Page 5

FOUR

“What do you think?” Jason asked, and held his breath.

His older sister smacked her lips together. “Tastes like maple syrup but... not? I’m getting dried plums, raisins, pears. Also a slightly nutty flavor. What did you say this was?” Brie leaned a hip against a bench inside the sugar shack and peered at the label-less jar of syrup he’d given her to sample.

“Beech syrup. I made it last spring.”

“Why?” Brie dipped her spoon back into the jar.

Jason shuddered. “Ugh. Gross. Don’t double dip.”

She ignored him and triple dipped.

Why were sisters so annoying?

“Why am I sampling beech syrup?” she asked.

“Because I thought we could make it and sell it in the shop.”

“Huh.”

Jason tried to read her expression and couldn’t. “Huh, like cool ? Or huh, like the fuck are you on about? ”

Brie considered that for a moment and licked her spoon clean. “A little of both.”

Huffing a breath that was both irritated and amused, he planted his hands on his hips. “Can you elaborate?”

“What’s the market for this?” she asked, waving her spoon at the jar.

“Small, admittedly. Same with birch syrup and walnut syrup. Hickory, basswood, poplar, birch, and sycamore too. But you can sell syrup from those trees at a higher price point—often four to six times the price of maple syrup—because the sap-to-syrup ratio is so much higher than it is for sugar maples.” He leaned back against the wall and prepared to monologue about his thesis project. “Those other syrups have more of a niche market—specialty food stores and restaurants mostly. Farmers markets too.”

“Okay,” Brie said, stopping him from going into the fascinating chemical compositions of sugar maples compared to other tree species. “But why should we make these other syrups? Why not stick with maple syrup?”

“Because sugar maples are more vulnerable to weather variability?—”

“Yes, I know .” She waved a hand. “I’m a sugar farmer. I’m well-versed on the impacts of climate change. That doesn’t answer my question.”

Crossing his arms over his chest, Jason huffed another breath and skipped straight to his conclusion. “Because it can’t hurt to diversify in case we have a warm winter—or two or three in a row—that affects our yield. With sugar maples, we’re putting all of our eggs in one basket. If we tap other trees, it makes us more climate resilient and—honestly, it just makes sense economically.”

“Does it, though?” she said, ever the voice of reason to his big ideas. “Just because we make it doesn’t mean it will sell.”

“Of course not. That’s why I came to you first. You’re a marketer. From a marketing perspective, does this make sense?”

Brie capped the jar and slid it along the bench toward him, her lips taking on the weird grimace that told him she was thinking.

Seeing an opening, Jason pounced. “There’s research that shows that when consumers are given information about the type of tree the syrup was made from and the benefits of forest diversification, they’re willing to pay more per bottle compared to those who didn’t receive that information.”

“Is that from your own research?” Brie asked, pulling a knit hat over her pixie cut.

“Yes, but it also supports other research.”

“And let me guess.” She gave him a knowing smile and pulled the door to the shack open. They stepped into a sunny day that made them both squint. “You want to use the trees on our farm to support your thesis project.”

“I mean...” Jason shrugged guiltily, thinking of the non-sugar maples he’d already tapped on their parents’ property—including a few beech trees—and clutched the jar of beech syrup in one hand. “We have the trees, so why not?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Brie quipped. The sarcasm wasn’t lost on him. “Maybe because it costs money to produce syrup from sap?”

“I’ll be making it at UNH’s sugar shack.” He could technically make it in their own sugar shack, but he was worried about cross-contamination. “They’ve got one on campus, and I’ve already been given permission to use it. It’s where I made this.” He waggled the syrup jar at her.

Brie grunted, which could mean anything from good job, you to get your head out of the clouds. She opened the driver’s side door of her SUV. “Send me your research. I’ll take a look, do my own research, see if these fancy syrups will sell?—”

“They’re not fancy ?—”

“And we’ll go from there. If I think we can sell them, I’ll help you make a case to Dad.”

“Really?” Hope speared his chest and squared his shoulders. “Awesome. Thank?—”

“But we start small,” Brie interrupted—again. “We don’t tap every non-sugar maple we have. We start with one or two species and see how it goes.”

