaled chaos every single time. Even as a kid, he’d been relieved when the tree came down and the fudge was gone—and that was saying a lot, because he loved fudge. Other people seemed to thrive on the things the holiday brought on—sleeping late, dessert with every meal, and running out to buy one more gift or mail one more card. For Jarrett, it could be fun, but mostly it was out of order and unpredictable. He liked his life lined up like synchronized swimmers ready to dive. It felt safer that way—less likely that the rug under your feet would suddenly go flying into a black hole and leave you with a dying father.
“Most excellent.” Packi leaned on the edge of Jarrett’s stall. “I met your dad once, you know.”
Jarrett’s breath caught, but in a good way. “No, I didn’t know.” A warm feeling washed over him and a smile bloomed on his face like it always did when he thought of his dad. There was a ribbon of pain that swirled through the warmth, too. That was a given and would always be true, but the joy of being Scott MacPherson’s son would always overshadow the grief. “You never told me that.”
“No? Is that right?” Jarrett got the feeling Packi knew without question that he’d never told Jarrett that and had chosen this particular time to share it—though why now was a complete mystery. “I was still working as a locker room attendant for the Senators at the time, and we were in Montreal. Being from Wisconsin, I’d followed his career, so I sought him out to tell him so. I expected to only meet him and pass a few words, but we ended up talking an hour.” Packi smiled at the memory.
Jarrett laughed. “I’m not surprised. He always had a lot to say to everybody he met.” And he always had a lot to say to me. Especially those last two years. It had been when Jarrett was eight that Scott had been diagnosed with leukemia. He’d retired from the Canadiens and moved his family back to Wisconsin to live with his parents in the big log cabin he’d grown up in. In the two years it had taken him to die, Scott had been intent on teaching Jarrett everything he needed to know about being a man. Jarrett’s life’s work had been to be the person his father had wanted him to be.
“So you remember him clearly?” Packi asked.
Jarrett nodded. “Unlike a lot of people, I have early, clear memoires. I even remember sitting on my mother’s lap watching him play.” He’d had a big laugh, a powerful slap shot, and an even bigger and more powerful love for his family.
“That’s a real gift. Until you came along, he was the best hockey player to ever come out of Wisconsin.”
“Well, I don’t know about that.” And he didn’t, despite the stats that said otherwise—much like he knew intellectually that he was an inch taller and ten pounds heavier but would never truly believe he was as big as his larger-than-life father had been.
“I don’t pretend that I knew him well, but I suspect he would have been the first to say so. I think he would have said it loud and often.”
Jarrett nodded. “You’re probably right.”
“He would have continued to be proud of you.”
Continued. “That’s an interesting way to put it. People tell me all the time he would have been proud of me.”
Pack shrugged. “Is that right? I say continued because he was always proud of you. You must have been no more than two when I met him. He showed me a picture of you, your mother, and your sister. He’d already had you on the pond by then. He laughed and said you were like a Wee
ble. You wobbled but were determined not to fall down.”
“I don’t remember that far back,” Jarrett said, “but I almost feel like I do because he told that story all the time. You’re lucky technology wasn’t what it is today. You’d have been watching videos.”
“I might have liked that,” Packi said.
“I can arrange it for you. Come on up to Lakescape. But I warn you, there are hundreds, and not just of me. My sister, Lea, was a gymnast and ballet dancer.”
“So were my girls. Now one is a computer programmer and the other is an architect.”
“Lea’s a chef at our supper club—she and her husband both. At least if you had to endure videos, they’d feed you well.”
“We know how important that is to you—getting fed well.”
“It was important to my dad, too. We are alike in that way.”
“He was a good man,” Packi said. “The hardest job a parent can have—especially one who is personally very accomplished—is to teach his child to be ambitious without being obligated.”
Damn. Packi was just as wise as everyone claimed. “I never felt obligated to skate for him. He instilled in me my biggest ambition, but it wasn’t hockey.”
“No?”
“No. I want to love a woman as much as he loved my mother.” And she’d loved him too; still did. She still wore the plain wedding band and the modest diamond engagement ring he’d bought her before signing with the Canadiens.
Jarrett expected a pat on the back and approval. After all, everyone knew how Packi felt about Mrs. Packi.
Instead, he frowned. “Be careful that you don’t miss the tree for the forest.”
“Isn’t that the forest for the trees?”
Packi shook his head. “Not this time.” He ceased leaning on Jarrett’s stall. “But enough of that. You need to get on the ice.” As he walked away, he turned and called over his shoulder. “Bring me your skates when you get off the ice. I’m going to clean them up and put new laces in them myself.”
“No kidding?” Hot damn! Jarrett knew what that meant.
High Stick Page 3