Page 6

6

LIAM

Mercifully, the kid is quiet when I place my order at the bakery counter, but he fools with my baseball hat—my feeble attempt at an incognito disguise.

We wouldn’t have come to this place here in town if I weren’t desperate … and soon to be running late, but I can’t risk being recognized, especially not with the kid.

I didn’t think this through entirely. I blame the lack of sleep.

He removes my hat. As I take it back, he tosses it over my shoulder toward the woman who had the audacity to ask to cut ahead of us.

Wearing that ridiculous gown, she bends over, picks it up, and regards the letter K in blue stitching.

I motion for her to give it back, but the person at the register asks for payment. I give her my card when I realize the kid is quiet, apparently entertained by the sideshow behind us.

Now, she’s wearing my favorite baseball hat. I should be grateful for whatever sorcery she’s working, but she can’t just cut ahead because she’s small and cute … or wearing my Knights cap.

I frown. No, she’s not cute. More like she wandered off a horror movie set in a wedding gown. Yes, she is short. Like just barely over five feet tall.

After I pay, I carefully balance the kid and our items in my hands. Badaszek could have us try to juggle hot coffee, fresh muffins, and a writhing child as a cross-training exercise.

Forget it. He cannot find out that I have a kid. Or does he already know? I go back and forth in my mind long enough for the child to start fidgeting and inadvertently kick me in the groin.

Yeah, I’ve got a real balancing act going on.

The groan I try to conceal as I do my best not to double over could put me in the contending for Cobbiton’s Biggest Weirdo with the woman behind me in line, waving her hands nonsensically at the kid.

I’ll have to talk to him about stranger danger.

As I pour and mix creamer one-handed, my grip on the kid loosens. He wiggles. I set him down to attach the cover to the cup and he rushes across the bakery toward the hallway.

How do parents do this?

A growl rises in my throat. We’ve been here too long and I’m afraid I’m going to be recognized. I’m drowning in toddler training, team commitments, and legal documents. I’m not sure how much longer I can keep my newfound father status secret.

Grabbing our grub, I hurry after the kid, calling for him to stop and wait, but he doesn’t listen. Never does.

The hallway contains two bathrooms and an exit. I try to anticipate his moves as I would an opponent on the ice. If I deke left, what will he do?

He regards me for a long moment and then his chin starts to tremble.

Oh no. Not here. Can’t deal with the crying kid in public.

I say, “I got us some breakfast. It’s time to go.”

Eyes wide like a scared animal, he looks around.

I shift my weight, realizing I’ll have to put the coffee down if I want to pick him up safely. Gazing up at the ceiling, I silently ask, Why is this my life?

The hum of a hand dryer comes from behind one of the bathroom doors followed by a hoot of surprised laughter.

The door flies open and the woman in the wedding gown practically blows into my arms.

In a voice that’s too perky pre-coffee, she says, “Whoa, Nelly with a side of jelly. That thing is powerful. Nearly knocked me over.”

I grunt because she nearly did the same to me. The brief contact we have makes me feel like I’m crawling out of my skin.

She straightens and smooths her hand down her dress. “Excuse me. Sorry. But boy, do I feel better.”

My expression wrinkles as I recall her asking to cut the line so she could, and I quote, “Go potty.”

“Looks like I wasn’t the only one.” She waves her hands at the kid.

He shakes his head.

Maybe his mother already had the stranger danger conversation with him. Perhaps this entire episode is him sensing this woman is a menace and trying to lead us to safety.

Way to go, Little Man.

I turn to leave and say, “Come on, let’s get out of here.”

Not hearing the patter of little feet behind me, I go still. The kid remains glued to the spot.

“We have to leave,” I say, hoping that a group of Knights fans isn’t out there waiting for me.

To be clear, I’m not one of the team hot shots with puck bunnies chasing after me. Not that I care. A long time ago, I decided that I don’t like people. Makes it easier to keep my distance. Relationships of any sort get complicated. Lead to trouble. Easier to avoid them altogether.

I have a sorely neglected social media account, there are several created by fans, and rumors of a hashtag, but I cannot be bothered. Not when I have the Cup to win, a kid to take care of, and now a team to captain.

Picking up on my stream of consciousness, I say, “And I’m going to be late for my meeting. Let’s go.”

The kid shakes his head.

“Do you have to use the bathroom?” I ask.

