High Stick

by Alicia Hunter Pace

  Packi supervised two equipment managers and two locker room attendants. He ordered new equipment, made repairs on the bench during games, sharpened skates, and bossed his underlings around. He did not clean up and replace skate laces—except when he did.

  Every once in a while Packi assumed taking care of a player who needed a little extra care—sometimes when bad things happened like when Jake Champagne was going through a divorce or when Mike Webber’s mother died. But sometimes it was because of good things. He’d catered to Glaz when Noel was pregnant and to Mikhail Orlov when he, Sharon, and their three children were moving to a different house. Recently, he’d taken Emile and then Bryant under his wing, and they’d both ended up engaged.

  Maybe it was going to happen for him. Glaz and some of the others swore that Packi had some kind of magical sixth sense, that he just knew when someone needed some extra help. Jarrett didn’t have an opinion about that and he didn’t care. He was happy that for a while he was going to be the one getting the special food, first massage after games, and having Gatorade and a towel magically appear in his hand when he needed them. He’d been envious of the others and now it was his turn.

  And it couldn’t hurt with his quest for Merry.

  “Is there anything I can do for you? Anything at all that you need?” Packi asked.

  “Well . . . ” Jarrett hesitated. He didn’t want to take advantage.

  “What?” Packi insisted.

  “While I’m on the ice, do you think you could get me a ticket for tonight’s game? A good seat? You see there’s this girl . . . ”

  Packi nodded. “You don’t want a pass to the wives and girlfriends suite, do you?”

  “No. You have to work up to that. The wives and almost-wives don’t like it if you don’t.”

  Packi nodded. “Good. I tried to tell Emile that and he wouldn’t listen to me. Amy didn’t even stay for the game that night.”

  “I’m smarter than Emile,” Jarrett said.

  Packi shrugged. “We’ll see about that. But I’ll have the ticket when you get off the ice.”

  “Thanks, Packi.”

  “Be careful out there.”

  “I always am.” Jarrett got the feeling Packi wasn’t talking about the practice ice. But that was okay.

  He was a Weeble. He might wobble but he wouldn’t fall down.

  Chapter Four

  “You are so smart to have career plans that don’t include retail.” Harper Hayes, who worked with Merry at Foolscap and Vellum, handed Merry a cup of coffee. “I wish I could figure out what I want to be when I grow up.”

  Merry sipped her coffee. Ginger molasses, her favorite flavor. “This is good. Thank you.”

  “Better enjoy it,” Harper said. “January 1—it’s history.”

  “Technically, December 31.” Merry set her cup aside and went back to straightening the sale table. “We won’t be open January 1.”

  “Can’t come soon enough,” Harper complained.

  “Come on, Harper.” Merry consolidated the discounted rolls of Hanukkah and Christmas wrap into one tall basket and moved the empty one behind the counter. “There are far worse jobs. We close every night at five o’clock. We aren’t open on Sunday. And Chelsea is good to us.”

  “Yes, Chelsea is.” Their boss and the owner of Foolscap and Vellum breezed out of the back room in a cloud of silk and spicy perfume. Some would say silk didn’t have a scent, but it wasn’t true. Silk smelled like . . . well, silk. “Is Harper complaining again? Maybe we should send her to the mall and see how she likes those hours.” Chelsea winked at Merry.

  “I am who I am,” Harper said. “Complaining is what I do. It doesn’t mean I really feel that way. And just because the two of you never complain doesn’t mean that you aren’t cranky in your heads.”

  The three women laughed. “Merry, do you even know what she meant?” Chelsea asked.

