'Tis the Season for Romance

by Kristen Proby

  The other two girls make their choices, and I put the order in. Then I take up a position leaning against the nearly empty bar with my friend Carly, who’s also on shift. She worked the bar tonight, while my section was in the dining room.

  “We survived another one,” she says, passing me one of the mints she keeps in her pocket. “What was your best tip of the night?”

  “Depends how you look at it,” I tell her. “A six-top tipped me fifty bucks. But my history professor tipped me fifteen bucks, and warned me to look over the Articles of Confederation before tomorrow’s quiz.”

  “He gave you a clue?” Carly looks scandalized. “And a fat tip? I think he wants your body.”

  “Think again.” I give her a grin. “He was here with his husband and their baby. I think he just felt bad that I was serving his dinner while the rest of my classmates are studying at the library.”

  And the man has a point. I work a lot of hours, and I go to school full time. There’s no time for anything else. But that’s just the way it is.

  “Fine, fine. So he’s not going to be your new boyfriend.” Carly drops her voice. “Besides, I know you only have eyes for that crew over there, anyway.”

  My glance jumps involuntarily to table number seventeen. She’s not wrong. Who wouldn’t be interested in an entire table full of sizzling hot hockey players? “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  "Uh huh,” Carly says, eyeing them. Then she lets out a little sigh of yearning. “More for me then.”

  “You wish,” I tease.

  “You bet I do. Let’s face it, table seventeen is the best thing about working here.”

  Once again, Carly is right. Neither of us can quit until springtime, though. The owner pays a $1000 bonus to wait staff who work for him for an entire year. I need that money. So I’m going to smell faintly of chicken wings for the next several months, no matter what.

  At least I can stare at hockey players. Table seventeen is a long, high table surrounded by a dozen bar stools. And it’s usually open by the time they wander in at eight o’clock, after practice is through. They’re always starving for wings and fries.

  For Carly and me, it’s like a buffet of attractiveness. The hockey team has as many flavors of hot as The Biscuit in the Basket has flavors of wings. First you’ve got Tate Adler, who’s six feet tall, at least. His flavor is what we’d call Brown Haired Defenseman Hot. Next to him sits Lex, who’s Pretty Boy Freshman Hot. And then Jonah—the Grumpy Hot Giant.

  And we can’t forget the Twins of Hotness—Paxton and Patrick Graham. I can’t actually tell them apart unless I take their order. Paxton likes the Chicken Parm wings, while his brother goes for Buffalo style with extra blue cheese.

  My favorite player of all, though, is Weston Griggs. He’s a defenseman, sporting thick brown hair and inquisitive blue eyes. I’ve had a thing for him ever since he scored Moo U’s first goal at the start of last season. And then my thing became a full-blown crush when he came into The Biscuit in the Basket that night and flashed me a huge smile, called me by my name—or at least the one printed on my nametag—and then ordered a dozen wings and a side of coleslaw.

  If I were a braver girl, I would have jotted my number onto his bill. But that’s not how I roll. I’m the kind of girl who says nothing but then thinks about him all the time instead.

  Weston often shows up in my daydreams. Hey girl, I can’t help noticing how sexy you look tonight. I have a weakness for women wearing T-shirts with hockey-playing chickens on them, shooting a southern style biscuit into a net. And even though I can have my pick of the campus women, I like mine wearing a polyester uniform apron and an androgynous visor just like yours.

  I might as well fantasize, right? It’s not like I have a real social life. I spend all my free time here.

  It’s only Thursday, though, and table seventeen has a big game tomorrow. So it’s a little quiet over there. They’re much rowdier on game nights. After a win, they drink beer by the pitcher. And after a loss, they also order shots.

  But there are more wins than losses. Moo U is a hockey school, and our guys have brought home more league pennants than any other team in the Hockey East conference. And this year could be big. The team looks great. They could go all the way to the Frozen Four.

  They’re decent tippers, too. Especially for college boys.

  “Tell you what,” Carly says. “All my other tables are gone. And since you can’t stop watching the hockey players, how about you tip me forty bucks and you can close ‘em out in my place. You know you want to.”

