Evans sighed inwardly. Claire meant well, but she didn’t understand artisan baking. She reached into her gut—deep into her gut—and found no. “I’m just not good with that, Claire. I know those machines promise handmade results, but it simply is not true.” No was hard, so hard that she had to add a caveat. “Maybe the quality will improve eventually.” That would never happen, but it would buy her some time.
Claire looked at her for a few beats and nodded. “All right, but you must agree that if you’re going to grow, you can’t continue to insist on personally making every crust by hand yourself.”
It was Evans’s turn to nod. “I do know that.” But why do I need to grow? Evans had an inkling that Claire pictured a five-acre pie factory with Crust, Inc. painted on the side. “I’ve been planning to work with Ariel and Quentin.”
“So that would free you up to do some random catering—on a case-by-case basis.”
“Absolutely.” Case-by-case didn’t sound so bad. After all, it was a cheap trade-off for not having a godforsaken pastry press inflicted on her.
“One more thing,” Claire said.
And wasn’t there always? “What’s that, Claire?”
“Have you talked to anyone from Hollingsworth Foods yet?”
“No. I haven’t.” And that was technically true. She swallowed her guilt.
“Hmm.” Claire narrowed her eyes. “If you haven’t heard from them by the time Yellowhammers camp is over, I’ll make a call.”
Camp lasted a week. She’d think about that then.
“Now for my pie. I’ll just see what’s in the case.”
Yeah, Claire. See what’s in the case. You won’t find a substandard crust.
Chapter Five
“We’re just concentrating on hockey and the upcoming season.” That’s what Glaz had said on ESPN last night when the Kelty scandal had broken. That’s also what the players had been instructed to say—and nothing else—in the team meeting earlier. Beyond that, it wasn’t to be discussed.
That was fine with Jake. There was hockey to play—and the team lunch to eat. That’s where they were headed now. After that, they’d hit the ice with their new team for the first time.
“How was your physical?” Jake asked Robbie.
“Not the best,” Robbie said. “I gained ten pounds in Scotland. I thought I’d lost it, but I’m still up four pounds. I blame it on the pie.”
Pie. Evie. She’d said she was catering this lunch. Was she here yet? “Blame it on all the cake frosting you ate over the summer.”
Robbie looked around. “Shut up about that.” It was common knowledge that Robbie’s ancestral home was the premier wedding venue in the Highlands, but he wasn’t anxious for his teammates to know he had a knack for cake decorating and still helped his grandmother make wedding cakes in the off season.
“How many icing roses did you eat?”
“None.” Robbie hissed. “You don’t eat flowers you’ve gone to the trouble to make.” He looked chagrined. “But it’s hard not to scrape the bowl. The point is, I’m fat and slow.” Robbie could whine when he was of a mind to.
“You are,” Jake agreed. “You should quit today. Maybe some minor league team will take you on. But don’t tell them you’re up four pounds. That would be a deal breaker. Then there’s nothing for you but the beer league.”
“You’re a hard man, Sparks.”
“If you want to be coddled, call your mother.”
“I did. Right after my physical. She said I should weigh after we skate today. Do you think I can skate off half a pie?”
“I don’t think you’ll be able to skate. I doubt any of your equipment will fit. Probably your feet are so fat, your skates won’t fit. Don’t even try your pink lace thong.”
“You are an ass,” Robbie said.
“But not a fat one.” The truth was he’d put on some weight, too—too much French cheese—but he wasn’t worried. Skating would take care of it.
“Can’t complain about the facility,” Robbie said.
That was for sure. The Laurel Springs Iceplex had three sheets of ice, great workout equipment, and was brand-new.
“I wish we played where we practice,” Robbie said. “Like in juniors and college.”
“Maybe your new farm team will play where they practice. I don’t know any major league teams that do.”
Robbie sighed. “How long does it take to get to the arena downtown?”
“Ten minutes for me because I drive fast. Fifteen minutes for other people. Longer for you, since you’re fat and slow.” Jake paused before a door. “Meeting room C. This is where we’re supposed to be.”
