Fated Shot

Chapter 9

Mia

I shuffle into my apartment, my mind spinning. Sliding off my shoes, I tuck my keycard into the slot I hung this morning right next to the door. Lesson learned. My apartment is still looking pretty disastrous, with boxes littering the living room, but now, every available counter space is filled with baking sheets covered by bread towels.

My mess does nothing to distract me from what just happened. Jack Brody just asked me to dinner, and I’m pretty sure I said yes.

The pitter-patter of paws on the floor echoes as Bean emerges from behind a two stack of boxes.

“Hi, Beanie-Boy,” I call out. Crouching down to outstretch my hand, he lets out a little “brrrr” as he rubs his face against my fingers. Taking two more steps in my direction, he flops, exposing his belly.

“Look at that little tummy,” I coo as I give his fluffy pouch a little scratch. He purrs happily in response, and I scoop him up in my arms, planting a kiss on his fuzzy forehead. Oh to be a little kitty without a care in the world.

I plop him on the top of his cat tree, where he settles, looking out at the buildings. Just watching with him for a moment, I sigh, petting his soft fur like my own little stress ball.

“What the heck was I thinking, Bean?” He lets out a quiet meow before resting his head on his paws and closing his eyes .

I wanted to thank Jack for being so kind, for helping with… well, everything, and maybe apologize for bolting. Cookies are harmless, or so I thought, but as soon as I saw him walk out of the elevator, my brain was mush. Seems to be happening quite a bit recently. One look at his angelic face, and I can’t seem to formulate sentences or cohesive thoughts. It doesn’t seem to impair my nodding abilities, though, so now we’re going to dinner.

How bad can that be? Dinner is friendly, neighborly even. Nothing remotely inappropriate about two friends grabbing a bite to eat. That can’t be against any sort of rule, right? It’s not like there even are rules anyways.

“Just dinner,” I say to Bean, who opens his eyes at the sound of my voice. He blinks slowly at me before repositioning and laying his head back down.

Wait, is this a date? A knot twists in my gut at the thought. My return to the dating scene was not supposed to be with a god-like professional hockey player, especially not one from my dad’s team. I’ve been single all summer, and I haven’t exactly been putting myself out there. My experience is seriously lacking, and it doesn’t help that the only men I spent my summer chatting with were Dad and Harold, as well as the occasional text from Seb.

UGH, Seb. Just the thought of him makes my whole body tense up. I’m still fuming at his little appearance, and I’ve been dodging his messages ever since. That’s a problem for another time, though. Current task at hand: try not to throw up at the thought of tomorrow night and calm the eff down.

I stroke Bean’s head once more before deciding to get back to work. I’ve managed to pack and box all the cooled cookies and prep tomorrow’s dough by the time I get a call from Mom.

“Hey, hun. I’m just on my way to the game. I wanted to see if you changed your mind about coming? ”

“No, thanks. I’m just going to take it easy tonight,” I reply. By taking it easy, I mean burying my feelings and drowning my thoughts in a carton of Ben and Jerry’s.

“Alright, babes, call me if you need anything, okay?”

“I will, have fun!”

“Always, love you!”

“Love you too,” I say as I press end on the call.

I can’t remember a single home game that my mom has ever missed. Rain or shine, she’s always there supporting my dad. I used to love going to the games, too. It wasn’t until I got a bit older that I started to take a step back. It takes someone special to be a part of that world. When you step in the rink, the spotlight is always going to be on you, all the cameras and glamor, but behind the scenes, it’s a lot of variables, lack of stability, and loneliness. It never seemed to affect my mom, though. She’d always been so strong. Solo-parenting for the majority of the season, packing up our house alone, and moving us whenever it was time for a ‘new adventure.’

She never let hockey impact anything within our home, wherever that may have been, like it did every other aspect of our life. Then, when it came time to step up and show face, she was always ready, standing in the crowds, cheering my dad on. It seems like such a charmed life on the surface, but there are few who know how truly challenging it can be.

I shoot a text off to my dad.

Me: Goodluck, Coach Cameron ;)

Dad: Thanks, Amelia-girl. Love, Dad

I chuckle, liking the message. Leave it to Doug Cameron to text like he’s writing an email every time .

I decided to spend the rest of the evening tackling boxes because nothing is more distracting than trying to unpack your life in six hundred and fifty square feet of space. By the time it’s dark out, I’m completely worn out. I’ve managed to make a significant dent in the main space, so I hop in the shower, settle into bed, and thankfully fall asleep before I even have time to process the day.

After waking up with my alarm, I jump right into finishing the remaining orders. It only takes a few hours to complete the batches, and while I have them all covered and cooling, my phone pings from the counter. The name spikes my heart rate more than I’d care to admit, and with a slightly shaky hand, I tap on the message.

Jack Brody: Still okay for dinner tonight?

Okay, Mia . Keep it casual, everything is fine .

Me: Yeah, for sure.

That was good. Not too eager and definitely friendly. Zero reason to be nervous at all, just two friends hanging out.

As soon as I see the three dots appear on my screen, though, I feel a lurch in my stomach. Oh my god, I am hopeless. I set my phone down on the kitchen counter and force myself to wait before reading what comes through. Be coo l. My eyes still strain, trying to read what’s appearing on the screen, which completely defeats the purpose.

Jack Brody: Cool. Do you like Mexican? There’s a great spot a few blocks away .

Mexican is good. Nothing too fancy, it’s sounding more and more friendly by the second. My body starts to relax as I go to type back.

Me: Love it, what time?

I’m killing this. With more confidence this time, I actually wait holding the phone for this reply. Big mistake on my part. The heart palpitations start the second I spot his response causing me to drop my phone. I’m just praying it didn’t shatter.