“Obviously.”

“Okay. I’ve got to?—”

Brie’s phone pinged, interrupting her for a change, and she pulled it out of her pocket. “Well, hey, look at that. Rob says Callie lost a tooth at school today.” She frowned, pulled her wallet out of the center console of the car, and riffled through it. “I need whatever cash you have on you.”

“What? Why?”

“I need a few dollars to put under Callie’s pillow, and neither Rob or I have cash.”

Jason removed his own wallet from his pocket and fished around for cash for his niece. “I don’t have any bills. I might have a dollar in coins on my dresser at home.”

Brie sighed. “Damn. Life is tough for the Tooth Fairy in an age where nobody carries cash anymore.”

Laughing, Jason got into her passenger seat and she dropped him off at the farm’s shop before heading home with a wave out the driver’s side window.

The shop was open on weekends year-round. During sugaring season, it was open during the week too, with extended hours in March for the Maple Syrup Festival. Jason had always liked working in the shop because on top of the usual maple products—syrup, candies, and maple-based BBQ sauces, salad dressings, and spreads—they also carried unique items made by Vermont artisans. It always gave him a burst of secondhand pride when a customer went home with something handmade from their shop. Sheila put a lot of thought into the products they carried, and she met with local makers regularly to restock products and source new ones.

She was restocking a shelf of mini three-ounce maple syrup bottles when he walked in. She was tall, nearly Jason’s height of six feet, with reddish-brown skin and chin-length black hair in tight corkscrew curls. Pausing in her task when the door slammed closed behind him, she beamed at him, her smile as radiant now as it’d been the day she’d married his dad. “Hi, lovey.”

“Hey. I can finish that for you if you want to head out.”

“Don’t mind if I do.” Sheila handed him the box of mini bottles. “Standing on my feet for hours isn’t as easy as it used to be. Don’t get old.” She patted his shoulder. “It’s a trick.”

Laughing, Jason set the box aside and removed his coat, shoving it into a nook behind the cash desk. “I’ll remember that on my next birthday. Slow day?”

“We had customers off and on.” She wrinkled her nose, making her little hoop nose ring glint. “Always at the same time, of course. We’ve just got the one right now,” she added, tipping her head toward the back of the store.

A lone figure stood with their back to them, perusing a table of handmade beaded jewelry. Their hood was up, but even without seeing them from the front, Jason recognized the jacket and thus the man it belonged to.

Tap Hole Asshole’s Friend. Aka Bellamy Jordan.

A bolt of eagerness slammed into Jason, and he quickly tamped it down. A spark still fizzled, but he ignored it and waved goodbye to Sheila as she left, calling a “Don’t forget to lock up” over her shoulder, as she did every time he worked the closing shift.

Inhaling a slow breath, Jason rounded the table to face Bellamy. He held two half-gallon jugs of maple syrup in the crook of one arm that Jason hadn’t noticed from the back. “Hi.”

Bellamy jolted, clearly off in his own world, and met his gaze. Confusion crossed his face as he shoved his hood back and looked around. “Where’d the lady go?”

“Sheila? She’s gone home for the evening. You get me.”

“But I was going to ask her how to get more of these.” Bellamy held up a bracelet made of green, white, and red beads.

“How many more?”

“Uh...” Bellamy picked two similar ones off the rack and said, “Twenty? No, wait. Like, forty? No, twenty. Definitely twenty.”

What did he need twenty bracelets for? Christmas-themed ones no less. In March.

Jason rotated the rack. “These won’t do?”

“No, it has to be these colors.”

“Okay, well...” Jason scratched his cheek. Why was he finding it adorable that Bellamy wanted twenty beaded bracelets? “I can ask Sheila to get in touch with the maker tomorrow. Can’t guarantee they’ll have enough beads in those colors for another twenty bracelets, though.”

Bellamy shrugged. “It’s cool. I’ll start with these.”

“And the maple syrup?” Jason asked, leading Bellamy to the cash desk. “Are those for your grandparents? Guessing you didn’t drive an hour out of your way for something you can find easily enough in Burlington.”

“My grandparents,” Bellamy repeated tonelessly, avoiding Jason’s gaze. “Sure. Yup. This is for them. They love to buy local.”

