6. Teddy

CHAPTER 6

TEDDY

L ike an idiot, I’ve been tossing out breadcrumbs to Harlow. But they just boomerang back as if she has no idea what they might mean. Maybe I should do an opinion poll. It would go like this: Should I romantically pursue my best friend? Survey says ABSOLUTELY NOT.

Why do I keep doing this to myself? I must’ve taken a puck to the noggin.

After last night, I feel like such an idiot, holding Harlow’s hand, hoping maybe she was thinking what I was thinking.

In my mind, it looked like this: the two of us snuggled up in the cozy cabin, maybe keeping each other warm with a kiss.

Instead, awkward silence stretched between us.

Rousing, her cinnamon spice scent reaches me before I blink open my eyes. I recall how close our beds are.

She bolts upright, gathering the blanket around her, and says a hasty, “Morning.”

“Good— ”

Instead of picking up where we left off in our conversation last night, Harlow scuttles to the bathroom.

The shower runs while I replay every word and glance we exchanged. There were a few times when I thought she might be interested in exploring things with the “right” guy, aka me.

But we’re just friends.

Maybe she’s onto me and afraid I like her as more than friends, so she’s trying to resist by scurrying away and acting disinterested. But what if the way her gaze lingers on mine and how she leans into my hugs means she’s just curious about what could be between us?

It’s confusing and I’m questioning whether I’ve lost my charm. It could be that lack of ice time proportionately decreases my flirting game as well.

I usually can get a quick and accurate read on women. I have a ninety-nine percent success rate. Then again, no one is like Harlow. I casually date. I don’t do relationships or commitments. My best friend is an exception.

After we try (and fail) to avoid brushing up against each other in the cramped cabin while getting ready—we nearly tripped over each other while trying to put on our shoes—we head into town.

The wide sidewalks mean I will be able to give Harlow the space she seems to want. But as we leave Cagle’s Heart Haven Cabin and head into Maple Falls, she sticks to my side. While we wait to cross a street, she adjusts my hat when a piece of my hair catches on the brim. Our gazes drift together and she wears a smile so sweet and small, that you wouldn’t even know she has dimples unless you know where to look .

My voice is slightly scratchy when I ask, “Where to first?”

“We have two hours before the massage appointment. Coffee for you, chai for me, then maybe explore? I saw some cute restaurants and shops when we passed through yesterday.”

If we were a couple, this is where I’d catch her hand in mine and we’d stroll under the trees in full autumn bloom—massive bouquets of red, orange, and yellow leaves with a few drifting to the ground on the breeze. The sun shines bright overhead against a silver-blue sky.

It’s a beautiful day, and I’m with the most beautiful woman in the world. And I’m not the only one who thinks so, given the way a guy who waits for his coffee order goes slack-jawed when we enter Maple Grounds Coffee Shop & Bakery. He blatantly ogles her and she’s oblivious. I angle myself in his line of vision then give her shoulders a little squeeze. She taps her head against my hand in a show of appreciation.

“You’re tense. Good thing we’re getting massages later.” I remind myself to be patient because having just quit her job she’s likely stressed.

Before Harlow can respond, someone squeals.

A female says, “I think that’s one of them.”

Two young women wearing Ice Breakers merch rush over, phones extended.

“Wait. Let me guess,” one of the women says. “You’re Ted ‘The Bear’?”

“He’s the defenseman,” the other adds with a shoulder shimmy.

The barista asks for our order and Harlow takes the lead, ordering my coffee exactly how I like it with a splash of cream.

The female hockey fans ask a few questions about the charity team and request selfies.

However, if I’m not mistaken, Harlow’s ordinary resting grouch face turns to a solid scowl when the two women pucker up, kissing me on each cheek while taking photos.

Apparently, she’s not entirely oblivious to ogling.

The barista passes her the chai and coffee, then bumping the door with her hip, Harlow hastily exits the café. I hurry after her and she all but shoves the paper cup in my hand.

To say my best friend rage shops for the next thirty minutes is an understatement. I trail her in a home goods store while she huffs her way through potholders and charcuterie trays.

Harlow practically growls. “These placemats are too red.”