“How about we go downtown tonight?” Robbie asked. “You can show me where the arena is.”
“No.” Jake pushed open the door. “You don’t care where the arena is. You just want to go downtown to find some nightlife—the very thing I came here to get away from.”
“What’s the harm in seeing if we can scare up a little fun?”
“We have a bet. I don’t need to scare anything up.”
“Not sure I thought it through before making that bet,” Robbie said. “It’s no fun carousing alone.”
“You have a whole new team. Pick a new guy,” Jake said. “Or maybe we could join a knitting club.”
“You can be celibate, but you’re not taking me down with you.”
“I’m not trying,” Jake said. “I just want to take that pretty little necklace off your hands.”
Robbie put his hand over his heart. “Are you going to stand there or go in the room? I’m hungry.”
Right. The room where Evie was likely to be.
“Nice,” Robbie said as they stepped inside. It was. Thick carpet. Round tables for six set up around the room. They were some of the first to arrive, though there was a tableful of rookies in the corner and a few guys looking around, getting the lay of the land.
No Evie. Maybe she had a meringue emergency, or the bow fell off her apron.
“Let’s sit here by the door,” Jake said. He liked to be able to make a quick exit.
“Naw,” Robbie said. “That’s not how it works. Didn’t you see the list on the door with seat assignments? We’re at table four.”
“I did not. What is this with the seat assignments? Kindergarten?”
“Here we are,” Robbie said. Sure enough, there was a sign in the middle of the table, with a big 4 and a list of names. Their table was front and center, but there was nothing to do but sit down. Robbie plucked the sign from the holder.
“Who are we eating with?” Jake asked.
“Able Killen,” Robbie read off the card.
Jake remembered him. “From Iowa. Defense. He played for the Ice Demons last year. Decent guy. Next.”
“Dietrich Wingo.”
“Goalie. Fresh out of University of Denver. He’s phenomenal. He might need an attitude adjustment. But he won’t be the number one—not with Dustin Carmichael on the team.” Carmichael, lately of the Ottawa Ice Demons, was a two-time goalie of the year trophy winner and had hoisted the cup once.
Robbie nodded. “We can adjust Wingo’s attitude.”
“Spoiling for a fight, are you?”
Robbie shrugged. “Not much else to do around here.”
“You can practice the piano or maybe open up a cake decorating business. Who else?”
“Logan Jensen,” Robbie read the next name. “I met him earlier while waiting to get weighed.”
“The Walleyes?”
“Aye. Before that, the University of Minnesota. He’s from Minneapolis. Forward. He has a kid. Single dad.”
“Who else?” Jake fiddled with his silverware. The table was set with real dishes, but there wasn’t any food. No buffet line either. Maybe they were just having pie—or not. Still no sign of Evie.
�
��Holy family and all the wise men!” Robbie burst out. “What is Luka Zadorov doing here?”
“No!” Jake snatched the card from Robbie. “Let me see that.” But there it was in black and white—the name of the big Russian center.
“That’s what it says,” Robbie said. “I didn’t see him in the team meeting.”
“No,” Jake agreed. “But we were sitting on the second row. I didn’t look around much.”
Robbie looked back at the card and shook his head in disbelief. “No way the Colonials would have traded him.”
“Maybe he asked for the trade. We did.”
“I suppose, but they didn’t let us go easy and we weren’t even skating first line. I can’t believe the Colonials would agree.” Robbie glanced at the door. “Here he comes.”
Yep. And it looked like the other three were trailing behind him. They must have read the door.
But still no Evie.
They all shook hands and Jake noted the expressions. Wingo was cocky, Killen looked happy and friendly, Jensen was pleasantly neutral, but Luka Zadorov was nothing short of pissed off beyond reasonable understanding. He wasn’t even trying to hide it.
Might as well take the bull by the horns. “So, Zodorov,” Jake said, as they settled into their seats. “You’re the surprise of the table—probably the whole team.”