He stares at me blankly.

The woman waves her hands again. Why is she still here?

“If you’ll excuse us,” I say, breezing past her to scoop up my son and rush out the back door—no sense in risking being noticed.

No sooner do I reach him than he starts crying again.

“I’ll get you a cookie if you stop,” I say.

“You shouldn’t bribe children. It doesn’t set healthy boundaries.” Even as she reprimands me, her tone is unflinchingly perky.

I whip my head in her direction. “This is none of your business.”

Hands bouncing around in the air, she says, “Someone is wearing cranky pants this morning.”

The kid goes quiet and then starts shaking.

What is going on? Is she actually a witch bride and has put a hex on him? Not that I believe in that nonsense, but—I tip my head to the side.

It’s my turn to blink.

I think the kid is laughing.

Grinning, the Wicked Witch of the West disguised as Glenda after a long night in a saloon waves her hands again.

The corners of his lips twitch as if trying to lift into a smile and then he makes a hand gesture.

My jaw clenches because I have no idea what I’m witnessing. “What are you doing to my son?”

Brown eyes sparkling, her grin doesn’t falter. “Talking to him, obviously.” Her tone has a real duh quality to it.

“Using some kind of sorcery?”

Through gritted teeth, she says, “I really hope you’re joking.”

The kid moves his hands around and starts laughing. There’s no mistaking it. My chest gets warm and does a weird, melty thing. Maybe I’m allergic to honey. They put it in the coffee here instead of sugar.

Giving my head a shake, it’s time to leave. “Come on, kid. Let’s go.”

He remains still except for his hands.

Meanwhile, the short woman with curves and a dimple in one cheek beams. She looks to be about my age, mid-twenties. Her lips are peachy and plump with a little line through the lower one. Not that I’m paying attention.

Through jovial laughter, she says, “He asked if I’m a princess.”

“He did not.”

She moves her hands. “Uh, yeah. He did. Even asked where my crown is.” She sighs.

“All right. Enough of?—”

“He told me he’s a king, so what would that make you?” she asks with a laugh as if this is all some big joke.

Then my thoughts sharpen. “What did you say?”

She yawns. “I should get going too. It’s been a long drive.”

I look from her to the kid who moves his hands in a distinct way.

“What were you saying about a king?” I ask, my tone sharp.

Her eyes brighten. “Ah, I know. You’d be a knight. Is that what the K on your hat stands for?”

I lengthen my spine.

Her jaw lowers. “Are you on the hockey team? My grandmother is a huge fan. Oh my goodness. Could you sign something for me? A napkin? The gown?” While she speaks her hands move simultaneously.

It’s one thing to use your hands while talking to emphasize a point, but this is something else. Then it clicks.

“Wait, did you say sign ?”

She nods.

I point to the kid and then to her. “Are you two signing?”

“Obviously. Also, you can’t give a tiny guy a cookie for breakfast.” Notably, she doesn’t wave her hands around.

“No one asked you.”

“No one consulted me about the last twenty-four hours, yet here I am.” Blocking our exit from the hallway, she leans her head against the wall as if about to take a nap.

I’ll have to mention to the bakery owner or law enforcement that there’s a deranged reprobate disguised as a witch bride loose in Cobbiton.

My phone beeps and I grumble. I’m late because of the kid and now this lady.

“Could you please move?” I gesture to her gown that takes up half the hallway.

She seems to surface from her dip into La La Land and says, “Gosh. Yes. Of course. I am so sorry. Forgot where I was for a moment. I should go.”

“Finally, you speak some reason.”

With a huff, she plants her hands on her hips. “I’m reasonable. You’re the one who’s on the verge of an adult temper tantrum.”

“Am not.”

“You so are. Maybe you need a cookie. Some sweetness in your life to counteract all the sourness. Strictly speaking, it’s not a good morning habit.” She drops her voice to a whisper, “Sometimes, for a treat, I’ll have a little bite of cake. I have one in the passenger seat of the car. It kept me going the whole ride here. And coffee. Some chocolate. Maybe I’m eating my feelings. But here, take this. I consider it an act of service.” She reaches into her purse and produces a wax bakery bag, then holds it out for me to take.

I grimace. “I don’t want your dirty cookie.”