“Most people do around these parts. Vermont’s philosophy might as well be buy local, shop small .”

“Hm. So what’s the deal with these bracelets?”

“They’re made by a local artisan,” Jason told him as he rang up Bellamy’s products. “Everything in here is.”

“Yeah?” A smile pulled those pouty lips upward. “Cool. Do you have any keychains with the Trailblazers logo? Little ones, like those maple syrup-shaped ones over there?”

“The ones you said were unimaginative?” Jason snapped, despite telling himself he didn’t care.

The smile fell off Bellamy’s face. “What?”

“The other day when you were here with your friend.” Jason scanned the second maple syrup jug and plopped it onto the counter with a loud thunk . “You said it was unimaginative. I heard you.”

“I didn’t...” Bellamy’s brow furrowed. “I didn’t mean... I just wanted to...” He trailed off, and his entire body seemed to wilt. “Never mind. What do I owe you?”

Well, fuck. Now Jason felt bad, and he couldn’t say why. “We used to have keychains in the shape of the Trailblazers jersey,” he found himself saying. Bellamy’s gaze flew to his, eyes wide with surprise. “We haven’t had any since the beginning of the hockey season, but I can get in touch with the artist. If she’s okay with me passing on her contact info, I can send it your way if you want to commission something.”

“Just give me her social media handle and I’ll look her up,” Bellamy said, his phone already in his hand.

“She’s not on social media. Here.” Jason flipped over one of the shop’s business cards and slid it across the counter, along with a pen. “Give me your number.”

Bellamy began to scribble it down, then peered up at Jason a little mistrustfully. “You’re not going to sell it, are you?”

“Who would want it?” Jason quipped, gratified when Bellamy laughed.

No, not gratified. He was—oh, fuck it all.

Jason inspected the top half of Bellamy—his bottom half was blocked by the counter—while Bellamy wasn’t looking. For a hockey player, he wasn’t overly big, though Jason supposed that wasn’t saying much. These days, there were a lot of smaller players.

Not that Bellamy was small, not in the usual sense. He was just leanly muscled rather than bulky.

His black winter coat was open over a plain blue sweater, a well-worn scarf dangled around his neck, and his hair flopped over one eye as he wrote his number on the back of the business card.

What was that on his scarf? Were those . . . ?

“Here.” Bellamy slid the business card back toward Jason. “I appreciate it.”

“I like your scarf.”

Instant scowl. “Don’t be a dick.”

Jason blinked at the vehemence. “I’m... not? I like it. The little embroidered dragons are cute.”

It took a moment for Bellamy’s frown to reverse itself. When it did, a slight furrow remained between his eyebrows. “Thank you,” he said tentatively, like he was waiting for the punchline. “My grandma made it for me.”

“If she ever has anything she wants to sell, we’re always looking for new products for the shop. It’s one sixteen for your products, by the way. Want a paper bag for ten cents?”

Bellamy waved a hand. “I’ll carry them. And thanks, but my grandma hasn’t knitted in years. I’ll let her know anyway though, in case she picks it back up again. That’s nice of you.”

“I’m a nice guy,” Jason said as Bellamy tapped his credit card on the reader.

“That why you didn’t tell me who you were on Saturday?”

Jason coughed. Well. He hadn’t intended to be called on it so spectacularly, so he played dumb. “Huh?”

“Don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about,” Bellamy said, and if Jason wasn’t mistaken, there was a hint of hurt in his voice. “I know you knew who I was. So why didn’t you tell me who you were right away?”

Jason bounced on his toes and pushed the maple syrup jugs, with the bracelets draped around one spout, across the counter toward Bellamy, just for something to do.

Because he didn’t have a good explanation for not coming right out and telling Bellamy exactly who he was when he’d joined them for darts. Aside from I wanted to suss you out to see if you were trying to use me , but Bellamy didn’t need to know about Jason’s past relationship baggage.

And he still wasn’t convinced Bellamy wouldn’t try to use him to get to Ryland at some point.

“Was it because of Ryland?” Bellamy pressed.

Jason twitched one shoulder in a shrug because yes, it was because of Ryland, however indirectly.