  “I think so and that’s scary.” She picked up one of the tin boxes of vintage, glittered gift tags. They were outrageously expensive. Who paid twenty-five dollars—or even half that, which they were now that Christmas was over—for thirty gift tags? Even sparkling, old-fashioned Santas, stars, and toy soldiers that were so charming they could fool you into thinking they could fix Christmas? Actually, a lot of people were willing to pay that, which is why they only had three boxes left. Maybe they had fixed a lot of Christmases—but they couldn’t have fixed Merry’s. There was no fixing an alone Christmas. Chelsea had invited her for Christmas dinner, but she’d refused, saying she just wanted to sleep the day away. Crashing someone else’s Christmas was worse than being alone. Her parents had wanted her to come home, of course, but she hadn’t had the time or inclination to drive to Beaver Crossing after getting off work at 5:00 p.m. on Christmas Eve, only to have to be back at Foolscap and Vellum the day after Christmas at eight o’clock in the morning to get ready for the hordes who would arrive two hours later to pick over the half price spoils.

  Though, unlike Harper, she wouldn’t have said so, Merry hated the day after Christmas like no other retail day. She didn’t mind black Friday and even enjoyed the bustle and high spirits of Christmas Eve—but December 26 was a different story. The same people who might have been full of good cheer and kindness the day before Christmas morphed into vultures out for bargains that they were willing to go to the mat for. Most of them had that hungry look in their eyes that identified them as people who shopped for sport and had no other pastimes. Having been deprived of commerce for at least thirty-six hours, they were like wholesale zombies hungry for retail. Yesterday, Merry had actually considered threatening to cut the last roll of Cavallini Victorian Santa wrapping paper in half like some kind of modern day, post-holiday Solomon. But somehow, she didn’t think either of the women fighting over the roll would have loved it enough to give it up for the other.

  What would Dr. Cyrus Sweet, pastor of Beaver Crossing Baptist Church, think of his daughter likening herself to Solomon? Probably not much. He sure hadn’t liked it when he’d asked her eight-year-old self if she wanted to be a Mary or a Martha and she’d said neither—she wanted to be Jesus.

  Work today would be better. The vultures had come and gone, leaving little on the sale table. Today’s shoppers wouldn’t be so cutthroat. They’d be the ones who wanted a bargain but not so much that they were willing to fight first-string shoppers. They would be looking to see what was left, but nothing like the woman who was so determined to have the blown glass holly-wearing cat ornaments that she’d hidden them behind the bullet journals three days before Christmas.

  The second-string shoppers would be here soon. Merry needed to retrieve those cat ornaments from where she’d stashed them in the storeroom after she’d discovered where they’d been hidden. The only fun she’d had yesterday was to watch the woman in the mink coat hunting cats among the bullet journals. Some second-string shopper would be delighted. She laid the tin of Christmas-saving tags down with the others between a stack of Christmas cards and some lime green cocktail napkins with “RING THEM BELLS!” printed in hot pink.

  “Oh, Merry,” Chelsea said, “go ahead and take those gift tags. Every time I’ve looked up for the last three weeks, you’ve been looking at them. My gift to you.”

  “Hey!” Harper said. “How come she gets free stuff and I don’t?”

  “Are you forgetting the witch hat I supplied for your Halloween costume? And it wasn’t even marked down yet.”

  “It would have been,” Harper said. “You gave it to me at closing time on Halloween.”

  “I don’t need these,” Merry said. “I just think they’re pretty.” Besides, Chelsea had already given her a spa gift card and a pair of cashmere gloves.

  Chelsea picked up the little tin and put it behind the counter. “We all need pretty sometimes.”

  “Thank you.” It would take Merry five years to use thirty Christmas gift tags. Or maybe she wouldn’t use them. Maybe she’d take them out every year and look at them—but even if she did use th
em, she was keeping the mid-century station wagon with the Christmas tree tied to the top. It was her favorite.

  Chelsea wandered over to the sale table, which was the first thing you saw after walking in the door. “There’s not a lot left. Maybe we should go ahead and mark it down to seventy-five percent off.” Chelsea did not like holiday stuff hanging around after the holiday any more than she liked the holiday coffee flavors lingering. That woman was all about moving on. “What do y’all think? If we cleared it out today, we could move the calendars and New Year’s things to this spot and put Valentine’s Day over there.” She gestured to the second most prominent display.

  “Suits me,” Harper said. “All we’d have to do is change the sign. We’re already having to take off the discount at the register.”

