Page 10 of Slapshot & Sweet Potato
My pulse trips. “No, I’ll take it. I’m smaller. I’ll fit better.”
He shakes his head. “I’m bigger. I’ll freeze slower.”
The obvious solution hangs between us, thick as the firelight.
“And here I thought chivalry was dead,” I say, trying for lightness.
“Nope. I just need my cook rested and ready to work tomorrow.” He frowns. “ItisThanksgiving, after all.”
My cook.The words land somewhere between possessive and provoking.
“No cook does it all alone,” I shoot back. “I’ll need my assistant rested, too.”
He chuckles, softer now. “And here I thought I’d get to watch you sling flour sacks. Shame. Though that ‘my assistant’ thing is interesting.”
“Oh yeah? Why’s that?”
He meets my gaze, voice lower. “Kind of thought you didn’t want anything to do with me.”
“When you’re being the famous, arrogant hockey player? Yeah, I kind of want nothing to do with you.”
Vulnerability flickers in his eyes. “Gotta be that guy … on the ice, off it. It’s what people expect. But most days, it feels like a lie.”
That catches me off guard. He’s not deflecting. He’s admitting something raw.
“Liam’s lucky,” he goes on quietly. “He found someone who wants him for who he is. No fame, no game required. We gave him hell at first, but now I get it. He found the one thing that matters—a girl who sees him, no matter what.”
I never thought I’d seethisside of Wallace Lemoille. “Cass has always been real … funny, down-to-earth, impossible not to love. And Liam worships her for it. They’re the couple everyone envies.”
Speaking of nevers, I never imagined I’d be peeling back this man’s heart, seeing what’s hidden beneath all that swagger.
His gaze sharpens. “Don’t sell yourself short. You’re funny too. Smart. A go-getter. So damn sunshiny, I get burned every time I’m near you.”
I laugh softly. “So I burn you?”
“Pretty sure you set fires, Sweet Potato.”
Heat curls low in my belly. The room feels smaller somehow, the air thick with unsaid things and the sweet ache of possibility. My pulse stumbles, suddenly aware of how close we are, how the space between words has grown warm and dangerous. I can smell the cedar smoke on his skin.
He leans in, voice a rough whisper. “Fame feels like performing all the time. Even when my parents died, I had to keep skating, smiling, pretending. The public needed the illusion more than I needed to grieve. My family didn’t understand that … and it broke us.”
I swallow hard. “I can’t imagine.”
“You’d think you’d get used to the noise,” he murmurs, eyes on the fire, “but it’s the quiet that hurts most.”
My heart cracks for him. “I get it. On a smaller scale, maybe. In this town, I’m alwayson,too. Everyone expects me to be Sweet Intentions Wendy—endless cheer, endless pies. But since the breakup with George, I feel like I’m running on frosting and fumes.”
His eyes soften, studying me. “So I hide in shadows, and you hide in light.”
Outside, the wind whips harder, pressing snow against the windows. Inside, time goes syrup-slow, the fire painting him in amber. My breath tangles with his.
He reaches out, fingers brushing the edge of my blanket, tugging gently until I’m inches away.
“Wallace—”
“If this isn’t what you want, tell me now.”
My breath hitches. Our eyes meet, spark.
