Page 2 of Slapshot & Sweet Potato
“Of course!” Cass beams, always looking for an excuse to see Liam. Those two are inseparable.
It’s kind of sickening, though I’d never begrudge my bestie her current happiness. She went through the ringer to get here.
Inside, more staff members flood the ice, setting up long banquet tables for the event. Desperadoes still linger on the ice or at the players’ bench post-practice—all swagger and muscle.
Liam races toward Cassandra, wrapping her in a bear hug that lifts her off the ground. Their mouths crash together like they’ve been separated by continents instead of the inability to carpool here together, thanks to me.
“Yuck.” I gag quietly into my mitten. Not sure I’d want that even if I could have it.
“Disgusting,” a deep voice grumbles next to me.
I arch an eyebrow, eyeing Wallace grimly. Heat crawls up my neck, trying not to stare at his carved, shirtless upper body misted in the perfect amount of perspiration to make my mouth water. I swallow too loudly, croaking out, “Guess that’s one thing we can agree on, Slapshot.”
He crosses his arms, frowning, piercing me with his warm, brown-sugar eyes. “Here to grace us with more of your pies, Sweet Potato?”
“Ugh! Hate that nickname.”
He shrugs, an arrogant smile on his far too kissable lips. He runs his hand across his forehead. “Told you it’s either that or Sugarbomb. You choose.”
“Next he’ll call me Cupcake and I’ll actually bake him into one,” I mutter under my breath.Note to self: never let him near the frosting bags.
“What?” he grimaces.
“Sweet potato. Sugarbomb.” I mock yawn. “Those are meh nicknames for a baker … downright run-of-the-mill.”
“And Slapshot for a hockey player isn’t?”
I chuckle. “Can’t think of anything that suits you better. A puck to the face.”
“A pie to the heart … or should I say stomach?”
“That’s where it’s going to end up.” I shrug.
He winks, and my heart goes all stupid and soft. “You know what they say, Sweet Potato. The way to a man’s heart is through his stomach.”
I put my hands on my hips. “Then, I should have an amazing love life.”
His eyes narrow, gaze ticking to my mouth for a heartbeat. “Yes, youshould.”
Heat blooms in my cheeks. Great. Now my hormones are doing jazz hands.
The air feels thick with sugar and tension.
He wheels around, walking away. My eyes follow him, ravenously devouring his broad shoulders, muscular back, solid ass, and thick thighs.
I’m not staring. Just … appreciating athletic symmetry.For science.
But the way he wears a hockey uniform is next-level, psychological warfare. He glances back over his shoulder and catches me drooling, deep laugh rumbling through his chest. “Is my favorite out there?” He nods toward the pies.
“Sweet potato?” I ask.
“Of course,” he says.
I nod. “Enough for you to eat your fill.”
He pauses, face growing somber for a fraction of a second before a lopsided grin and dimple return. “Not sure if I could ever get enough.” And then, he walks away.
Infuriating, arrogant, sexy as hell.