Bellamy scoffed, an ugly sound that had Jason examining him more closely. “So, what? Ryland hates me, so you have to hate me?”

“What? Back up a second. I didn’t say?—”

“I get it, you know.” Bellamy swept the syrup jugs into both arms, hugging them to his chest. “You’re family. Brothers. Super close if the way you’re splashed all over his Instagram is any indication. You probably hate me on principle.”

Suspicion poked at the back of Jason’s brain. “So you did know who I was. If you saw me on his Instagram?—”

“Only after we met at the pub,” Bellamy interrupted, because apparently everyone wanted to interrupt Jason today. “It’s not like I scroll through his socials on a daily basis—or ever. I have better shit to do.”

“Pretty sure he’s somewhere in Ohio scrolling through yours,” Jason murmured.

Bellamy sighed and turned toward the exit. “Of course he is. Always looking for fuel to add to the fucking fire.” His voice was as weary as the tired set of his shoulders.

“Hey,” Jason called after him, unwilling—for reasons he couldn’t name—to let him leave like this. “What are you doing right now?”

Bellamy pivoted halfway toward him as he reached the exit. “Bringing these—” He jostled the jugs. “—to my grandparents. Why?”

“Want to grab dinner?”

“We can’t eat there.”

“What?” Bellamy peered over his shoulder as Jason grabbed his wrist and towed him down the sidewalk of quaint downtown Maplewood. “Why not? It looks cute.” Sparky’s Diner, from what Bellamy could see through the window of the dining car-style restaurant, was all art deco, and he wanted to sit at the aqua-colored Formica counter and enjoy a maple cream pie, which they were famous for, according to a sign in the window.

“We have to eat here,” Jason insisted.

Here was a second diner on the opposite end of the street from Sparky’s Diner. Red’s Restaurant was a long and narrow white building with red trim and a barrel roof that kind of reminded Bellamy of a greenhouse. They, too, were famous for a maple pie. Not surprising, considering it was a traditional New England dessert. Bellamy hadn’t lived in New England in years, and just the thought of maple pie made his mouth water.

“What’s wrong with that one?” Bellamy asked, jerking a thumb over his shoulder toward Sparky’s. “Is the food not as good?”

“I’m sure it’s fine. But my family eats here.” Jason opened the door to Red’s Restaurant and waved Bellamy inside.

“Your family eats here because...” Bellamy swept past him into the restaurant, trading the enticingly woodsy scent of Jason for the fragrant scents of tomato sauce and garlic. His gut had clenched at the first, and now it rumbled hungrily at the second as they waited by the empty hostess stand. “Your families are old rivals? That’d be on brand.”

“Ha ha,” Jason deadpanned. “No. But the two families that own the diners are old rivals, going back generations. Most people who live here are loyal to one or the other.”

“That’s both the most ridiculous and most adorable thing I’ve ever heard.”

They were led down the narrow aisle—bright white countertop with cracked red stools on the right, two-seater booths on the left—to a booth about midway down, passing people who acknowledged Jason in some way, whether it was a nod or a wave or a brief, “Hey, Jase.” Bellamy, they eyed with unmistakable curiosity before going back to their meals. If they recognized him, they didn’t make it obvious.

Bellamy had never been part of a community like Jason was part of this one. A hockey team was a community in itself, but Bellamy had never been on one long enough to truly feel like an intrinsic part of it.

Earlier, at Jason’s farm shop, Bellamy had felt let down and disappointed, neither of which made any sense considering he didn’t know Jason, and Jason didn’t know him. They didn’t owe each other anything. If Jason was so loyal to Ryland that it meant he automatically hated Bellamy because Ryland did, fine. Bellamy couldn’t do anything about it—could even understand it, to a degree, even though he didn’t have any siblings himself.

But he’d still been disappointed and let down.

Those feelings had ebbed on the drive from the farm—Jason wouldn’t invite someone he hated to dinner, would he?—but now they were replaced by a sense of alienation that made the skin between his shoulder blades itch.

He and Jason had driven to Maplewood’s main street, un-ironically named Maple Street, in separate cars since they’d be heading in opposite directions after dinner—Jason back to the farm and Bellamy to his grandparents’ house.

