Page 24 of Hot for the Hockey Player (The Single Moms of San Camanez: The Vino Vixens #2)

Maverick

Gabrielle definitely didn’t want me there.

That was plain to see. But why?

Was she upset over me going to Damon’s school? Did I do something? Was I over too much?

We ate dinner in awkward silence. Relying on the children to fill the air with chatter, but Damon wasn’t chatty, and Laurel was shy by nature. So it was just a lot of clanking utensils and Gabrielle deliberately avoiding making eye contact with me.

When Honor showed up, I could see Gabrielle sigh in relief that I was taking my leave of her.

I thought about asking Laurel if her mother was upset with me, but immediately decided against it. She was just a kid. It wasn’t her place, or her job, to help me sort out the mystery that was her mother.

I did manage to have a chat with Damon as we played video games, and managed to get out of him that he wasn’t actually friends with any of the boys that joined him in the parking lot that day.

In fact, he didn’t like any of the boys in his grade or the grade above.

He said they were all like Brad Vasser. They all listened to some alpha male podcaster named Germaine Pratt who touted “advice” about how to make women submissive to men, what a “high value” male was, and how wokeness was ruining traditional gender roles.

“You don’t listen to him, do you?” I asked, glancing over at Damon as we sat on the couch.

“I tried once,” he confessed. “Guy was a massive tool. The way he spoke about women …” He shook his head. “Even if I did like it, Mom would never let me listen to that kind of thing.”

“Because your mom is a badass feminist and knows bullshit when she hears it.”

Damon nodded. “I hate those guys, but they’re all there is.”

My chat with Damon gave me a lot to think about.

This was the first time I’d heard of Germaine Pratt, but some of the guys on my team listened to other douchebags like him.

The “Lonely Man” epidemic was a continued topic of discussion among some of my teammates.

While none of them said they were lonely, because they had women throwing themselves at them, they could see how “unsuccessful” men, and mid-level athletes might be lonely because of all these “woke” women.

I couldn’t wrap my head around the idea that being “woke” was a bad thing.

How was love, acceptance, understanding, and compassion bad?

I saw a lot of similarities between where I grew up in West Virginia and the conservative, divisive mentality there, and the boys in Damon’s class and the podcast they worshipped.

It made me uncomfortable to be a white male of privilege, because honestly, my kind was the problem.

I pushed those thoughts from my mind for the time being and drove Laurel and Honor to our watercolor class.

Just like the cheesemaking workshop, Hugh Tapper’s, the metalwork, and the woodwork, the art studio was located on a residential property.

Unlike the others though, the studio wasn’t in a converted barn or Quonset hut, it was in a very modern carriage house behind a more dated two-story A-frame with shake siding.

Two old classic Ford pickups sat in the double carport under the carriage house, and I followed the girls up the stairs on the left to the second level.

They didn’t bother knocking and just opened the door.

Bright, overhead recessed lighting greeted us.

Not white LED though, which I appreciated, but more of a warm, almost mood lighting.

What I could only describe as tribal music, with a heavy single drumbeat, played softly in the background.

There were three long tables with bench seating on either side, and three “stations,” one on each side.

A paint pallet, jar of water, array of brushes, and several pieces of thick, textured paper sat at each spot. About half of the spots were full.

I followed the girls and sat against the wall beside Laurel.

“Hello again, friend,” greeted Sage, the owner and instructor of Seastar Studio.

She reached for my hand and cupped it with both of hers.

Every single one of her long, paint-splattered fingers had a ring—or two—on it.

Her nearly two-foot-long blonde dreadlocks with wooden beads on some of the strands, were piled high on top of her head today, unlike the other day when I first met her and they hung nearly down to her butt.

She was exactly what you would expect when someone said “hippy.” She even smelled of patchouli and cannabis.

But looking around the room at her finished pieces, there was no denying the woman had talent.

I nodded at her. “I’m well, Sage. Thank you. How are you?”

Her smile was serene. Almost like she’d already been into the ganja. “Every day I wake up is a good day.”

“That’s one way to look at it,” I said with a closed-mouth smile.

Her plethora of wooden bangles clacked when she released my hand, and her flowy green and khaki skirts reminded me of hanging moss as she seemed to float away from me to the front of the room. More people filtered into the studio until all the stations were full.

