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Chapter 35

35

ELLA

When Leah and I reach the town square, my list of who’s who has gotten longer and I’ve also learned that Cobbiton hosts the “Cornament,” a corn-themed contest as well as the Christmas Market, which reminds me of our other task today: house-shopping.

Leah says, “Don’t look now, it’s Nancy Linderberg. She’s the self-appointed head of the Cobbiton Activities Commission—the CAC. Everyone wants her ousted. She’s also among our local busybodies, being Mrs. Gormely’s top informant, so be careful what you say around her.”

So far, I’ve liked everything I’ve seen about Cobbiton, but then I remember that small towns also come with their downsides, like everyone knowing your business. Hopefully, my Puck Princess status hasn’t followed me here.

Bark Wahlburger lets out a low growl.

“Good morning, Nancy,” Leah calls with a friendly wave, showing me that it is better to smile first and strike later in this instance .

“Hello,” she says flatly. “Why haven’t you been returning my calls?”

“Because I don’t need to get The Happy Hockey Days event approved by you. That’s up to the town officials.”

“But the CAC deals with activities.”

“I understand that, but even though you didn’t want to collaborate and work together to move forward with the event, that’s not going to stop it from happening.”

“We represent the people.”

“I went door to door with a questionnaire. Eighty-five percent of our residents were in favor of the Happy Hockey Days event. That’s a majority, so it’s happening.”

“You and your hockey friends can’t just move in here and take over.”

“We’re not taking over. We’re hosting a weekend-long celebration of all things hockey and winter during the lull between holidays. You still get Christmas and the Fourth of July.”

Nancy snipes, “One of the hockey wives took over the Easter egg hunt this year.”

“That’s because you said there wasn’t enough funding for the traditional egg hunt. For the record, it was also those hockey families who stepped in and donated large sums to keep the Christmas fund afloat.”

Nancy scowls like she doesn’t like these truths.

Leah says, “If I’m not mistaken, you got into some legal hot water recently. It would be a shame if it came out that some of the CAC funds were diverted to help with your expenses.”

“Are you threatening me?” Nancy asks.

“No, I’m just encouraging you to remain honest.”

Nancy mutters something and then turns to me as if fearing I’m a lawyer. But then her expression washes with relief. “I’m Nancy Linderburg. Head of the CAC.”

“I’m Ella. ”

She huffs. “The Puck Princess. What’s this place coming to?”

“By my estimates, the introduction of hockey has strengthened community ties, enhanced youth extracurriculars, and brought an incredible tax base for improvements to Cobbiton’s infrastructure, plus a few new shops,” Leah says smartly.

Nancy storms off, making me think she doesn’t like change, especially if it means she’s no longer the queen bee.

“Sorry about that.”

“Hockey Days sounds fun.”

“I hope it will be. We’ve been working hard to make it happen. The proceeds will be evenly divided between a children’s charity and helping to fund the museum.”

Leah’s vision seems so razor sharp and amazing that I suddenly feel like the biggest loser, having been duped by Slater, living at a resort in secret, and working a job as a housekeeper when I’d studied to be the manager. Now, I’m little more than someone’s fake fiancée.

“We’ll come back for lunch, but our first appointment is in twenty minutes, so we’ll go to the car,” Leah says.

“You probably have loads to do. You don’t have to come with me.” I don’t want her to feel like she’s my assistant like her brother is for Jack. It’s not like I can pay her.

“I wouldn’t miss tours of the poshest houses in Cobbiton. Plus, don’t I make good company?” She winks.

“You do.” I’m grateful to call Leah a friend.

“But there’s such a thing as bad company and I don’t mean the band on the jukebox at the Fish Bowl.”

I follow Leah’s gaze to a couple of women approaching, reminding me of our encounter on aisle five in the department store. Bark Wahlburger stands his ground as if awaiting orders.

“Puck bunnies incoming in three, two, one. Let me handle this,” she says .

“Well, well, well. Look who we have here. The Puck Princess and her watchdogs.”

Leah’s jaw drops. Instead of giving them a piece of her mind, which she offers in a one-size-fits-all-all, she takes me by the hand and rushes down the sidewalk. Bark Wahlburger rushes ahead. When we get to the car, I pause to catch my breath, extra winded since I’m barely recovered from that bug.

“Just ignore them. Ignore them all.”

A nearby door of the back entry of what I realize is O’Neely’s Pub opens and someone calls, “There she is.”

“Word spreads fast,” Leah says.

I look around dumbly as several women around our age approach.

Leah starts to say something but is cut off by shouts of, “The Puck Princess!”

Another commands, “Take a selfie with us.”

Then one hollers, “What do you think of your fiancée and those girls the other night?”

A third adds, “You should keep him on a shorter leash and I don’t mean that mongrel.”

I cover Bark Wahlburger’s ears. “Don’t listen to them.”

“Dogs always stray,” yet another woman says glibly.

Over the hubbub, Leah shouts, “Ella, you don’t listen to them, either. Get in the car.” She hesitates as if preparing to come over and put me in the driver’s seat if I don’t comply.

But I get in, and we both slam the doors. The women outside have their phones lifted and are filming.

“What is going on?”

Leah sighs. “I was hoping we could avoid this. Pull out of this lot and then take your first right.”

“Are you going to explain?”

“Yes, but not here. You’ve been to a couple of games now. Hockey fans can get rowdy. ”

I follow orders, and Leah directs me to a residential street lined with bristly maple trees that will be covered in green leaves during the warmer months and beautiful, rich reds in fall. We pull into the driveway of what can best be described as a McMansion. There was a neighborhood near the house where I grew up and these houses sprouted around a cul-de-sac one at a time. My father said Mom would’ve loved to live in one instead of our ranch with the leaky roof and sagging shutters.

Leah says, “Good. We’re still early.”

Even though I know she’s referring to the home viewing, something unsettles my stomach. I have a hunch we didn’t just hightail it out of there because I’m newly engaged to one of the hockey’s hot shots, earning the ire of the puck bunnies who’d hoped would be the future Mrs. Bouchelle. Little do they know it’s all for show.

Leah fiddles nervously with her keychain, which is a collection of Knights merch.

I arch an eyebrow. “So, you said you had something you want to tell me?”

She dramatically thrusts her head against the back of the seat. “I can’t keep it in anymore. Never trust me with your deepest, darkest secrets.”

My eyes widen. I’m about to tell her that I don’t have any of those, but I do.

She turns to me and says, “After the game the other night, Jack went to a party and this happened.” She angles her phone so I can see a video of a dimly lit club. The angle is odd, but there’s no mistaking Jack’s profile as two women approach him, draping themselves all over his body before it loops back to the beginning over and over again.

Never mind having a cold. I feel like I’m going to be sick.

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