  “Merry?” Chelsea prompted.

  “I think it’s too soon. People are still shopping for next year. You might as well get all you can out of the Christmas merchandise. Besides, if you put Valentine’s Day out today, you’ll be tired of it before the end of January and want to put out St. Patrick’s Day.”

  Chelsea nodded. “You’re right. That’s why I keep you around.” She turned to Harper. “Not sure why I keep you.”

  “Because I’m your cousin and it would make for a bad family reunion.”

  “Don’t test me,” Chelsea said. “And make me a latte.”

  “What kind? Eggnog? Peppermint Mocha?”

  Chelsea shook her head. “Vanilla. I am over holiday flavors. I don’t even want any chocolate. And I’m going to eat Indian food for lunch. Or Thai. Or maybe one for lunch and the other for dinner. Though a falafel would be good, too. And with dinner I’m going to have some decidedly anti-festive drink—like gin and tonic or vodka on the rocks. No pomegranate martinis, brandy eggnogs, or candy cane anything. It’s time for back to basics.”

  Jarrett could mix those drinks, and in fine style, too. This wasn’t the first time she’d thought of him over the past few days—or the first time she’d admonished herself for doing so. There was no point. He’d flirted with her, sure. She might have even flirted back, but that didn’t mean she wanted to hear from him. And it was a good thing, because he hadn’t indicated that she would ever see him again.

  Though she might—on the ice. She knew his jersey number now—91. She’d Googled him, but only because she’d had nothing else to do on an off day. She could only sleep so much. If classes had started, she wouldn’t have even thought of him at all.

  She’d learned a few things: He was the son of Scott MacPherson, a popular NHL player who had been loved even by fans of his team’s rivals. Son might be a better player than father; it could be the other way around. The world would never know, because the father had died young. Jarrett was known for his clean living and straightforward attitude. He had never been married, and he didn’t have a girlfriend at the moment. Maybe. Google didn’t know everything.

  Not that it mattered.

  “They’re gathering,” Harper said. “Are we ready? Should we let them in? It’s just five minutes early.”

  “Maybe.” Merry hesitated with the cat ornaments in her hands. She wasn’t going to put them out if the mink coat-wearing cat hider was out there. She stepped around to get a clear view of the people gathered outside the door—and looked right into the eyes of Jarrett MacPherson.

  Messy hair, pink cheeks, Sound jacket. He smiled that hardly there smile and tapped lightly on the glass.

  He was here to see her. If she had worked in any other kind of store—hardware, pharmacy, department—she might have thought otherwise. But this man was not here to buy half price Christmas guest towels or bullet journal supplies.

  She almost crushed a cat in each hand.

  • • •

  There she was—already hard at work, looking just like he wanted her to—mid-calf gray wool skirt, black knee boots, soft pink sweater. He hadn’t been able to tell the length of her hair when she’d been bartending, because it had been twisted up in the back, but it brushed the top of her shoulders in a smooth, shiny sheet. When she saw him, she looked surprised. Good. He wanted her to be. Hopefully, it was a happy surprise. He waved. Now, she’d unlock the door. He couldn’t wait. He wasn’t good at opening lines, but he’d thought of an excellent one.

  Except she didn’t open the door. She turned around and started fiddling with things on a little table.

  Another girl unlocked the door and held it open. Much as he wanted to rush in, the other four people waiting outside the shop were women, so he did the gentlemanly thing.

  “Ladies.” He took a step back and let them precede him through the door.

  The girl who’d opened the door gave him a long, frank look. “I know who you are.”

  “Do you?” He could never think of anything clever to say when people said that.

  She nodded. “On TV. Advertising Disney.”

  Merry stepped away from that table to make room for the four women to gather around it. What was so special about that table?

  “You’re one of those Sound players,” the girl went on.

  Merry spoke briefly with one of the women and disappeared into another part of the store. Where was she going?

  “I’ve see that life-size picture of you on the side of Bridgestone Arena,” the girl said.

