Sweet as Pie

by Alicia Hunter Pace

  “Close enough. Anyway, Evans, don’t you want to go shopping with us?”

  Yes, Mama, that’s absolutely what I want to do—go shopping for Jake Champagne. That would really cheer me up.

  “I can’t. Crust is open.”

  “So is Anna-Blair’s, but I’m here. Don’t you trust your employees?”

  “I do, but I have to work,” she said firmly. She wasn’t going to have this discussion and she wasn’t going shopping. “Since y’all are going shopping, all the more reason to leave Daddy my car—so he and Marc won’t be stranded. You can pick me up for the hockey game.”

  “Of course,” Anna-Blair said. “Christine is already planning for us to all go together. Then, we’re meeting Jake and Robbie afterward at some sports bar. Hammer Down?”

  “Hammer Time,” Evans corrected.

  “Christine tells me you aren’t going to the Yellowhammer breakfast Sunday morning,” Anna-Blair said.

  Oh, hell. Was it any wonder she didn’t want to live in Cottonwood where those two conferred on every single detail of the lives of everyone in their own private universe?

  “We thought you would. Your daddy and I can opt out and have breakfast with you,” Anna-Blair carried on.

  “Actually, turns out, I am going,” Evans said.

  Anna-Blair nodded. “I thought Jake must have misunderstood when he said you wanted to sleep late. The only time you’ve ever slept past six in your life was when you had the flu. Did you tell him in time to get you added to his guest list?” Evans had long suspected that her mother communed weekly with the late great Emily Post via Ouija board.

  “No.” She gulped her wine and mumbled the rest into her glass. “Someone else invited me. I’m on his list.”

  Keith, who had not seemed to be particularly interested in what was unfolding around him, whipped his head around to meet Evans’s eyes.

  “Well, that’s nice,” Anna-Blair said. Did she have to sound so surprised? Though to be fair, Evans hadn’t set the dating scene on fire lately.

  “Is he a hockey player?” Keith demanded. “What’s his name?”

  “Yes. Able Killen.” And I don’t know who his people are, so don’t ask.

  Keith nodded, and his eyes started to move rapidly from side to side. It was a bizarre sight for someone who hadn’t seen it before, but Evans knew what was happening. Keith had total recall for everything he read, and he had called something up from his brain and was reading it. “Able Killen. Number twenty-five. Defense. Birthday January second. Six feet, four inches. Two hundred twelve pounds. Born in Idaho Falls.”

  Apparently, Keith had read the Yellowhammer roster. He knew more about Able than Evans did. She never had gotten around to googling him.

  “Is he a nice boy? Tell us about him.” Anna-Blair gave her a little conspiratorial smile. “Have you been out with him before or will this be the first date? Is he cute?”

  Hell. She was in hell. And it would get worse. The Cottonwood Mississippi Inquisition was in session. The Spanish had nothing on them.

  “He’s nice. I don’t really have anything to tell. I don’t know him very well. I haven’t been out with him, and I’m not sure this breakfast counts as a date, so much as just ‘come have some eggs.’”

  “It counts,” Anna-Blair said.

  “Jake asked me and that wouldn’t have been a date.”

  “That’s different.” Anna-Blair flipped her hand. Of course it was. It always had been. Evans had just fully realized it. Did fully realizing something always equate to giving up hope? “Who are his people? I knew a girl from Idaho at Ole Miss. Karen Chastaine.”

  What a coincidence, Mama. That’s Able’s mother! If she’d said that out loud, she’d have been sent to stand in the corner. Anna-Blair did not like sarcasm unless she was the one dishing it out.

  “I don’t know who his people are,” Evans said. “For all I know, he may not have any.”

  “Everybody’s got people,” Anna-Blair said. “Even if they’re dead.”

  “Is this guy a friend of Jake’s?” Keith asked.

  It was hard to keep a neutral face. No, Daddy. Jake seems to have somewhat of a case of the ass for him—though not as much so as for Wingo.

  “I’m not sure Jake has been here long enough to establish who his friends are—apart from Robbie, of course.”

