Page 4 of Hot for the Hockey Player (The Single Moms of San Camanez: The Vino Vixens #2)

Gabrielle

I was normally far more prepared for dinner than this, but Laurel—my eleven-year-old—politely requested chicken parmesan, and I never missed an excuse to add cheese to a meal.

But when I went to get my dredging station ready, I discovered my house—and adjacent cousins’ houses—completely void of parmesan, not even a Kraft shaker bottle of the crumbly, fake abomination.

It was probably Damon. That kid had the appetite of a linebacker, and I’d caught him more than once carving off a chunk of cheese—not a slice, but a chunk —and gnawing on it like a starved mouse as he played video games.

Which was why at four-fifteen, I found myself at the San Camanez Island Town Center Grocery Store in the cheese section, and talking myself out of the round of smoked gouda that was outrageously priced at fifteen dollars for the piddly size of it.

The things we did for our children …

I knew the parmesan was going to cost me a limb, but I was prepared for that.

I also knew better than to shop on an empty stomach.

I frequently boasted to my cousins that I could go to the store and not deviate from my shopping list at all; unlike Raina, who almost always came home with a new houseplant, or Naomi, who never skipped buying a chocolate bar from the checkout line.

But damn, that brick of smoked gouda looked good. It was a weakness of mine, and I had very few weaknesses. My kids, and smoked gouda. That was about it.

With the parmesan in one hand and the smoked gouda in the other, I sighed hard, frowned, and put the gouda back down.

I spun around before I changed my mind, and smacked into the hard chest and basket of someone who smelled deliciously manly.

My parmesan landed on the grocery store floor with a dull thud .

“Oh, sorry,” I said, stepping back and bending down immediately to grab my cheese. Only the brick wall I rammed into also had the same idea, and we bonked heads.

“Ouch!” we both said at the same time, standing back up with the cheese still on the floor.

I rubbed at the top of my head, seeing more stars and little birdies in my vision than anything else. “Are you okay?” I asked.

“Mrs. Campbell?”

I blinked a few more times until things got less fuzzy and that’s when I realized that the delicious-smelling mountain of muscle I collided with was none other than Maverick Roy.

My jaw dropped as my eyes raked him from head to toe and back again, lingering a little too long on the tightness of his dark-gray Henley and the way it hugged his body. When I realized what I was doing, I shook my head and blinked some more. “M-Maverick. Hi.”

The floor may as well have been made of super glue because when he smiled, I couldn’t move a muscle. “Hey. How are you?” He leaned forward and wrapped his arms around me in a tight hug.

I hugged him back.

Big mistake, that hug.

Big.

Huge.

Because Maverick was big. Huge. The man—because he absolutely was a man now—was pure muscle, and holy hell, did he smell good. And it was impossible not to inhale.

He held me tight, and I had to resist the urge not to melt into him.

Physical touch wasn’t my thing, but I felt compelled to offer a hug to a man I hosted in my home for three years. And surprisingly, I didn’t hate the feeling of his arms around me.

Uh-oh.

“I-I’m good. W-what are you doing here?” Why was I stuttering?

He released me and stepped back, then carefully bent down and picked up my parmesan, handing it to me. “I’m actually here for rehab.”

I had a terrible poker face.

“Not that kind of rehab,” he said quickly. “On my back. After … after an injury. There’s a physiotherapist here that my doctor recommended, and they were able to get me in. So I’m here for a couple of months.”

“Really? I … we were there. At the game when you played the Riptides. We saw Barbier body check you from behind. Was it that bad?”

He lifted one shoulder casually. “Crushed my L3 and L4. Needed some minor spinal surgery where they injected bone cement into my back. It’s better, but I still have a long road of PT ahead of me.”

Holy crap. A spinal injury was terrifying.

“Concussion too,” he added. “But that’s mostly cleared up. It’s been a few weeks now. I can drive again, watch screens in moderation. It was a solid three weeks of no driving, no screens, and no bright lights though. Thought I was going to lose my mind.”

“You’ve been here three weeks?”

“No, no.” He shook his head. “I just got here today. I had to wait until they could get me in here at the clinic, and do some tests and stuff on the mainland.” A rush of color filled his cheeks.

“How are the kids? I wasn’t sure if that actually was you in the stands, or if I was so concussed I was seeing things.

” He chuckled awkwardly and scratched at the back of his neck.