Jack Brody: I’ll pick you up at 7

It doesn’t mean anything, I try to convince myself. Friends definitely pick other friends up, for sure. Taking a deep breath, I grab my launched phone and decide to like the message, not trusting myself to muster another casual reply as I’ve officially descended into madness. This is my punishment for forgetting my key, I’m forced to demonstrate my lack of social skills to a gorgeous man. Universe- 1, Mia- 0.

The rest of the orders keep me at least somewhat busy for the remainder of the day as I package them up, box them, and have them lined up at the door for shipment tomorrow. I strip out of my flour-covered athletic wear and decide on an early shower. Two hours to get ready gives me plenty of time to try and manage my hair and decide on an outfit.

It’s nearly seven when I walk by the mirror I have leaning against my bedroom wall. After a very heated internal debate, I decided on a mauve puff-sleeved bodysuit, high-waisted jeans and sandals. Cute and casual . As my hair decided today was not the day to cooperate, I left it natural, gathering the top half into a ponytail with the rest falling into curled chaos behind my shoulders .

I settled on a coat of mascara and a little lip oil to complete my look, a fresh face suits me best anyway. I’m entirely reconsidering my lack of blush when I hear two knocks at my door. Looking directly into the mirror in a panic, the flush of my cheeks is giving me a serious blush blindness look and I decide it was probably for the best.

Pushing a few of the boxes aside, I swing open the door.

“Hey,” he says with a shy smile. He’s wearing his white Converse, light blue jeans and a pale blue button-up that makes his eyes pop even more than usual. The top button is open, and he has his sleeves rolled mid-way up, exposing the bit of tribal tattoo on his right forearm. I’m screwed.

“Hi,” is all I seem to manage as my heart starts to beat faster, eyes struggling to meet his. Nice, Mia. Great start. It’s going to be a long night, folks.

As if noticing my loss of conversational ability, he takes the lead, “Ready to go?”

I let out a nod as I step through the doorway toward him. Just as the door is about to close, he leans forward, hand catching the handle, “Wait.”

I immediately get a waft of his scent, the perfect blend of earthy and a slight citrus finish. I look up at him, instantly regretting my decision as his eyes on mine are enough to knock a small gasp out of my mouth. Smooth .

“Key?” he asks, still smiling.

Right, he’s just being cautious. I laugh, reaching into my purse to show him the keycard I threw in there.

He nods, “Good,” releasing the door as it slams closed. We walk toward the elevator as he presses the down button. The reflective steel doors open immediately, he motions for me to step inside ahead of him, then follows pressing GR instead of LB.

“We’re going to the garage?” I ask him .

“Yeah, I thought I could drive us, it’s not too far away, but figured maybe it’d be better if…” Better if we weren’t walking the streets together in broad daylight.

“Sounds good,” I chime in reassuringly. This time he nods as we silently walk through the garage to the opposite side, clearly where the Maplewood residents park.

A couple of conversationalists, I tell ya.

Jack pulls out his keys as the lights flash on a black Jeep Cherokee in front of me. Excitedly, I turn to him. “You drive a Jeep?”

He chuckles, “Yep,” as he steps to the passenger side opening the door for me.

“I have a Wrangler!” I say way too enthusiastically as I step in. He smirks, not seeming to mind my excitement.

“Jeep girl, eh? Knew I liked you.” He closes the door, leaving me to sit in the silence of his pristine car while digesting those words that send a shot of electricity to my core.

When he gets into the driver’s seat, I don’t really know what to do, so I rest my hands on my thighs and stare ahead. I can feel him look over a few times, but I’m too nervous to meet his eyes.

I’m beyond grateful when he breaks the silence. “So, I, uh, finished the cookies…” That gets my attention.

“Already? It’s been a day,” I say, turning to him, a smile cracking over my nervous expression.

“I couldn’t help it, besides there were only like eight and I’m a growing boy,” he says, patting his stomach, sheepish grin and all.

“There were thirteen,” I correct, a true baker's dozen. “You’ve gotta learn to savor them! Not to mention they’re about three times the size of a standard cookie.” My head is still shaking in disbelief at the full-grown man in front of me.

“I’m going to need more.”

“You’re going to have to wait a little while. I’m switching up my flavors for next week.”

“That’s cool, I’m not picky. What’s coming up on the menu?”

I pause, thinking for a moment about my planned Saturday release. “Uh, Peanut Butter Chunk, Red Velvet, Cinnamon Swirl, Butter Pecan, Fudge Brownie, and Oatmeal Raisin,” I say, listing them off as I count down with my fingers.

One hand still on the steering wheel, he turns to face me, frown on his face, expression serious.

“Oatmeal Raisin is a fraud of a cookie, you should be ashamed of yourself.”

I balk at him, “I’ll have you know, they’re actually a regular favorite. I have to throw it in every few weeks to keep the die hard fans at bay.”

He stifles a laugh. “The cookie crowd gets particularly rowdy, eh?”

“You’d be surprised,” I reply thinking back to when I removed the Gluten Free Almond Cookies from my website last year. They didn’t sell well and were a pain to make. One of my regulars nearly started a comment brawl on my Instagram in retaliation. I make a mental note to include them in next week’s menu, just for JulesGranolaMom12.

“I think it’s awesome,” he adds, sincerity in his tone.

“Cookie crowd brawls?” I ask.

He shakes his head, smiling to himself. “No, your business. I, uh, followed it on Instagram. The idea, your whole branding, and everything. It’s just… really impressive.”

I feel myself blushing immediately and try to calm my excitement that he not only remembered Cookie & Co but took the time to look it up.

“It’s all really new, I’m still sort of learning what works best but, thank you for saying that.”

“Seriously though, no more Oatmeal Raisin.” I smile at him, feeling my nerves subsiding already.