Zodorov reached into his backpack, removed a water bottle, then tossed it back in with a grunt of disgust—but not before Jake noticed that it was a Boston Colonials water bottle.
“Da,” Zodorov said. “Was surprise to me as well. The trade came last night. I flew in a short time ago. I am in hotel. Not even my smoothie maker do I have.”
They were all silent for a moment. It happened all the time, traded and gone in a matter of hours. It could happen to any of them.
“They traded you?” Robbie said.
Zodorov gave Robbie the stink eye. “Why else would I be in Alabama? The Colonials need goalie. This new team had Dustin Carmichael. No more.”
“What the hell!” Cold washed over Jake. Carmichael was gone? Zodorov was good news, but did it balance out the bad news that Carmichael was in Boston? He thought back to the team meeting. Was there anyone else missing who should have been there?
“Seems like they would have told us this in the meeting earlier,” Robbie said.
“Bigger fish to fry, I guess,” Logan Jensen said. “Kelty, and all...”
“Sounds like they weren’t willing to trade me.” Wingo spoke for the first time, and the words that flowed from his mouth did not do one damn thing to negate Jake’s fear that he needed an attitude adjustment.
Zodorov slowly turned his head and gave Wingo a look that would have frozen a flame, though Wingo didn’t seem to notice. For a few seconds the only sound was from the tables around them.
“And you would think that,” Zodorov spoke slowly, his Russian accent getting heavier with each word, “the Colonials offered for you first? That they would trade me for a rookie? An unknown quality?”
“I think you mean quantity.” Jensen cleared his throat. “The word is quantity.”
“Who are you, Logan?” Zodorov said. “Suddenly Mr. Daniel Webster?” There was clearly some camaraderie between those two, but Jake couldn’t ferret out why. As far as he knew, they’d never played together.
“Noah,” Jensen said. “And I didn’t say no, as in the opposite of yes. It was No-ah Webster who wrote the dictionary.”
“Shut up, Logan. Is the same.”
“It’s not,” Jensen insisted.
“Then it makes no difference.” Zodorov turned back to Wingo. “You think I would be traded for a rookie?”
Wingo grinned. “I won the National Championship at Denver last year.”
“You won? You won alone? That tells me more about you than I want to know.” Zodorov shook his head. “But never mind. I am already tired of you, college boy. College sports mean nothing.”
As the only Southerner there, Jake supposed it was up to him to break it to Zodorov. “You will find that the good people of Alabama do not agree with you on that last point. In fact, no one in the South would.”
“What?” Zodorov narrowed his angry eyes.
“You are in the college football capital of the world.” Jake paused to let it sink in. “I’m not saying college football is a religion in the South, but when my little cousin was asked in Sunday school if she could name three of Jesus’s disciples, she rattled off two Southeastern Conference coaches and a starting quarterback.”
Everyone except Luka laughed. If possible, he looked even more incensed.
“I’ve got to get out of here.” Zodorov looked around as if there might be a hockey fairy who would whisk him away. “Hockey should be revered.”
But then a voice boomed from the sound system. Jake jumped and looked up, and saw Nate Ayers, the Yellowhammers’ general manager, at the podium.
“Hello again, gentlemen.”
“Is he going to talk?” Robbie whispered. “Are we never going to eat?”
“It was that attitude that got you ten extra pounds,” Jake whispered back. “Be quiet.”
“I think we’re all here,” Ayers continued. “We’re about to get lunch underway, but I’d like to introduce you to the principle shareholders of Yellowhammer Hockey Team, Inc—Marc ‘Polo’ MacNeal, former first baseman for the New York Yankees, and Tiptoe Watkins.”
The men made the usual speeches—looking forward to a great season, welcome to the Yellowhammers, blah, blah, blah.
Jake had heard it all before. He looked around for Evie. Where was she?