  “Forty bucks?” I yelp. “They’re not drinking tonight. I’ll be lucky to break even on this deal.”

  “But I’m giving you my eye candy! Duh. And besides—they just ordered two pitchers of beer. It’s someone’s birthday.” Carly chirps. “Weston’s I think.”

  “Weston’s birthday,” I say stupidly.

  “Yup!” She holds out her hand. “Now pass me forty bucks, and bring the man his birthday beer. You know you want to.”

  My glance travels, unbidden, to the strapping defenseman at the head of the table. The one whose smile makes my heart go pitter patter. And now I know when his birthday falls. That will come in handy when we’re married.

  “Earth to Abbi! Are you going to let me go off shift, or what?”

  “Fine,” I say, digging two twenties out of my apron and passing them to her. “Go already.”

  "Give Weston my love,” she says with a smirk. “You always give him the big moony eyes.”

  “I don't give anyone moony eyes.”

  "Just keep telling yourself that.” She winks, tosses her pony tail, and leaves for the night.

  Weston must be turning twenty-one, or maybe twenty-two, if he played junior hockey before college. I’m surprised he’s celebrating his birthday so quietly with his teammates. It’s not unusual for Weston to show up here with a girl on his arm. Or on his knee. Or anywhere on his person, really.

  It’s a different girl every time, though. He’s a player in every sense of the word. The women always seem happy to be his girl of the hour, though. There’s always a lot of giggling at table seventeen when Weston has female company.

  He likes the giggly. That’s his type, I suppose. So I really have no chance at all.

  The bartender wakes me from this daydream by setting two pitchers on the bar, then knocking his knuckles against the wood. Twice. “Carly around?” he calls to me.

  “I’ve got it,” I say, darting over there to get the beer. I carry them over to table seventeen with a stack of glasses.

  There are two freshmen at the table who probably aren’t twenty-one yet. But Kippy, the manager, left a half hour ago, these guys are all walking home, and I am not in the mood to play cop. So everyone gets a glass.

  “Evening boys,” I say, setting the pitchers down in front of Weston one at a time. “This one is the IPA, and this one is the IPL. Enjoy. Does anyone need anything else?”

  “Yeah we do!” one of the freshmen shouts. “You know it’s Weston’s birthday? Maybe you should do a strip tease for us.”

  Oh lovely. I don’t know this jerk’s name, but I make a mental note to remember his face, so I can stay well clear of his hands. There’s enough trouble in my life already.

  “Rookie,” Weston barks. “Don’t be that kind of asshole. Our server doesn’t need a side of sexual harassment with her job description tonight. And only an idiot would be rude to the woman who serves your food at least three nights a week.”

  I let out a startled laugh, and fall a little more deeply in love with Weston. “What an excellent point.”

  But he isn’t done. “Now put ten bucks in the kitty.” He pats the table and waits.

  The freshman blinks. But then he reaches for his wallet. The team kitty is a stash of money that builds all season long. The captain and assistant-captains are in charge of deciding which infractions require a contribution. And in the spring—after the last game is played—they choose a chari
ty and make a gift.

  Weston puts the younger man’s ten into an envelope in his backpack. “Now apologize to Gail,” he demands. “Or I’m not pouring you one of my birthday beers.”

  The younger guy scowls. “Sorry Gail,” he says gruffly. “My bad.”

  Weston turns his handsome face toward mine, and meets my gaze. His is warm and cautiously amused. “How would you grade that apology?”

  “Um…?” I’ve gotten a little lost in his blue eyes. “Sorry?”

  “I think the kid deserves no better than a B-. But I’ll leave it up to you. Should we let him pass?”

  “Sure,” I say, not wanting to make a fuss. “I’ve heard far worse, to be honest." And I wish I could say it was rare.

  "That is unfortunate,” he says softly. “But not tonight, okay? It’s my job to train up the rookies—for the good of Moo U, and for the good of hockey. It’s my sacred, noble mission.”

  “Sure it is.” His buddy Tate elbows him. “Last night you said that convincing me to order the Thai wings was your sacred, noble mission.”

