The next five minutes is a flurry of activity as we get all the food from the pots, pans, and grill—for the cheeseburgers—to the table. Jenna moves around, putting spoons to serve in each dish, and pursuant to Emory’s orders, I get glasses of ice water to go with our wine.
When all is set and every square inch of the table is taken up by dishes of savory food, we take our seats. It’s a table that seats six and I note that Felicity put little place cards on each plate. She has me sitting next to her, directly across from her mom, who sits beside Jenna. The ends of the table are left empty.
Emory lifts her glass of red wine and Jenna and I follow suit. I give a little nudge of my arm to Felicity, who, with both hands, picks up her glass I’d filled halfway with apple juice.
“This isn’t an official celebration of Thanksgiving, but it doesn’t mean we aren’t grateful for the bounties in our life. Let’s revel in our family and friends, eat foods representative of our own heritages, and have no shame in undoing the button on our pants if we consume too much. Cheers.”
“Cheers,” everyone echoes, and I try to banish the thought of the button on Emory’s jeans coming undone because I’m not thinking about that maneuver in the same way she is.
I take a sip of my wine and set it down. All the bowls and dishes in the center of the table are easily accessible by the adults, and Emory looks across the setting to Felicity at my side. “Hand me your plate, Pip.”
“Pip?” I ask, my head turning to look from Felicity to Emory.
“Short for Pipsqueak,” she explains with a smile. “It was a nickname when she was little and part of it stuck.”
“Jett can fill my plate,” Felicity replies and looks up at me expectantly.
I have no qualms with helping the little lady, so I pick up the dish before her and ask, “Tell me what you want.”
“Cheeseburger,” she replies, and that was a no-brainer. I use the tongs beside the platter of fully assembled cheeseburgers to transfer one to her plate. I had been advised as we were placing stuff on the table that Felicity likes hers plain. I decided to brave the steak and kidney pie, so we didn’t set out any condiments.
“What else?” I ask.
“That’s it,” she replies with a grin, and I frown at her. “I don’t like vegetables.”
“But they make you big and strong,” I reply.
“I’m fine being petite,” she quips and reaches out to take the plate from me. I set it before her on the table.
I glance over at Emory who isn’t watching us, but is clearly listening as she dishes food onto her own plate, because she’s smiling with what I assume is both amusement and frustration over her picky eater.
“You don’t like any vegetables?” I ask the little girl.
“French fries.” She picks up her burger.
“Aha,” I exclaim. “A potato girl. It just so happens the dish I brought has potatoes in it.”
Her burger stops halfway to her mouth, her expression dubious.
“Kroppkakor is nothing but mashed potatoes stuffed with fried pork, and the sauce that goes on top is yummy. Give it a try?”
She’s unswayed, and I know this because her nose wrinkles. She opens her mouth to decline but Emory cuts in. “What’s the rule?”
I glance from mother to daughter, who gives a dramatic sigh and drawls in an exaggerated tone of dismay. “I have to try something new at least once. If I don’t like it, I don’t have to continue to eat it.”
“Exactly,” Emory says and then nods at me. “Toss one of those kroppy things on her plate.”
I laugh and correct her. “Kroppkakor.”
After one bite, Felicity deems the kroppkakor to be no cheeseburger and passes on further bites.
To my surprise, steak and kidney pie is delicious, as is the kroppkakor, and I had two helpings of trifle. There were a host of other side dishes and I tried a little of each, the only thing ignored being a cheeseburger. I could have one of those any day.
All of us clean the kitchen, packing food into containers, including a doggy bag for me to take home. When we’re done, I’m prepared to say my goodnights and many thanks for great food and even better company, but to my surprise, Emory asks, “Want another glass of wine?”
I only had the one with dinner.
I’m even more surprised when Jenna puts her hand on Felicity’s shoulder and moves her into the living room. “Let’s find a movie to watch, kiddo.”