  “Hmm.” Keith finished his bourbon and signaled the waiter for another. “I suppose I’ll meet him soon enough and form my own opinion.” Not if Evans could help it. “Is his father a potato farmer?”

  “I don’t know, but everyone in Idaho isn’t a potato farmer any more than everyone in the Delta is a cotton farmer and a duck hunter.”

  “I’m a cotton farmer and a duck hunter,” he said, like she didn’t know. “What do you know about Idaho?”

  She thought for a moment. “They raise a lot of potatoes there?”

  They laughed together and she got the sense that Keith had stopped mentally loading his duck-and hockey-player-killing gun.

  “Speaking of Jake,” Anna-Blair said.

  Oh, Mama, let’s not!

  “There’s going to be a baby shower for Channing next Sunday. It’s in the afternoon.”

  “What’s that got to do with Jake?” Evans asked. “More to the point, what’s it got to do with me?” But she knew.

  “I’d like you to go and represent the family.”

  “Mama!”

  “I know,” Anna-Blair said. “It’s a lot to ask, but it’s the same weekend as Cassandra’s dance recital.” She named Evans’s six-year-old niece. “Obviously Layne, Ellis, and I can’t go.”

  “It’s obvious that Layne can’t go, given that Cassandra is her child. It isn’t so obvious why you and Ellis can’t go.”

  Anna-Blair closed her eyes and shook her head. “Be fair. We need to go and support Cassandra. I am her mimi.” As far as Evans could recall, Anna-Blair had never referred to herself as grandmother. “Layne always goes to Ellis’s boys’ baseball games. It would be great if you could come to the recital, but I understand that, given the distance and your work schedule, it’s not a reasonable expectation. On the other hand, Nashville is a short drive for you.”

  “Not that short,” Evans grumbled. “Besides, I wasn’t invited.”

  “Shorter for you than for us, by a lot. And you were invited. They sent the invitation to our house.”

  “Because clearly, I still live there.” Wasn’t that just like Channing? Far be it from her to go to the trouble to get a current mailing address.

  “It’ll always be your home,” Keith spoke up, “whether or not you ever spend another night there.” He leveled his gaze on her. “Evie, you don’t have to go, of course, but I hope you’ll consider it.”

  So, that was that. “All right, all right,” she surrendered. “I’ll go.”

  “Good,” Anna-Blair said. “I brought gifts for you to take. They’re wrapped and ready to go.”

  Of course they were.

  No need to ask good old Evie before wrapping them and schlepping them over. She’ll do it.

  Chapter Fifteen

  A losing locker room was no place to be, and this one felt worse than any Jake had ever been in—probably because he had never felt so personally responsible before. He reminded himself that it was only one period and they hadn’t lost yet, but it didn’t make him feel any better.

  He put his gloves and helmet on the drying rack, stripped off his jersey, and collapsed onto the seat in his stall.

  Robbie sat down beside him and began to loosen his skates, like he did between every period. “We got what we wanted,” Robbie said with an edge to his voice. “Skating first line.”

  “For now.” Jake accepted a bottle of water from the locker room attendant, opened it, and swallowed half of it in one gulp.

  Blake had always said skatin
g first line would come eventually, and it had. Too bad it probably wouldn’t last. At least Blake hadn’t had to see it.

  Having redeemed himself at today’s morning skate after his lackluster performance at yesterday’s practice, Jake had expected to be one of the first line defensemen. Likewise, he had expected Luka to skate center, with Robbie and Logan as the other two forwards. Wingo in goal was a given. What he had not expected was for Killen to be the other defenseman. He’d thought it would be Miklos Novak—or maybe that’s what he’d hoped, because he’d felt that Miklos complimented him more than any of the other defensemen.

  Jake had played hard, but that didn’t mean he’d played well. The score was 4–2. He would love to blame the opposing team’s points on the goalie, but there was no way that was true. If not for Wingo, the score would have been even worse. He was doing his job.

  It was Jake who wasn’t doing his.