  Weston shrugs. “A guy can have two sacred, noble missions.”

  “Especially on his birthday,” I add. “Cheers, boys. Drink up, because it’s last call.” We close at ten on weeknights.

  Then I leave them to it. I need to do some side work so I can leave as soon as they’re through.

  By the time I deliver the sorority girls’ food, the candles on the tables are burning low in their votive cups. This is my favorite time of night at The Biscuit in the Basket. It’s peaceful, as the murmur of quiet conversation replaces the dull roar we hear throughout the dinner rush.

  The Biscuit in the Basket has a cozy, old-time feel, like it’s been here forever. The walls are paneled in dark brown wood, but most of the space has been given over to group photos of Moo U sports teams from every consecutive year since the turn of the last century.

  I love to stop for a glance at the oldest photos, with the baseball players in their baggy, pin-striped knickers. And the hockey players with their 1960s haircuts. The women’s team photos start up a bit later, in the eighties. There’s basketball and cross country, too.

  One thing you won’t find on these walls, though, is a photo of a football team. Moo U doesn’t have one. We’re a D1 hockey school, and we do well in lacrosse and baseball, as well as winter sports like skiing and ski jumping. But football just isn’t very Vermonty. So we don’t bother.

  To finish up the night’s work, I take a seat at an empty table and roll silverware for tomorrow’s shift. And I just happen to pick a table that’s within earshot of table seventeen. Eavesdropping is good service, right? I’m easy to find if they need anything.

  Plus, it’s entertaining. The hockey players are making celebratory toasts. “To winning the league this year!” one of the twins says.

  “The league?” Weston yelps. “Why not the national championship? Aim high, Patrick.”

  “To professor Reynolds for postponing the Rocks for Jocks test!”

  “Wait, really? It was postponed?”

  “To cold beer and warm women!”

  That was the obnoxious freshman again. Weston ignores him this time.

  “To Weston!” Tate cheers. “Another trip around the sun!”

  “Aw, shucks, guys. You’re all buying me dinner, right?” He sets down his beer. “Speaking of dinner, I almost forgot about my flyers.” He pulls his backpack off the floor and unzips it. He pulls out a folder from the copy shop and flips it open. “It’s time to hang up my sign.”

  Tate looks over his shoulder and laughs. “No way. You’re doing that again? Why?”

  “Because I love Thanksgiving. It’s my favorite holiday.”

  “You could come out to the farm, you know,” Tate argues. “You have a standing invitation.”

  “That is a tempting offer, especially because your grandma makes that apple pecan tart with the crinkly edges.” Weston makes a motion with his fingers, as if crinkling imaginary dough. “—And the crumble topping is spectacular.”

  It’s so cute that I find myself smiling into the silverware bin.

  “So what’s the issue?” Tate demands. “And if you pick on my grandma’s cooking, I will hurt you.”

  “Your grandmother’s cooking is awesome. My problem is with your father’s football picks. I can’t root for the Patriots, man. Besides, I’m providing a public service.”

  “What service?” Someone snatches a flyer out of the folder and reads it aloud. “Rent a boyfriend for the holiday. For $25, I will be your Thanksgiving date. I will talk hockey with your dad. I will bring your mother flowers. I will be polite, and wear a nicely ironed shirt. Note: I don’t cook, so I am not able to bring a dish. I'm from out of town, and have no plans for the holiday. But I love Thanksgiving, and would be happy to celebrate with you. Especially if your mother is a good cook. Or your father. I’m not sexist.”

  There’s a smattering of laughter and sarcastic applause.

  “You’re charging money?” one of the freshmen squeaks.

  “It’s a nominal fee,” Weston says with a shrug.

  “But it makes you sound desperate,” the youngster says.

  “Nah, it makes me sound like I value my own time and company. And I always get multiple offers. The fee keeps the nutters away. Only women who really need my help will apply.”

  “What if it’s a dude who calls?" The whole table snickers.

  I’m surprised when Weston just shrugs. "That would be fine I guess. Fake love is fake love.”

  Twelve hockey players howl with laughter.

