Page 3 of Skating and Fake Dating (Love in Maple Falls #4)
BAILEY
M y workspace isn’t a chaotic mess, but it doesn’t look like one belonging to any of the other roving staff.
I try to keep it professional with my five-piece, coordinating office supplies accessories, including a pen cup, a sticky note holder, a letter tray, and a few other items. But I also personalize it with photos—me in an apple tree at Nanna and Pappa’s, the big family photo from last Christmas, and my one and only Tiny—she’s the greatest of Great Danes.
I also have a cute otter tape dispenser that reminds me of home and a candy bowl because who doesn’t like the gal in the office with candy corn?
Sure, it’s still technically summer, but blame the Hy-Vee for putting it on display already, not me.
I stop short, the heel of my pump snagging on the industrial carpet. Carson won’t have to catch me this time and I won’t careen into his chest again—which is how I originally got the name Blondie. We will not have a three-peat of him helping me remain upright, thank you very much.
Come on, Bailey, be a boss girl!
His eyebrows lift as he reads the determination on my face.
“Excuse me? Did you come back to comment on my attire again or see whether I changed? ”
Arms slung across his chest, he chuckles. “Neither.”
I inwardly want to make faces at him like a child. Why does this man get under my skin while simultaneously staining it the color of tomato sauce?
He glances pointedly at my bare wrist. “I see you’re not often on time.”
“The meeting went late.” I take the last bite of my pastry. “And I missed breakfast.”
“So blue is your favorite color?” His eyes sparkle, accenting that shade more than the green.
“Yes,” I say slowly, cautiously, edging around him as I maneuver to my seat. Despite being on the ice every day, he radiates warmth. My stomach flutters again. I have a quick and strongly worded conversation with my cheeks, ordering them to stand down and remain their normal shade.
Carson pivots to face me. “In case you’re wondering, the punctuation on Friday ended abruptly with a full stop. How’s this going to go?”
Snapping to, I realize his file being in my folder can only mean one thing—he’s been traded to a new team pre-season. I steal a peek at him again, worried about what I see. Sadness? Disappointment? Remorse?
His blue-green eyes are flat, like a day that promised sun and fun but clouded over, matching his shirt.
“Maybe Friday would have an exclamation point if you wore a Hawaiian shirt instead of that boring gray button-up.”
He slides his hand down his front as if suddenly self-conscious. “You don’t like it?”
I tip my shoulder up. The man could wear a burlap sack and make it look good. The last breeze of the summer seems to somehow gust in this sealed office building right then, threatening to send me into a full-body flush.
The Knights’ head coach, Tom Badaszek, appears and claps Carson on the back. “Crane, I see you’ve met your new PAL.” The man doesn’t smile, but his words are encouraging .
At least, that’s what I tell myself.
Carson says, “You mean Blondie? We go way back.”
My cheeks go as red as the little candy hearts dotting the buttercream frosting, bacon bits, and drizzle of maple butter on top of the blondies that I brought on the fateful day Carson Crane named me Blondie.
Like some women my age, I became briefly obsessed with cupcakery—my friend Neesha, back home, is the cupcake queen.
She mastered her swirls of silky frosting.
Even though I’m more of a maple butter and blondies gal myself, I periodically indulge in the desire to use a piping bag and decorate each happy miniature cake with tweezers.
However, this occasion demanded my nanna’s famous blondies, which I decorated with panache—not to be confused with ganache, which tends to be grainy rather than smooth when I try to make it.
See, when I start with a new team—or high school club, book group, whatever—I want to make a good impression. And who doesn’t love a gal who brings in baked goods?
Confession: The Knights are only my second team since landing the job as the Player Assimilation Liaison. I’m generally an overachiever, but didn’t do my hockey diet research. The team nutritionist chewed me out for offering the guys empty calories and a diabetes-inducing blood sugar spike.
Then, because I also tend to be clumsy, I tripped and ended up wearing half of the batch of blondie bars, but not before Carson, laughing, sort of caught me, christening me with the nickname Blondie.
Tears welled in my eyes and I made a hasty apology and exit.
That was the last time I visited that section of the building.
Since then, I haven’t once cashed in my all-access employee pass for games.
“It’s been great having you here assisting Sheridan get settled, and I’m sure you’ll help Crane feel at home up north.”
Coach Badaszek’s words tumble toward me, but I still haven’t read the details of the new assignment.
Once more, I’m flustered because it’s him .