“Go ahead. It’s not poisoned or anything. I just got it from Nina. The baker. She bakes the bread, but gets these delivered fresh daily from the Milk Mustache.” She says each word slowly like she’s speaking to, well, a toddler.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Sheesh. I’m just trying to be nice.”

Over my shoulder, I call, “We have to leave.”

Finally, the kid moves, but instead of coming over to me, he rushes toward the woman and wraps his arms around the skirt of her tattered gown.

“Don’t touch him,” I growl at her.

She holds up her hands and then waves them around again.

There he goes with the chin trembling, but this time his eyes start to fill up with liquid.

“Your hands are full. How about I just carry him to your car?”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.” I’m about ready to stomp my foot. No, never mind. I’m not going to give her the pleasure of thinking I was going to have a fit.

She crouches down and signs to him. Must be something his mother taught him instead of the normal childhood stuff like listening.

His little shoulders relax a little, but when she stands, he grips her like a koala climbing a eucalyptus tree.

“Okay, fine. We’ll do this your way. You can carry him to the car, but if you do anything strange or suspicious, I will tackle you. Got that?”

Her cheeks turn the slightest shade of pink, but maybe that’s because she’s picking up the kid and restricted by that monstrosity of a dress.

Watching her every move, she weaves through the tables, bumping a few with the bustle of her gown. I don’t know a ton about girly stuff, so I’m grateful I got stuck with a son rather than a daughter.

I grunt.

“What was that, Mr. Meanie?” she says over her shoulder.

At the same time, someone calls, “Hey, Liam, are you going to be a chump or a champ the rest of this season?”

Ignoring the heckler, I keep my head down, so close to escaping this place without being recognized. I’ve been avoiding local spots, but the line at the drive-through at my usual place was too long. I’m late anyway.

The guy says, “Let’s just hope you can keep it together.” The words are a challenge.

I glance from the guy wearing a Knights sweatshirt to the woman and my kid. Her eyes darken and her lips pucker as if offended on my behalf.

Or there’s more she wants to pile on with the accusation of me having an adult tantrum and calling me Mr. Meanie.

Expertly balancing my son on her hip, she moves her hand, and the little kid offers a half smile. Maybe she’s telling him he can have the cookie after all. I briefly consider it myself before giving my head a shake, that’s stupid. I haven’t had cookies or cake in years. She must’ve cast some kind of sweet spell over us.

Thankfully, we make it out the door without anyone else recognizing me. It’s early on a sleepy Monday morning which is why I thought it would be safe to quickly pop into the bakery.

Laughter and giggles drift from nearby and someone says, “There he is!”

Another teenager adds, “My brother is going to be pumped. He thinks number forty-five is the best.”

Acting on instinct, I grab the woman’s arm and hustle her and the kid toward my truck. Then I realize I’ve miscalculated.

My mind reels with stories from other guys about crazed fans. That’s what this must be. She’s the ringleader, sent word to her coven, and now they’re in pursuit.

But she has my kid.

The witch bride says, “They just want your autograph and I want one too. Well, not me. Could you personalize it To Grandma Dolly. I’m your number one fan ?”

We stop by my truck. “Shouldn’t it be the other way around?”

She guffaws. “No, I am definitely not your number one fan. No offense, but you could be less rude. You wouldn’t want someone to think that you’re a stinker.”

I’m about to defend myself, when, still holding the kid, she makes a motion with her hands. He laughs again.

I squint but don’t have time for her games. She could be using sign language, but why would she do that and how would the kid understand? “Did you just tell him, that I’m?—?”

He mimics the motion she just made and giggles before burying his head in her wild mop of brown hair that’s half up and half down.

They both laugh like they have a little secret.

I say, “We’ve got to go.”

“Or you could stay and sign autographs and take photos like a normal sports star. Obviously, they adore you.”

“I’m late.”

“Yeah me, too. Late for my appointment with life.” A flash of sadness spills over her features, but it’s quickly replaced with a sunny grin that somehow makes the clouds above disappear for a moment.

The snapping of cameras on phones and the squawking of the fans fade as I meet her brown eyes.

“Today is a new day. Carpe diem!” Her hand forms a light fist and she sweeps her arm in front of her chest, pumping the air slightly.

The strange thought that the world is a dim place without her smile beams into my mind. Perhaps I need that cookie after all.

I blink and the world comes back into focus. What am I thinking? I don’t need anything or anyone.