“But I guess it was. The kids are so big now.”

“Yeah, Damon is fourteen and Laurel is eleven. What’s it been since you lived with us? Eight years?”

He nodded. “Yeah. I moved in with you when I was fifteen and left when I was eighteen. I’m twenty-six now.”

Twenty-six!

I definitely should not be smelling or checking out a twenty-six-year-old.

“I’d love to see the kids if … if you think that would be okay?” he asked, a shy crook to his mouth. “Do you think they remember me?”

“Oh, Damon definitely does. Laurel, not so much. But Damon follows hockey.”

That brought out another one of his enormous, toothy grins that caused an involuntary shudder to whip through me. Or maybe it was that we were standing in the refrigerator section. That had to be it.

“You should come by and see them. It’d make Damon’s day.”

“I will. Thanks.”

“You should come for dinner tonight,” I blurted out. “Tonight.” Why did I say tonight twice? Just to drive home how incredibly awkward and weird I was? Apparently. Also, my brain and mouth were no longer communicating. I always thought before I spoke, except now. Why now?

“Uh, sure. That’d be great. Thanks.”

“We’re at Westhaven Winery. Main house, top floor. Come by in like an hour?”

Like the sun was shining directly on him and rainbows were in the background, while nymphs and unicorns played backgammon or something, he lit up the entire cheese section. “Perfect. I guess bringing wine is a dumb idea though, huh? If you live at a winery?”

“Just bring yourself.” I needed to remove myself from his orbit and get some air.

My face was on fire. Was I having my first hot flash?

Was I starting menopause at forty-one? I gripped my brick of parmesan like it was a buoy in a tumultuous sea and headed toward the checkout. “See you in an hour or so?”

Even his wave was sexy. “See you in an hour … or so.” Then he shot me a wink, and I nearly walked into a barbecue sauce display at the end of the aisle.

“I can’t find anything about how Maverick’s doing,” Damon grumbled from the couch, his voice doing a hormonal squeak at the end.

His finger flew across the screen of his phone.

“They said he was taken to the hospital, that his injuries are severe but not life-threatening. What does that mean? Did he break his back? Will he ever play hockey again? Will he ever walk again?”

I hadn’t been home for five minutes and already my son’s mopey attitude was grating on me. I didn’t tell him that I ran into Maverick or invited him for dinner. I figured he would like the surprise. But now that we had a guest coming, I needed to get cracking on dinner.

With a deep, weary, but also understanding sigh, I made my way over to where my eldest child was starting his panic spiral, and delicately removed the phone from his hands.

“Go find your cousins and kick the ball around for a bit. This,” I waggled the phone, “isn’t going to help Maverick recover.

And I’m sure, when he’s ready, there will be a press release with more information. ”

Damon didn’t move. “Barbier needs to be suspended for the rest of the season for that cowardly check. Who does that? He was only suspended for five games. That’s a freaking joke.”

“Someone who knows they’re going to lose,” Laurel piped up from where she sat at our dining room table doing her homework.

Damon snorted and finally stood up.

“Have you finished your homework?” I asked him, returning to the kitchen to get to work dredging the chicken. “Even your required reading for English?”

With his shoulders rounded and his floppy brown hair hanging in his face, my moody fourteen-year-old grunted a “yes,” then headed for the entryway to yank on his shoes.

“Put your hoodie on too at the very least, please,” I said, knowing that I’d lose the argument completely—even with evidence—if I suggested a coat. So I compromised by suggesting a hoodie. “It’s winter for a few more weeks, and damn cold.”

Damon, still sulking over his apparent idol being injured, grabbed his black hoodie off the coat rack and yanked it over his head.

“Dinner is in an hour.”

He nodded and left, leaving me in the house with my slightly less moody preteen.

I swear we were just days away from Laurel getting her period.

I got mine just before I turned twelve, and she was only five months from her twelfth birthday.

She was also a hormonal roller coaster of emotions and getting pimples.

While we were in Seattle, we went and found her some deodorant she liked the smell of.

Her first stick. It was impossible to ignore the pang of melancholy over my baby turning into a woman.

It felt too freaking soon, and that just yesterday I was swaddling her little body and rocking her to sleep.

“Any idea why your brother is all of a sudden obsessed with Maverick Roy again?” I asked. “He was when he was little. Then when Mav first joined the NHL. But I haven’t heard him go on and on about Maverick in a long time.”