“Welcome, everyone,” Sage greeted in her breathy voice. “Thank you so much for choosing to spend your time and energy here with me—with each other, with your creativity—this evening.”

I glanced at Laurel who smirked.

Honor giggled beside her.

“This session’s theme is movement through nature. But don’t be afraid to get creative and put your own interpretation on how you view movement in nature.”

I gently elbowed Laurel. “How do you view movement in nature?”

She snickered, then teasingly pressed her finger to her lips to tell me to shush.

The next hour and a half went by quickly.

And despite how kooky Sage was at times, she was a great instructor, and I had already learned a lot from her.

Next to Honor and Laurel, my painting was a hot pile of garbage, but they’d been doing these classes for nearly a year.

So I refused to let my ego get too bruised.

“Well done, friend Maverick,” Sage said, as we packed up our stations—the painting supplies in front of us would be ours only for the duration of our sessions. “Is this the first time you’ve done watercolor?”

“First time I’ve picked up a paintbrush in nearly twenty years,” I said matter-of-factly.

“You have a gift.” She rested her hand on my shoulder as she peered over me and inspected my piece.

“You can tell those are evergreen trees swaying in the wind, right?” I asked, glancing up at her.

“Of course I can. I can feel the wind. I can see the wind. You have a real gift.” She glanced over at Laurel and Honor. “And you’re sitting with two of my most accomplished students. I’m sure they can teach you more than I can.”

The girls beamed.

“I tried not to copy them,” I joked. “But even when I did copy them, theirs still came out better.”

“Comparison is the thief of joy, friend Maverick. Focus your energy here.” She pointed to the canvas. “And here.” Then she pressed her palm into the center of my chest and closed her brown eyes for a moment.

The girls giggled.

I nodded and shifted awkwardly in my seat. Was she hitting on me? Or was this just her hippy vibe and she acted like this with everyone? “I’ll do my best.”

Sage opened her eyes and smiled placidly at me before removing her hand and focusing on the class. “See you all next week,” she said, her voice a little louder as she stepped back from me, but kept her gaze on mine for another couple of heartbeats.

I took Laurel and Honor’s cue and got up from the bench, following them to where we stored our art supplies, then out the door and down to my truck. Not until we were all safely in the cab, and the engine was on, did I risk asking the question. “Is she like that with everyone?”

“What do you mean?” Honor asked from the backseat as she buckled herself in.

“Flirty.”

“She was flirting with you?” she asked.

“Wasn’t she?”

“I dunno. I’m nine.”

Laurel snorted. “That’s just Sage. She’s weird with everyone. Mom calls her ‘touchy-feely’. Which Mom hates, because she’s not touchy-feely at all.”

No, Gabrielle Campbell definitely wasn’t the touchy-feely type at all. To be honest, when she hugged me that first day, it shocked the crap out of me.

“I don’t think she was flirting,” Laurel added. “I mean, unless you think she flirts with me too. Because she’s said the same things to me, and put her hand on my shoulder and in the center of my chest.”

I glanced over at her and smirked as I reached the end of the long gravel driveway and turned onto the road that would take us back to the vineyard. For eleven, Laurel was incredibly smart, and very well-spoken. “You’re probably right.”

“Isn’t Sage also married?” Honor asked.

“Yeah, she has a husband and a wife,” Laurel replied.

My brows shot up for a quick second. “Oh!”

Like it was no big deal—because it really wasn’t—Laurel shrugged. “Yeah, her wife—Roz—makes soap, and her husband—Miguel—is a firefighter and spins wool from their sheep.”

“Quite the power throuple,” I murmured.

“What’s a ‘throuple’?” Honor asked. I glanced at her in the rearview mirror. The way she wrinkled her nose was cute. “Is that like a couple, but with three people?”

“That’s exactly what it is,” I said.

She nodded. “Hmm. I’ve never heard that before.”

Laurel’s smile was far too knowing, too mature for her young, preteen age. I’d definitely have to be careful what I said around this kid. “Roz Berry makes really nice soap. We have some at home. She made a special one with tea tree for Damon to help with his acne, and it worked really well.”

“Wait.” I faced her for a second before focusing back on the road as we drove through the quiet, dark streets of the island. “Her name is Roz Berry ?”

“Well, Rozlyn, but she goes by Roz.”

“And her last name is Berry,” Honor added with a little giggle. “I think it’s funny.”

I smirked again and shook my head. “It’s certainly something.”