“Did they do something to offend you?” I ask. And by they—the placemats—I mean me.

We leave without purchasing anything. Her phone beeps and she blurts, “The massages are postponed until this afternoon. Great. More time to kill.” Her tone practically drips with blood.

Next, we visit Maple Falls Made, a touristy type place that also offers locally crafted or sponsored items, including some Ice Breaker merchandise.

Harlow waits in line with a package of salt water taffy for Jill who’s house-sitting and spins a magnet display. “This would be cute if the otter didn’t look deranged.”

She doesn’t laugh, not even when I do because the otter does have one big buggy eye and the other looks like it was an afterthought.

I comment that the Ice Breaker’s mascot is an otter. “Hope it looks a little less googly than these guys.”

I don’t so much as get a giggle. Not even a snort-laugh.

Outside, Harlow storms down the sidewalk, and I trot to keep up.

“What happened to strolling?” I say with labored breath.

She goes still. “Right. I forgot. I’m supposed to be enjoying a romantic weekend getaway. But the only action anyone is getting is you from those two puck—” Harlow presses her lips together into a thin and restrained line.

I fight the urge to rest my palms on her shoulders in a calming, affectionate gesture because I’d risk setting myself ablaze for two reasons.

She’s angry and an angry Harlow is a scary Harlow. For all I know, she might have a flamethrower in her purse.

Angry Harlow is a cute Harlow. I don’t love the attention from female fans, but I can’t deny that her response has my gears turning—it’s my why is she so mad? machinery.

I flip through memories and realize she routinely gets peeved when young, attractive women ask for me to sign things and take selfies.

Interesting development. Why didn’t I notice before?

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to interfere with our romantic weekend getaway,” I say, half-joking and half-genuine because I’m not sure how to play this. Deep down, I know what I want it to be, but I’m not sure we’re on the same page in this “romance novel.”

“That’s just it. This isn’t our romantic getaway. It’s—” She goes quiet and avoids my gaze. “Sorry. I’m being silly.”

“Is there anything you want to tell me?” I ask carefully.

She stares at our shoes, toes almost touching. “No. It’s fine. Sorry, I overreacted. I guess I’m just, um, defensive of you. Don’t like to see women throw themselves at you because you’re some hockey hot, um, shot.”

The side of my mouth curls with a smile because if I’m not mistaken, she bounced that hockey hot potato. Does Harlow think I’m hot? I’ll have to get a second opinion.

Inclining my head, I ask, “Is that it?”

“Yeah. Totally,” she says, but the slight uptick in her tone tells me otherwise.

I’m not convinced. A terrible idea crosses my mind. I scrap it then have second thoughts. However, maybe it’s what I need to do to get this situation under control so I don’t ruin our friendship. I mull it over as we continue walking, drifting in the direction of the Saturday morning farmers’ market. A woman wearing jeans and a Maple Falls Farmers Market T-shirt with a name tag that says Keira greets us.

It’s not as if people in Tulsa are rude, but everyone here is exceptionally nice. Like maple candy, melt-in-your-mouth friendly. It soon rubs off on Harlow because when strangers smile, she smiles back. Totally not typical Harlow. However, it could have something to do with quitting her soul-draining job and our semi-resolution from earlier in the coffee shop.

We snack our way through the farmers’ market, sampling homemade half-sour pickles, a lemon poppyseed muffin, and honey-roasted mixed nuts. We split an empanada that rivals the ones from My Big Fat Burrito.

The same guy from the coffee shop who’d noticed Harlow purchases an assortment of macarons.

My terrible plan comes together. “I have an idea. Let’s fix this.”

“Fix what?” Harlow asks, dipping up a homemade corn chip with a tomatillo salsa sample.

“We’ll find you some fans.”

Harlow coughs and all but chokes on the spicy bite. “What?”

“We’ll get you back in the dating game. I know plenty of guys. You’re on the rebound so . . .”

“Teddy, I’m on the no bound.”

“You’d give any of the puck bunnies a run for their money.”

She gasps. “What do you mean money? Do the puck bunnies pay you?”

“No, I just meant you’re cuter and cooler than any of them, Shorty,” I add so she knows I’m not coming on to her.