  And I am captivated. There’s nothing on Netflix that’s half as interesting as Weston Griggs hiring himself out on Thanksgiving. Boyfriend for Rent.

  I wonder if there’s a rent-to-own option?

  “Westie, is this even legal?” one of the twins asks. "Coach will be pretty pissed if you’re busted for solicitation.”

  “Does the team have a bail fund?” his brother asks. And then they high-five each other.

  “Don’t twist my good deed into something tawdry.” Weston lifts his perfect, masculine jaw and gives the twins a glare. “My intentions are pure. Last Thanksgiving I had a lovely meal with a sophomore nursing student in Winooski. She’d recently broken up with her high school boyfriend, and her parents were upset about the breakup. God knows why. So I went along and they didn’t mention him once the whole day.”

  “Huh,” Tate says. “So I guess she got her twenty-five bucks worth in peace of mind.”

  “Exactly. And I enjoyed a lovely turkey—cooked sous vide style, so it was extra moist and juicy. Then her mother rubbed the skin with butter and crisped it up under the broiler. And there was a sausage stuffing with water chestnuts so good I almost cried.”

  “Water chestnuts?” Tate shudders. “That’s just wrong.”

  “No, it’s glorious.” Weston puts down his beer glass. “And now I’m hungry again. We’ve got to stop talking about Thanksgiving. It’s a whole week away.”

  “You started it,” Tate says with a chuckle. “And the Pats are totally going to win this year.”

  “Bullshit,” Weston mutters. “Maybe I should come over just so I can watch your dad cry.”

  “Bet you a four-pack of Goldenpour that they win,” Tate teases.

  “Deal. We’ll settle up after the holiday.”

  Then Weston gets up and hangs his flyer on the bulletin board right by the door.

  They leave forty minutes later, and the tip is fifty bucks. Totally worth it. Although I yawn my way through my side work before racing home to burn the midnight oil for my test.

  But before I leave the Biscuit for the night, I stop in front of the bulletin board. If I hadn’t overheard that conversation tonight, I wouldn’t have looked twice at this sign. Weston didn’t put his name on it. There’s nothing there to advertise the fact that whoever hires Weston on Thanksgiving is getting a date with the hunkiest man on the hockey team.

  I reach out and tear o
ne of the phone numbers off the bottom corner. And then I tuck it in my pocket on my way out the door.

  Chapter 2

  WESTON

  My phone buzzes with a text during my Econ lecture. The professor is droning on and on about monetary policy. I don’t want to be a dick, but it’s a big lecture hall and I’ve perfected the art of texting while pretending to pay attention.

  The number is unfamiliar. It must be another inquiry for Thanksgiving. I’ve gotten three already this morning.

  Hi there, the new one begins. My name is Abbi. I saw your sign at the Biscuit, and I wonder if I could take you up on your Boyfriend Rental offer. I’m a junior here at Moo U, and my family’s place is just fifteen miles away in Shelburne.

  Hmm. Two of the other inquiries are for girls who live further afield. So I already like Abbi. I’m just about to respond when an additional message appears.

  She adds: You should also know that my step-step-mother is the sort of cook who goes to a lot of trouble. There will be a dozen homemade dishes on the table. Like butternut squash soup with shredded bacon and croutons on top. Roasted turkey, of course. But also steamed Chinese dumplings filled with turkey and scallions. Plus an army of side dishes, and three kinds of pie. She’s a superstar cook.

  Well, damn. My mouth is watering already. And before I think better of it, I ask a follow up question. Is there a dipping sauce with the dumplings? Wait, was that a rude opener? Let me try again. Hi Abbi! I’m Weston. I really like Thanksgiving, and your dumplings intrigue me.

  Abbi: Your curiosity is justified. You can’t just go home for any Thanksgiving, right? What if the mashed potatoes were out of a box?

  Weston: Bite your tongue! Only a monster would make boxed mashed on Thanksgiving.

  Abbi: I’m just pointing out that you have to be careful going home with strangers. And, for the record, last year there were two different dipping sauces for the dumplings. There was a soy-ginger sauce and also a cranberry dipping sauce.