I don’t hate Carson. On the contrary, I have mixed feelings.
Similar to how I feel about reduced-fat milk.
I prefer the original kind, with all its creaminess.
One percent is fine in a pinch. Skim, only when I’m desperate.
What can I say, I grew up in farm country. Apologies to my dairy-free friends.
See?! This is my mind. I bounce from the hockey heartthrob who teases me to milk. Milk, people!
In my family, I’m known as the quiet one.
Where I come from, this is an insult. What they don’t realize is that my head is loud.
If a volume dial has ten levels, my thoughts are usually at eleven, bumping into each other, shouting over each other.
Once, they had a food fight—as an adult, it’s perfectly acceptable to eat three meals from the same food truck in one day.
Plus, that only happened one time before the food truck moved on to another part of town.
But boy, did my brain have something to say about it.
The thing is, Carson hates me. Okay, maybe that’s too strong a sentiment. But like everyone else in the world—family included, Nanna excluded—he thinks I’m a joke. His laughter when I tripped and tipped the tray of blondies and his teasing about my attire prove it.
Carson has a gleam in his eyes as they rake over me. “Don’t think of it as babysitting. I’ll be a good boy. Promise.”
Wait. Did my thoughts have a mutiny? While I was already thinking about lunch, my periodic homesickness, and Carson, did I say something potentially rude about being his babysitter?
Clearing my throat, I steal a glance at Coach Badaszek. His eyebrow arches.
Yup. I must’ve said the thing about babysitting.
When my parents asked me what I do, I did my best to make my role in admin for the National Hockey League sound important. My sister snidely said, So, you’re like an adult babysitter? Like a splinter, it must’ve lodged into the depths of my memory and chose to work its way out now.
She’s a divorce attorney and once represented a hostile NFL player’s ex, painting her picture of athletes in an unflattering shade of arrogance, calling them all greedy jerks—the exact color of a bruised ego, but don’t worry, no violence was involved.
Coach Badaszek says, “I trust you two will be able to play nice together.”
Between my comments and Carson’s expression, which borders on a grimace, Tommy Badaszek must think we’re at odds. I mean, after the blondie incident, we’re not exactly chummy. No one likes being laughed at and nicknamed for being a klutz.
“What does this mean, exactly?” Carson asks.
“Miss Porter is your new Player Assimilation Liaison,” his coach answers as if that explains it.
“Oh, I thought she was going to revoke my parking privileges.”
My face gets hot because I may have written the words Wash Me on the tailgate of his truck. To be fair, this was after the blondie incident when I was unable to remove the frosting stains from my singular white blouse. Hearing keys jangling, I scurried away, but he must’ve spotted me that day.
Coach Badaszek continues, “With unconventional trades, we don’t leave our players to fend for themselves. We want to make sure you get settled in with your new team and town. Miss Porter will help with that.”
Carson seems oddly calm about getting this news. I’m not a hockey expert, but the trade deadline came and went months ago. I wonder if this has something to do with his late-season incendiary action on the ice, throwing words at other players like flaming darts, and getting into some heated brawls.
Yet Carson even looked good in his mugshot.
No judgment.
Unfortunately, I’m not a stranger to the wrong side of the law.
But I did my best not to be a repeat offender after I found out my ex-boyfriend Tagg, and my cousin Tori got together at my cousin Lily’s christening party.
Yes, I’d told him about having to move for my new job, but we hadn’t officially broken up.
He just moved on without so much as a word.
With Tori, of all people. Her favorite game is called “One Better.” Get a new baton; she gets one with sparkles.
Give a great presentation in high school, hers features a live DJ providing a soundtrack to American history.
Receive a college scholarship, she gets a free ride.
Then I got a dog and they don’t make ’em bigger than Great Danes, do they? But then she got my boyfriend in a game I didn’t even want to play.
Coach Badaszek’s words float toward me as if from some alternate dimension. “The good news is the Ice Breakers are based in your neck of the woods in Washington state. It’s the perfect match.”
Carson wears a strained grin. “Looks like it’s going to be you and me in Maple Falls, Blondie.”
I sniff, not exactly thrilled at being stuck with a guy who clearly thinks I’m a foolish child, while my body rebels and thinks he’s an attractive man.
This makes me worry I’m going to encounter him on that dreamy, dusty road again.
Hopefully, this time, I won’t be wearing an eyepatch in addition to having wooden teeth.