“We’ll sit out on the back patio,” Emory announces. “I have one of those nifty little gas fire tables.”
I am all in on another drink with Emory, away from Jenna and Felicity, in the glow of a fire table. I wanted some alone time with her, a desire that falls strictly outside of the friends-only label I keep putting on us.
The covered patio is nothing but a square concrete slab surrounded by low-growing succulents in rocky beds, but Emory has managed to make it an oasis. At the two post corners of the roof, there are super large pots planted with some type of green vine that crawls up the posts and disappears. I imagine it might cover the outside and top of the patio roof, but it’s the little white flowers on it that make an impression as the sweet perfume hits my nose.
She has an l-shaped wicker couch with square cut cushions, and in front of it, a square tiled table filled with colorful stones. Dotted all around the perimeter of the patio are various sized pots on stands of varying heights, all green and flowing, some with flowers and some without. It’s a stark contrast to the browns and taupes normally associated with the scenery of Phoenix and almost has a tropical feel to it.
Emory filled our glasses before coming out onto the patio and efficiently lights the table with the push of a button. It casts a pretty glow but isn’t designed for warmth, which is fine, given it’s a fairly mild night in the mid-sixties.
Taking the short end of the couch, I sit just adjacent to her. It puts us close enough that our knees could touch if we angled them in, but seems appropriately far enough away to sit as friends.
Emory curls her feet under her, angles more to me, and lays an arm across the back of the couch. She curls her wine glass into her body as she studies me.
“So, how did you manage to pull off such an amazing authentic Swedish dish?” she asks.
I laugh, draping my arm over the couch to mimic her, which also lets my entire body turn more her way. “My mom has a friend, who has a friend, who has a friend, who has someone she sort of knows, who knows someone else in Scottsdale.”
Emory cocks an eyebrow. “That’s a tenuous relationship.”
One shoulder lifts in a semi-shrug of disregard. “Let’s just say money made things easier. I was asking for it on short notice, after all.”
“How much did you actually pay for it?”
“Only had to cough up two tickets on the ice to the next home game,” I reply proudly. “My fame is as good a currency as dollar bills.”
She laughs again, and while her words are often crisp and efficient, her humor comes out easy and relaxed. “You know… you’re not at all what I thought you’d be.”
Now I’m the one who cocks an eyebrow, leaning to the side to put my glass of wine on the fire table. I’m more of a beer drinker. When I straighten, I ask, “What did you think I’d be?”
“Well, word on the street is you’re a player,” she replies smartly.
I snort. “That can be said about any single professional athlete out there.”
“Fair point,” she replies with a nod, as she takes a small sip of her wine.
I don’t want to focus on my reputation as a player, because she’s not wrong. It’s not that I try to burn through as many women as I can, but it is well known among my teammates that I am not looking for anything serious at all. The opposite of a serious relationship usually means a succession of one-night stands, schedule permitting of course.
For some reason, I don’t want Emory to know that, so I change the subject. “What’s the source of Felicity’s sudden urge to pay homage
to Thanksgiving? Was she born here?”
“She was,” Emory replies without hesitation, but I can sense a bit of tension in her voice. “Her father is American and he wasn’t big on any type of holiday really, so just like in my own childhood, we didn’t celebrate it. I think Felicity was really just aiming for cheeseburgers, to be honest.”
I laugh, taking stock of my newfound respect for the little girl. Her manipulation is adorable. But it’s a serious question I ask next, because she opened the door and now I’m curious as hell. “Why didn’t her dad celebrate holidays?”
Emory’s gaze drops to her glass a moment, but rather than take a fortifying sip which it seems like she needs right now, she lifts her head to meet my eyes. “He comes from a lot of money. The type of money that meant boarding schools and family holidays weren’t a big deal to them.”
No helping my next question. “And he’s not in the picture now?”
She doesn’t look away as she shakes her head. “He’s um… well, he has his own demons, and he’s been out of the picture awhile.”