  “It’s only the first period,” Robbie said.

  Jake let out a bark of a laugh. Leave it to Robbie to be positive.

  “Holy family and all the wise men,” Robbie muttered under his breath. “Don’t kill him, Sparks. Please.”

  Jake looked up to see Wingo headed for them like a man on a mission. He had his helmet under his arm and a don’t-fuck-with-me attitude. Still in his full goalie pads, he looked like an abominable snowman lumbering through the snow. Jake expected him to start yelling as he closed the distance, but he didn’t.

  Instead, he stopped in front of Jake and leaned in to say in a low voice, “I don’t know what’s wrong with you, Sparks. You know defensemen have to work together, and you aren’t working with Killjoy. He’s doing all he can to communicate with you, but you’re in another world. You’re better than that.”

  “Hold on there, Wings,” Robbie said. “We’re a team. We win together and we lose together. It’s not the fault of one man.”

  “Yeah?” Wingo said. “We haven’t won anything yet and if things don’t change, we aren’t going to.”

  Robbie rose, clearly intending to keep up his defense of Jake, but Jake stood and laid a hand on Robbie’s arm.

  “No, Robbie. He’s right.” A goalie could see it all—the good, the bad, and the ugly. All he’d seen out of Jake tonight was bad and ugly—missed blocks, a disaster in front of the net, and two—two—trips to the penalty box because he’d been sloppy.

  Wingo looked taken aback. He glanced from Robbie to Jake, gave a half nod, and then walked away.

  Robbie and Jake settled back into their seats.

  “The nerve...” the ever-loyal Robbie began.

  “No. Stop,” Jake said. “I’m a disgrace to this team tonight, and you know it. He was right to say so.”

  Robbie paused and took a deep breath. “Not a disgrace, but you are off your game. What’s going on, man? I know it’s harder to mesh with someone you don’t like, though I don’t really understand what it is that has made you dislike Killen so much.”

  Because I don’t have a good reason.

  “Or maybe it’s not that,” Robbie suggested. “You’ve got to be thinking about your uncle.”

  That was true, but it was only part of it.

  Game day had gone smoothly enough—until it hadn’t. He’d had breakfast with his dad, a good morning skate, his signature pregame meal of chicken Alfredo, and another short nap. He’d woken feeling rested and eager for puck drop.

  Then it had happened again. He’d reached for his phone to call Blake—like he always did on game day.

  Shaken, he’d gone to dress for the rink and was greeted by the five brand-new bespoke suits Olivia had talked him into buying in London. At the time, he hadn’t seen the point in the expense and trouble, but she’d been sad and it had distracted her to spend hour after hour helping him choose designs and fabric.

  He’d dressed in one of those suits and tied a Windsor knot in one of the dozen ties in Yellowhammer colors that Olivia had insisted he needed.

  Then, just as he was about to leave for the arena, things got worse. His mother and Anna-Blair Pemberton had stormed in from their shopping with a wagonload of stuff that he hadn’t known he needed—fancy towels, candles, a giant wooden salad bowl, and a few things he could not discern the purpose of.

  And they started talking—and asking questions. It seemed that Evie wasn’t going to sleep late Sunday morning, after all. She was going to that breakfast with Killen. The mothers were giddy with delight, and they wanted to know all about him.

  That had rattled him further. His rational self said that Evie could date who she liked with no input from him. He had certainly never worried about it before. He had no right to expect her to remain unattached so she could pal around with him.

  But what he felt and what he knew were different things.

  “I don’t have a good reason,” he admitted to Robbie. “He’s interested in Evie and I don’t like it, but he hasn’t done anything.”

  Robbie wrinkled his forehead. “Do you have a yen for the lass yourself?”

  “No!” Feeling some attraction for her did not equal having a “yen” for her. “No. It’s not like that. She’s my friend. I don’t have anyone and I want her free and clear to pay attention to me. I’m just a selfish asshole.”

