Page 3 of ICED
“When do I start?”
Coach smirks like he knew he’d win. “Monday. 9 a.m. And Jacko? Try not to flatten anyone who messes up your scones.”
Monday comes too fast. I’m running late because Dave, my sourdough starter exploded overnight and I spent an hour mopping up the kitchen. I didn’t even have time to grab a decent coffee.
The community centre is a squat red-brick building sandwiched between a church and a dodgy-looking laundry place. The car park is half full. I pull in next to a rusted minivan with a bumper sticker that says “COFFEE FIRST, ADULTING LATER.”
Big mood.
Inside, the centre smells like floor polish and cinnamon, and a little like my granny. There’s a board with paper flyers for yoga classes and parenting groups. Kids scream in the distance. Somewhere, a baby cries.
I follow the signs for the bakery program and find a room that looks like the set of a budget cooking show. Stainless steel counters, big industrial oven, a shelf full of mismatchedmixing bowls. There’s a woman at the far counter, her back to me, elbow-deep in dough. She’s petite, in a flour-dusted apron, her dark hair twisted into a knot.
I clear my throat. “Hi. Owen Jackson. I’m the volunteer from The Raptors.”
She turns.
And everything in me just stops.
She’s pretty, but not the polished, camera-ready type I’m used to. There’s something real about her. Something quiet. Her eyes go wide when she sees me, like she wasn’t expecting a six-foot-six enforcer to walk into her safe baking space.
“You’re the hockey guy?” she asks, voice sceptical.
“In the flesh,” I say, offering a hand. “Jacko, usually. Unless you’re mad at me.”
She hesitates before shaking my hand. Her hand is small. Cold. There’s flour on her cheek.
“Maya,” she says. “I run the bakery program.”
“Nice to meet you, Maya.”
She crosses her arms, eyes still scanning me like she’s trying to figure out if I’m a danger to pastry.
“Have you ever baked with kids before?”
“I’ve been on a team with Ollie. That count?”
She doesn’t laugh. But the corner of her mouth twitches.
“We do a lot of simple stuff here. Muffins. Cupcakes. Basic bread.”
“Sounds good. I’m decent with muffins.”
She arches a brow. “Decent, huh?”
“I brought lemon-poppyseed to a fight once. The guy still dropped gloves. But he said it was a solid bake.”
This time, she snorts. It’s quiet. But it’s there. A crack in the ice.
“You can start by prepping the trays. Wash your hands. Aprons are in the drawer, although I’m not sure we have any that will actually fit you. Try not to scare anyone.”
“No promises,” I say, and head for the sink.
As I scrub up, I watch her move around the kitchen. She’s efficient, neat, but there’s something tight about her shoulders. Like she’s ready for something to go wrong.
I get it. Hockey taught me how to brace for impact. But this feels deeper.
And maybe it’s none of my business.