When the owners finished, Logan Jensen leaned forward. “I heard that Polo MacNeal put up most of the money. He’s related to Mr. Watkins by marriage. Claire, who owns Hammer Time and The Mill, is Mr. Watkins’s niece, and she also owns a little piece of the team. Nobody thought they would get an expansion team, but they did. Obviously.” He gestured to his surroundings.
“How do you know all this?” Wingo asked.
Logan grinned and Jake decided he liked him. “I come from Hockey Country, USA. Everything worth knowing about hockey is everyday talk in Minnesota.”
“Is true,” Luka said. “I must get out of this land of college football and get to a place where hockey is respected as it should be.”
“Thank you, gentlemen.” Glaz now had the mic. “Team, meet me in the locker room after lunch. A fine meal is about to be served, courtesy of Hammer Time and Crust. Thank you to the owners of these fine establishments, Claire Watkins and Evans Pemberton.” Jake surveyed the room again. Where was she? Claire and a gang of servers were gathered next to a set of double doors, but no Evie. “I’ll see you in an hour,” Glaz continued. “We’ll get you some equipment and see who can still skate.” Laughter floated through the room and Glaz went to sit at a table with all the other important people.
“I can still skate,” Wingo said. “I’m in the best shape of my life.” Jake shook his head. That boy would be lucky to make it to the season opener.
“Can you skate with broken limbs?” Luka asked. “Because that’s where you’re headed if you don’t stop bragging.”
Thankfully a girl—Jake figured her for college-aged—appeared at their table with a tray as big as a bicycle wheel.
“Hello, gentlemen.” She made gentlemen sound like three separate words. “I have some lunch for you.” Jake looked around again. Still no Evie—just this girl in black pants and a white polo with Crust embroidered on the left breast. Should he ask her where Evie was? No. Apparently Evie had just sent staff.
He wasn’t sure if it was the girl’s pretty smile or the smell of the food that distracted his tablemates, but he was grateful for it. For the moment, college football, the loss of a seasoned goalie, and Wingo’s self-love seemed forgotten. She leaned over between Wingo and Robbie. “If you will just
excuse me, I’ll set this here.” Hellfire and brimstone. Robbie sniffed her hair. Jake gave him a dirty look and Robbie shrugged.
She pulled a card from her apron pocket. “We have today traditional Upper Peninsula Michigan pasties with beef, rutabagas, potatoes, and onion.” There was a plate of golden brown half-moon pies that looked like fried fruit pies, except twice the size of any Jake had ever seen—plus a bunch of different salads and some little casserole dishes.
Able Killen let out a happy groan. “I played my junior hockey in the Yooper. I love those things. Never thought I’d get them in Alabama.”
The girl smiled. “That’s great. I’ll tell the chef.” That would be Evie. Chef. Good for her. “We also have Caesar, fruit, and spinach salads, and macaroni and cheese with chicken. Joy is right behind me with a drink cart. Is there anything else I can get for you?”
Jake started to speak, but Zodorov beat him to it. “Thank you so much. You are very kind.” He could find his manners when he needed to, and maybe he’d realized he was the alpha at the table.
“Please let me know if you want anything else, but save room for dessert.”
After Joy of the drink cart left them with a tableful of Gatorade and water, they passed the food. Though he’d been taught to eat his salad first, Jake was too curious about Evie’s meat pie to wait.
Nothing could have prepared him for the party in his mouth. He took another bite. The first one had not been a fluke. He eyed the serving tray and counted. They had each been provided with two pies. He almost reached for his second one right then, and would have if he hadn’t been afraid his grandmother would suddenly swing in from the Delta on a flying trapeze and give him an etiquette lesson. You did not take a second helping of something until you had finished the first.
“Just as good as what I had in the UP,” Able said.
“Better,” Jensen said. “It’s got a smoky taste.”
“You’re in barbecue country now,” Robbie said. “Everything tastes smoky.”
Jake looked around the table to make sure everyone was eating Evie’s pies with the relish she deserved. No one had touched a salad or the macaroni and cheese, though he knew they’d all get around to it.
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