My thoughts aren’t of Emory at all, but rather Felicity. “I’m sorry. That has to be tough.”
As if she understands I’m talking about her daughter, and not her, she nods an affirmation. “Felicity doesn’t quite understand why he’s not around, but she’s coping very well.”
I don’t poke at the subject. There are a million questions I could ask, starting with finding out if Emory and Felicity’s dad are married or not. Perhaps divorced? Did he leave her? Abandon Felicity? Meet another woman?
Whatever the reason, I know Emory relocated here from Los Angeles to take this job, and it’s only her, Jenna, and Felicity.
While I let such a personal subject go, indeed happy she shared just that much, I’m not afraid to be bold. “I’d like to see you again. Take you on a date.”
Emory’s not surprised by my request. Her eyes don’t flare wide and she doesn’t jerk her chin in as if my idea is preposterous. Instead, she smiles sadly. “My life is complicated right now.”
“Mine isn’t,” I say cheerily. “I’ve got room for complicated.”
For a moment, I’m surprised by my complete lack of inhibition in committing myself to the notion of a relationship. None of this is planned and is strictly off the cuff, but it feels right.
Rather than becoming morose, Emory’s lips actually curl and her expression turns sly. “You don’t like kids, Jett. I saw it on your face when you came to pick me up last weekend for dinner.”
I shake my head and wag a finger at her. “That’s absolutely incorrect. I love kids. I just never really wanted to be involved with someone with a kid, so yes, I was disappointed. But surely you see I’m good with them. Felicity and I are now best friends.”
I know she saw it. I spent most of dinner talking to Felicity, who spent a lot of time questioning me about hockey, Sweden, and a pet iguana I told her I had as a kid that, unbeknownst to me, she has been wanting for herself.
“You did manage to charm my daughter,” she admits reluctantly.
“Think of it this way,” I say, hoping I’m not shooting myself in the foot. “Your life is complicated, so you’re not looking for something serious. I’m not looking to settle down, so I’m not looking for something serious. We’ve had some great conversations. I like you and I think you like me. Why not just go out on a date and see what happens?”
Emory’s eyebrows draw inward as she considers my proposition. “Something casual?”
“No-strings,” I add on for clarity.
Her head tilts. “Is date ‘code’ for sex?”
“I’m not opposed to sex,” I say neutrally. “Are you?”
“I like sex,” she agrees with a smirk.
“It would be exclusive,” I say definitively, because while I’ve never liked to hamstring myself in that way, the thought of Emory seeing other men causes something deep in my chest to rumble fiercely with possessiveness.
I don’t try to analyze it though. I keep moving forward. “It can be whatever we want. It can be as simple as you want, so you don’t have more complications in your life.”
“I do like you,” she admits. “You’re easy.”
“That I am,” I reply with a lewd smile. “You can do whatever you want with me.”
Emory snickers and shakes her head, her smile turning warm. “I mean you’re easy to be with. I like that you’re uncomplicated.”
“And I like that you don’t like complications,” I reply.
“Sounds like we’re well suited,” she observes, and I note something husky in her voice. Something… sexual.
In all my fantasies about Emory Holland—and there have been quite a few—I never imagined her being so open to something like this. Maybe I had stereotyped her into being more on the straight and narrow given the brush off she’d given me when we first met. Not exactly a prude, but definitely one who needs to warm up to intimacy.
“Let’s set something up then,” she says, the husky tone gone and her accent crisp and sharp once again. I almost shake my head, wondering if I imagined it. “Drinks, or maybe dinner?”
“Fan day,” I say without giving it much thought. It’s tomorrow, and I don’t want to waste any opportunity to see her.
Last year, Dominik threw a massive carnival on the grounds of the arena. It can’t possibly accommodate all the Vengeance fans, so he has to have a lottery for the tickets, but it was so well received last year, that he doubled the size of it this year.