Bellamy hadn’t known he’d be coming to Maplewood until he’d been on the road, too restless after practice to sit in the house the organization had loaned him. This was a wholly unplanned trip with the sole objective of accidentally on purpose running into Jason.

It was dumb. He was dumb. What had he hoped to accomplish by coming out here? That he’d get answers for why Jason had led him on the other day?

Bellamy had asked, but he hadn’t exactly gotten a straight answer.

And now here he was, sliding into a booth against the diner’s window across from his rival’s brother, which... was honestly a little strange. What would Ryland think if he learned about this?

Fuck. Just thinking about how Ryland would respond tired him out. The rivalry itself tired him out.

And yes, okay, he’d been the one to start the on-ice fight with Ryland way back when, but that had been years ago, and he was so over the whole fucking thing.

Maybe he’d do like Dabbs said—take the high road and not respond to Ryland’s latest post.

But doing that felt more like giving in than taking the high road—it felt like Ryland winning.

And Bellamy wasn’t a fan of Ryland winning.

He could be over the rivalry yet still want to kick Ryland’s ass, couldn’t he?

“What’s that sigh for?”

“Huh?” He looked up to find Jason watching him, those hazel-gold eyes curious. “Oh, I was trying to figure out what we’re doing here,” he said, surprised by his own words.

So was Jason, if the slight widening of his eyes was anything to go by.

“What would Ryland say if he knew we were having dinner?”

Jason grunted. “Probably ‘What the fuck, Jase?’” he said, his impression of Ryland spot on. “‘He’s been a pain in my ass for a decade and you’re having dinner with the guy? Talk about betrayal.’”

Bellamy sat back, letting his menu fall to the table as his stomach twisted. “Should I be here then?”

“I invited you, didn’t I?” Jason said, which wasn’t really an answer. He leaned forward and lowered his voice. “Can we admit, in the safe space that is this booth—” He held their menus up, one on each side, like he was creating a wall against the outside world, and Bellamy’s lips twitched. “—that the rivalry has run its course?”

Bellamy scowled. “Excuse you. No, it has not,” he said, even though he’d been thinking more or less the same thing a minute ago. “Professional sports rivalries are timeless.”

“Timeless? Or juvenile?”

“Ouch.” Bellamy mock winced and rubbed his chest. “Stick it where it hurts, why don’t you?”

Jason laughed, the sound settling into Bellamy’s bones like an old friend. Jason’s gaze drifted past Bellamy and he waved. Bellamy turned to see who he’d been waving at, but only caught the back of someone as they exited the diner.

“Does everyone know everyone in this town?”

Jason hummed. “Some more than others.”

“Have you always lived here?”

“I lived on campus in Burlington my freshman year at UVM, but I came home so often that year that I ended up staying home and commuting for the next three.”

“What’d you study?”

“I double majored in environmental science and plant biology,” Jason said absently, gaze on his menu, though Bellamy suspected he’d memorized it years ago. “What about you?”

“Sociology.”

Jason cocked his head, expectant. “And?”

“And sports management,” Bellamy added with a rueful chuckle. “Just like half the varsity athlete population at UMaine.”

“Do you want to be a sports agent? That’s Ryland’s plan for after he retires.”

Bellamy pressed his lips into a flat line at Ryland’s name and nodded. “That’s the idea. I want to be an advocate for players. Make sure they’re being treated right, that they’re where they want to be, and that they’re happy.”

He hadn’t meant to say that last part, but like at the pub the other night, Bellamy wanted to spill all his secrets at Jason’s feet.

A divot appeared between Jason’s eyes. He opened his mouth to say something, but they were interrupted by a harried waitress who couldn’t have been more than seventeen. Her name badge read Bethany . “So sorry for the delay.” Her smile was more of a grimace. “What can I get you?”

They ordered, Bellamy choosing a random burger off the menu since he’d barely had time to look at it, then handed their menus to Bethany, who departed with an off-handed smile and promises to return with their drinks in a few minutes.

“Tell me.” Bellamy sat back and kicked his legs out, not bothering to move his foot when it bumped up against Jason’s. “As a native of the Green Mountain State, what is there to do here in March other than ski?”

