Page 4 of Slapshot & Sweet Potato
“God, Sweet Potato, you are the most obnoxiously happy, upbeat, holiday fan I’ve ever met. We couldn’t be more polar opposites.”
“Not my fault you’re such a humbug.”
I frown. “I have my reasons.”
“Of course, you do.”
I furrow my brows. “And what’s that supposed to mean?”
“A big-name celebrity hockey player who wants for nothing. And gives just as little. You’re a full-on Scrooge, Wallace. Nothing to be proud of.”
I shift my weight, dissected beneath her minty gaze. “Lost both my parents in a car accident on Thanksgiving. So, sorry if I’m not Mr. Chipper.”
The call had come during practice. The rink lights had never felt colder.
Her face falls, lips parting just enough to make the breath catch in my throat. Her mouth opens, shuts, opens again.
Finally, she manages, “That’s awful. I had no idea.”
“Don’t make a big deal out of it?—”
“How can I not? That’s terrible. How tragic. Were you … with them?”
I shake my head, eyes storming. “Happened three years ago on their drive to see me up here in my new digs. Still sucks thinking about it. So, yeah, I don’t have the same appreciation for festive holidays that you do.”
I stand, lean across her desk, and push an envelope in her direction. “Here’s the check from the Desperadoes’ charity event.”
“Thank you. Did the pies go over well?”
“Delicious as always.”
“Despite the festiveness that went into them?”
“I’d prefer to call them sweet intentions,” I quip, and she smiles. “Nice talking to you as always, Sweets.”
I turn to leave, but her huff stops me. “Sweets? Okay, that’s one nickname I refuse to accept.”
I wheel back around, amused. “Sorry, Sweet Potato. I promise not to shirk on your syllables next time.”
“Will you be at the annual Thanksgiving dinner?” she asks with a bittersweet smile. Pity. Exactly what I don’t want from her. Exactly why I keep what happened to my parents private ninety-nine percent of the time.
“Have to, though I’d rather not.”
“Good.” She smiles. “You shouldn’t be alone this time of year. After what you just told me.” She catches herself, looks away for a moment, and then adds, “Not that you’re probably ever alone as a drool-worthy hockey star and all.”
Warmth floods my chest. “So, I’m drool-worthy in your book?”
Her cheeks flush, and she stammers. “Not at all. I mean, other women think you’re drool-worthy.”
I chuckle. “You’re a terrible liar.”
“Only when I’m lying.”
"Alright, then, drool-worthy to other women. And for your information, ladies aren’t lining up around the block or anything. At least not the ones I’m interested in.”
“Maybe you should lower your standards, then,” she teases.
“Never. I’d rather be alone than with the wrong person.”
