Page 2 of Say It Isn't Snow
The topic of love lives has my thoughts veering down a path I rarely let myself entertain for long. I stop myself before my perfect morning is ruined by thoughts ofhim.
Caleb Adler is the last man I want on my mind.
Picturing anything about him makes my heart twist.
I sigh, mentally noting that in seven years since I last spoke to him, there have been approximately zero days without incident. The longest streak I’ve gone without memories of him crossing my mind is a measly two weeks.
In my defense, it’s really damn hard to avoid thinking about an ex full stop when he’s my best friend’s brother…andis one of the top hockey players in the NHL.
Both make him difficult to evade. I’ve gone out of my way to dodge seeing him whenever our paths might cross, like coordinating with his sister if he’s visiting our hometown to eliminate any chance where we’d have to interact and quickly changing the subject if hockey comes up. Despite those efforts to protect my heart, he still never leaves my thoughts for long.
“Want help with these, hon?” Leta asks.
The question pulls me from my thoughts. I paste on a beaming smile and shake my head.
“I’ve got it.”
“You’re sure? You’re going to ice all of these by yourself?” She eyes me skeptically.
“Yeah, don’t worry about it.”
“We could get it done in half the time if we do it together.”
“I’ve got a system. These will be finished in no time.”
“Okay. You’re the boss.” She watches me work a moment longer before heading to open the shop for the day.
The Mrs. Claus themed designs are one of the biggest orders I’ve scored since I began offering custom cookies. I should accept the help, but some part of me has always struggled with letting others lend a hand. Even when I’m the first to offer mine.
It’s a bad habit I’ve never outgrown as the eldest of three siblings. Hell of a leg-up for raising myself into a business woman. Terrible for maintaining any work-life balance or giving up control. It’s just faster if I do it all on my own rather than trust someone else to meet the impossible standards I set for myself.
I push aside my internal cynic that questions why I hired extra help at all if I wasn’t going to use it and allow myself to get wrapped up in decorating.
CHAPTER 2
CALEB
Contract terminated.
The reality of my NHL career going up in smoke over the last few days still hasn’t hit me, even as my flight from Seattle lands in New York.
It’s surreal to be close to my hometown in Vermont after playing hockey out there for six of the seven years I’ve done so professionally. In the span of less than a week I went from scoring the winning goal for our game against Minnesota to getting kicked off the team. Mid-fucking-season.
The last time my career was on the line for underperforming, I thought I was screwed. My prospect rankings were good in college, but I made it as a third round pick to a team that gave me little time on the ice and didn’t reach the playoffs my rookie season.
Seattle was my fresh start thanks to a trade. I worked my way from the reserve list to the regular roster.
Now it’s gone. What’s worse, I wasn’t fired as a result of my player record.
My phone feels like a ticking time bomb in my hand. For the time being, it’s safe because it’s off. As soon as that changes, boom. Game over.
I shift uncomfortably in the cramped economy seat and pull my cap down for the millionth time, worried people will recognize me.
The last thing I need is more speculation online about my swift dismissal from my team. The media already influences trades and signing deals as it is. The paparazzi running with the story has only poured gasoline on this PR storm.
It’s made me a player no other team wants to touch. I swallow a bitter scoff. From one of the top prospect picks at twenty out of Heston U to the guy probably being sent down at twenty-seven because I didn’t clear waivers for another team to take me. My jaw aches from how hard I’ve clenched it every time I replay what went down after the game.
The guy in the middle seat across from me keeps looking my way for longer than necessary. I avoid eye contact. I can’t decide if it’s a hey-isn’t-that-Caleb-Adler stare or if he’s willing the plane to reach the gate while mentally fighting the crowded flight to get off first.