  Robbie nodded. “Honesty counts for something.” He leaned in. “Listen, Sparks. It’s that stupid bet. You wouldn’t feel as such if you didn’t feel imprisoned by it. Let’s call it off.”

  “No.” It wasn’t the bet. It was everything else. “You know what Glaz said.”

  “You don’t need a bet to be discreet. Come on, man. It’s affecting your play.”

  “It doesn’t have to. I was rattled, but I’m better now. I’ll get it together.”

  Robbie looked at him for a long moment. “Okay. But you know this isn’t all on you. A lot of us could have played better.”

  “I’m the only one I’m responsible for.” Blake had said that to him a thousand times—more. “You’ll see a different me next period.”

  He knew what to do to make that happen. He unlocked the compartment of his stall, reached for his puck, and turned it over in his hand three times, recalling Blake’s wise words.

  You have a special talent, but never think you’re so special you don’t have to work hard.

  Skate every play like it’s the last one of your life, even if you’re winning ten to nothing with five seconds left to play.

  Don’t let your ego get in the way of excellence.

  Leave your troubles off the ice. You owe that to your fans, your teammates, and yourself.

  Jake stroked the hard rubber of the puck, and felt calmer and more centered. Then he remembered something else Blake had told him, when he was playing juniors. He must have been about sixteen.

  Woman trouble can ruin a career.

  Woman trouble was woman trouble, he supposed—even when the woman in question was just a friend.

  “Sparks?” Luka’s Russian accent was unmistakable.

  Jake opened his eyes. “Yes?”

  “Coach wants to see you in his office.”

  “I’ll bet he does.” He rose, ready for whatever Glaz was going to dish out—and ready for the rest of the game. He started to lock the puck up again, but decided to hold on to it a little longer.

  * * *

  “He should have stayed in Nashville,” Christine pronounced in a whisper. She was truly out of sorts. Christine, not wanting to deprive anyone in earshot of her wisdom, didn’t whisper. “I’ve never seen him play like this—at least not in his adult life.”

  Evans failed to see how his locale had anything to do with his performance, but she knew better than to say so. Anna-Blair reached across Evans to clasp Christine’s hand.

  The first period was over and the people around them got up to help themselves to the buffet and bar at the back of the friends and family suite. Ke
ith and Marc rose, but Evans, Christine, and Anna-Blair kept their seats.

  “We’re going to get a beer,” Marc said. “Join us?”

  “No, thank you,” Christine said tightly.

  Anna-Blair declined with a shake of her head. In truth, Evans would have liked to move around, but getting up when Christine was so clearly distressed seemed a little too much like breaking into a foxtrot at a funeral. Which brought up an interesting point—why was Christine so upset? While she had always been supportive of her son, she had never lived and died by his performance.

  “Can we bring you anything?” Keith offered.

  Could they? Evans had started her period today, and she could really use a glass of red wine and one of those brownies she’d seen on the buffet. She looked at Christine for guidance. After all, she was the mother. Christine looked down and shook her head.

  “No, thank you,” Evans and Anna-Blair said at the same time. So, no moving around, no chocolate, no booze.

  When the men had gone, Christine turned to meet Evans’s eyes. “What’s wrong with him, Evie?”

  “He’s having a bad game?” The penalties and missed shots alone spelled that.

  “But why is he having a bad game?” Christine asked. “When he was younger, this happened when he was upset, but by the time he left for North Dakota, he’d learned to leave his feelings off the ice. Even after the divorce, he didn’t play like this.” Christine ran her hand through her hair—another indication of the level of her distress. She did not like her hair messed up. “You’ve spent time with him. Has he said anything?”

  “No,” Evans said. “Not to me. He’s seemed fine.”

  Anna-Blair leaned in. “Maybe he’s just having a bad day, Christine. There have been a lot of changes—the move, new team, different coach than he expected. Besides, was it really that bad?” Even after all these years, Anna-Blair had never grasped hockey beyond the final score.

  “It was that bad,” Christine said emphatically. “When Jake goes to the boards to fight for the puck, he almost always comes away with it. I don’t think he has a single time tonight.”