  “Actually, the picture is larger than life size. That building is twenty-two stories tall, which translates to roughly 333 feet. I am not that tall.”

  “What? How do you know that? People don’t go around knowing that kind of thing.”

  He shrugged.

  “Are you here for the after-Christmas sale? It’s picked over, but there’s still some good wrapping paper and ribbon.”

  Ribbon? Did he look like someone who bought ribbon? He really needed to change his image. Besides, why would he need Christmas ribbon now, even if he were a ribbon buyer?

  “No, thank you. I’ve already given all my Christmas gifts out.” His sister had wrapped them. Presumably, she had bought ribbon.

  “What about next year? Don’t you want to be ready for Christmas next year?”

  Yes, I do, but buying ribbon won’t help me get ready for what I need—not being alone.

  “No. Not really. I’m not one to plan ahead.” Why had he said that? It wasn’t remotely true. He had never been one to let life happen to him. He happened to life. But really, a better question was why was this girl asking him all these questions?

  Yet, she forged on. If her name wasn’t Hard Sale Sally, it ought to be. “Or maybe you need a new appointment book. That’s not planning ahead. New Year’s is next week.”

  “Uh, maybe.” Also a lie. He had a phone and an agent. Why did he need a calendar? Ah. There was Merry—handing something to the woman she’d been talking to. He tried to catch her eye, but she was all about her customer. He liked that. It confirmed that she had a good work ethic.

  “Would you like me to show them to you?”

  “Show me what?”

  “The calendars.” Hard Sale Sally sounded irritated, which was no way to sell calendars. Somebody ought to tell her that, but it wasn’t going to be him. He had no time for salesmanship lessons.

  “No.” Jarrett took a step toward Merry. “Thank you, though. I’ll just look myself.”

  “Hey!” Hard Sale Sally said. “That’s the wrong direction. The calendars are over there.” She pointed to the other side of the store.

  Clearly she belonged on a car lot, browbeating people into buying used cars. Maybe she got paid on commission.

  “I’m just going to look over here at the . . . uh, little candles.”

  “Those are not candles!” She sounded really mad now. “That’s sealing wax.”

  “Yes.” At this rate, he’d never get to use his funny line on Merry. “That’s what I’ve been needing. Sealing wax.” What was sealing wax?

  “Well, okay.” She actually huffed, making it clear that she didn’t believe him. She probably needed to consider a different line of work
—maybe enforcer on a hockey team. It might help her get out some of that aggression. He wondered if she could skate, but he didn’t wonder long. He didn’t know what he wanted more—to get away from this girl or to Merry. Another lie. It wasn’t even close.

  There. Merry had finished helping her customer. He marched up to her. Now was the time. “Hi. Can you help me find something?”

  She looked confused. “In here? What do you need?”

  “I’m looking for a sweet girl named Merry.”

  She half closed her eyes and let out a sound that was half sigh and half laugh. He got the feeling that it might have been funny the first two hundred times she’d heard it. And he’d thought it was original.

  “I guess you’ve heard that before.”

  “A few times,” she said. “Or something very similar.”

  “I’m no good at clever lines.” But he’d thought he might be getting better.

  “I’m no good at being impressed by them.” Damn her eyes were green.

  “Am I trying to impress you? And if so, am I succeeding?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I can see your not knowing the answer to the first question, but not the second.”

  “I never make a snap judgment. I have to think about a thing before I know if I’m impressed.”

  “Will you text me and tell me when you figure it out?”

  She shook her head. “I can’t. I don’t know your number.”

  “We could rectify that.” Hey, he hadn’t even thought that up. It had come naturally.

  “I’m at work,” she reminded him. “Unless I can help you find something, I need to get back to doing what I’m paid to do.”

  Damn. It looked like he might have to buy ribbons, calendars, and little candles after all.

  “Tell me about those.” He pointed to the multicolored sticks. “Sealing wax?”

  “What do you want to know about them?”

  “How do they work? What are they for?”

  She frowned at him. “Do you really want to know or are you wasting my time?”

  “Is the exchange of knowledge ever a waste of time?”