Biting her lip, Harlow says, “Maybe I want to be single for a little while.”

My stomach sinks because that takes me out of contending. The whole point of my terrible plan is to test the dating pool in real time, not just get recaps about her lousy boyfriends.

“Yeah? If that’s the case, what happened to your romantic weekend getaway?”

“That’s all just—” She waves her hand vaguely. “ Theoretical.” With a long, almost resigned exhale, she says. “I can’t think of anyone I’d want to date.”

I feel squirmy inside, but I guess no one is better than someone other than me. “I just want to help break you out of this post-Chad-Phoenix funk.”

“It’s not that.” Pausing in front of a stall selling goat milk soap, she turns to face me. Her lips part, but words don’t come.

A wordless conversation passes between us with darty glances and hesitant movements.

Then her phone trills with a call.

“Must be the massage place. I gave them your number too.” She checks it and says, “Oh, it’s Jill. I’d better take this.” She wanders a few feet away, leaving me in front of a display of crocheted baby items. With a polite smile, I drift back to a vendor that’s more my speed called Spice Craft.

I grab a few bottles of hot sauce, a couple of types of salsa, including the tomatillo one, and a bag of homemade chips. The guys on the team will likely appreciate me bringing the heat. Not wanting to be separated, I slowly trail Harlow to give her privacy on the call, but also so I’m not being rude and taking up real estate in front of the salsa stall.

Into her phone, she hisses, “I do not have a crush on Teddy. How do you know whether I’ve been flirting? For the record, not only did I quit my job, I quit flirting if I even remember how.”

I go still, knowing that wasn’t for my ears to hear, but how could I not when she mentioned my name?

She’s quiet for a long moment, likely listening to Jill, and then asks, “What is a squish? ”

My brow furrows as I do my best to recall the definition of that slang term, having heard it and just about everything else known to man in the locker room over the years. I believe a squish is just short of a crush—liking someone a lot but not romantically.

Harlow says, “Of course I love being around him. We’re best friends.”

Not wanting to lose track of her at the busy market or hear more about how we’re just friends, I keep a few paces back as she browses tiny potted succulents while still on the phone.

“Do you have proof?” Without letting Jill answer, she continues, “Whatever it is, the feeling isn’t mutual.”

“That’s not true,” I mutter.

Harlow’s gaze darts from side to side, but she doesn’t look over her shoulder and spot me. “He does not have a smoldering attraction to me.”

“Also untrue,” I say.

I occupy myself with sniffing homemade candles. There’s a chai-scented one so I buy it for Harlow.

My phone beeps with a reminder message from the massage place. I’ll have to find out more about this squish-crush situation later. I come around from behind Harlow and tickle her neck.

She jumps at my touch.

I whisper, “We’re going to be late for our couple’s massage.”

Even though Harlow has the phone to her ear, I can hear Jill shriek. “Is that him? Does he know you’re into hockey butts?”

Harlow’s cheeks tint pink, highlighting her freckles. “I have to go. ”

I can’t help the way my eyebrows lift nor can I be held responsible for what I say next, “Hockey butts, huh?” I peer over my shoulder toward my backside.

Harlow clicks her tongue. “Don’t listen to Jill, Hot Shot.”

“Hot . . .?”

Her expression drops as if she realizes I may have heard more of the conversation than she intended.

“I got you something.” I hold out the gift bag from Candle Gram.

She peers into the bag and pulls out the candle, taking a deep breath. “It’s amazing, but you shouldn’t have?—”

“Figured it would last longer than flowers.”

Her lips twist. “Is that what you get all the puck bunnies when you take them out on dates?”

“Puck bunnies? No, only you, Harlow.”

“I feel so special,” she says with a sassy bob of her head.

The corner of my mouth twitches. “Me too, considering the whole thing about hockey butts.”

She gives me a playful shove. “Stop. You and all your adoring fans know you have a great backside.”

My lips curl with a smile. “But I didn’t know you agreed.”

Harlow’s cheeks flame.

Do best friends think about each other’s butts and blush?

Maybe this means that I can dash the plan to find her a date and dial up the flirting.