They chatted while they waited for their dinner, and during it too, the conversation veering naturally from topic to topic. Jason was easy to talk to. Bellamy wasn’t sure what he’d expected of him. A Ryland clone?

But although Jason was smart and confident, he wasn’t cocky about it like Ryland was. He was calm, where Ryland was chaos. He was easy to talk to, where Ryland was all about one-upmanship. He was nice, where Ryland was...

Well, Bellamy supposed Ryland was nice to people other than him. Given how frequently people gravitated to Ryland, Bellamy was clearly the only person he was a dick to.

Jason was... unhurried. From what Bellamy had witnessed so far, Vermont itself was unhurried, and Jason was the perfect embodiment of that. Not lazy or slow by any means, but neither was he rushed. His phone never made an appearance, which was frankly a bit mind-boggling. Whenever Bellamy dined with teammates, everyone’s cell phones were on the table.

Jason was a breath of fresh air—hell, he smelled like fresh air, for fuck’s sake. Bellamy enjoyed being in his company a little too much. Jason, like Bellamy’s grandparents, didn’t want anything from him. Bellamy didn’t need to win games or prove himself or adhere to a predetermined schedule or diet. Jason talked to him like he had all the time in the world to sit around and chat over empty dinner plates.

It was addicting as hell. Bellamy could sit here all night with Jason looking at him with zero expectations of him except for him to be himself.

It was so refreshing that Bellamy didn’t realize they’d been there for two hours until Bethany returned, looking frazzled as ever, and asked if they wanted dessert with a look on her face that begged them not to want dessert.

They declined, even though Bellamy really wanted the maple custard pie.

They got interrupted a few times as they left, Maplewoodians waving Jason over to chat briefly, ask about his dad and Sheila, or to let him know they’d be at the festival on the weekend.

“I thought the festival was last weekend?” Bellamy asked as they escaped the warmth of the diner for the outdoors. The temperature had plummeted since they’d arrived, and he wrapped his favorite scarf around his neck tightly.

“It’s every weekend in March,” Jason said, zipping his coat all the way up to his chin. “What are you doing?”

Bellamy snapped a photo of the diner. “Gonna post a picture to my Instagram. Let everyone know about how delicious the food is.” He began typing a caption, then caught the expression on Jason’s face. “Is that not a good idea? Would it attract too much attention? Or does it unjustly play into the diner-rivalry thing?”

“I... don’t know? Maybe on that second thing, but...” Jason shook his head, seemingly aligning his thoughts in the process. “You don’t want me to stand in front of it? So you can be all, Hey Ryland, look who I had dinner with tonight? What do you think of that? ”

Bellamy should be angry. Given that he’d considered using Jason to antagonize Ryland—although for less than a second—he should feel a smidge of guilt too.

Instead, those twin bouts of disappointment and feeling let down—which he supposed were the same thing—circled like sharks, biting at his insides until he couldn’t draw in a steady breath.

They didn’t know each other well, but did Jason really think he’d do that?

Letting his head fall back, he blinked up at the stars, a lump growing in his throat. Could he rewind the last few minutes?

Fuck. He was so goddamn tired .

“Do you know anything about my rivalry with Ryland?” he eventually asked.

Jason crossed his arms over his chest. “What do you mean?”

“I mean that I don’t start shit. Aside from that one fucking time during my first NHL game against Ryland’s team, I. Don’t. Start. Shit. I just respond to it. Because what else am I supposed to do when Ryland gets going? Let him walk all over me?”

Maple Street was mostly dark, lit by a few lampposts, the lights of the diners and those of the movie theater. Jason stood in a patch of darkness next to his muddy SUV, the shock clear on his face despite the lack of light. “What are you... What are you talking about?”

Shoulders sagging, Bellamy scrubbed a palm between his eyes. “Never mind. Thanks for dinner tonight,” he said sincerely yet tiredly. “I had a nice time. I, uh...” His short laugh lacked any humor. “I was going to ask if you wanted my comp seats to our next home game, but since you obviously think so little of me, I’ll just see myself out.”

He turned, fast-walking down the street to his rental car, waiting for Jason to call out to him.

But he never did.