“I was going to take Felicity,” she says hesitantly. “And try to talk Jenna into coming.”
“I’ll meet you there,” I say, not wanting to give her a chance to back out. “Maybe Jenna can take Felicity home after all the Ferris wheel rides and cotton candy sure to make her little tummy churn, and then you and I can go out for a drink?”
Emory’s eyes shimmer with appreciation that I don’t try to cut her daughter out of the plans, and there’s an underlying glimmer of excitement that we’ll have alone time after.
Whatever I’m seeing in her expression—the excitement of something new between us—is echoed within me. I have no clue what in the hell I’m getting into, but I’m glad it’s happening.
CHAPTER 8
Jett
Vengeance Town is what they call the area of Phoenix that houses the hockey arena. It sits on the very edge of the city and takes up three city blocks. The arena itself sits in the exact middle and it cost $375 million to build. Investors put another $100 million in a retail shopping center that surrounds it on the perimeter, separated by several large parking lots and garages.
The carnival is set up throughout the concourse separating the arena from the retail stores and it’s really quite the spectacle. It has all the standard rides from merry-go-rounds to a huge Ferris wheel. Dozens of game booths are set up where kids can win stuffed animals and goldfish. Not as prolific, but still aplenty, food stalls are dotted around providing all kinds of weird delights from huge turkey legs to deep-fried Snickers. I can feel my arteries clogging as I walk past them.
In an effort to keep things casual and uncomplicated, Emory told me via text she’d be here sometime between 2-4 PM.
My reply was just as laid back. I’ll find you.
Of course, I’ve been here most of the day as the carnival is for the fans, first and foremost. It’s well past two PM now, and I’ve been walking around for almost forty minutes, keeping my eyes peeled for that raven hair.
I’m not a total stalker though. I’ve run into several teammates and their families, entered friendly competitions at some of the game booths, and enjoyed a beer with Dominik, Willow, and their soon-to-be son in the eyes of the law, Dillon. While I don’t have an ounce of desire to create such a familial unit, I can’t help but be moved by how happy they are.
Most particularly, Dillon, who moved out of a group home for boys right into a stable family environment with two caring people who will move heaven and earth to give him happiness.
“Jett.” A male voice—more particular, the left-wing to my right-wing—Jim Steele. He’s at the Whac-a-Mole booth where his daughter Lucy and his wife, Ella, are both furiously trying to smash the vermin as they pop up from their holes. Jim is casually leaning against the corner, arms over his chest, as I approach.
He gives them a nod. “They’ve been at it for almost ten minutes. I thought they’d be tired by now.”
“I’m not giving up until mom gives up,” Lucy chirps.
Ella gives an evil laugh. “I’m never giving up.”
Jim shakes his head in amusement, advising me, “They’re more competitive than I am, and that says something.”
Before I can respond, Jim’s gaze moves past me and his eyes light up with recognition and a bit of excitement. I turn to look that way and I’m shocked to see Riggs walking toward us on the midway with a young teenage girl who I can only assume is his seventeen-year-old sister.
She doesn’t look exactly like Riggs. He has dark brown hair and even darker eyes, and her hair is strawberry blonde cut bluntly at her shoulders and what looks to be either blue or green eyes, but I can’t tell from this distance.
But they have the same mouth—set in the same distinct frown that Riggs seems to perpetually wear. She doesn’t look happy to be here and walks with her shoulders slightly hunched, hands tucked down into her jean pockets.
Riggs’ eyes sweep over us and come back. Jim and I both raise a hand in greeting, and Jim beckons. We’ve been wanting to get to know Riggs better and this is a great opportunity, as it’s the first time he’s brought his sister to a team function.
Our reclusive defenseman looks left and then right, as if looking for someone—something—to save him from being sociable, but then with a sigh, he leans to the side to say something to his sister.
He nods our way, and her eyes follow. They remain guarded but she follows her brother over to us.
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