That’d be fifty grand to Hockey Fights Cancer or a similar charity. Fifty grand to help those who had helped his mom beat that vile disease, and support those struggling with it, and those looking for a cure. He exhaled. “You really want me to do this?”
“We think it’d be good for your profile, and good to get people thinking about hockey in Winnipeg for a change, instead of associating it with the other major cities.” Like Toronto, Montreal, Vancouver, Calgary, and the big E. “Show them some of your natural charm—”
Luc snorted.
“—and have fun. You could boost your social media numbers at the same time too.”
Or maybe get on some of those platforms, at least. That wasn’t exactly the way to sell it to him. He liked his privacy. Although being captain would mean having to give a lot of that up, anyway. He bit back another sigh.
“Come on. It’s a dancing competition. How hard can it be? And don’t forget, it’s for a good cause. You can always spin it that way if you’re embarrassed about what people might think of you.”
He winced internally. He’d had a lifetime of not bothering about what other people thought. Embarrassment was only another name for fear, after all. He shook his head. “I can’t believe I’m even considering this.”
The GM straightened, his ever-subtle signal for drawing the meeting to a close. “Talk it over, with your agent, your family, and your mom.” He winked. “It could be a lot better than you think.”
Or it could be the worst thing ever.
Lord, this can’t be from You. Help me out. Please!
The guys in both his team and online Bible study crew would never let him live it down. Just like he’d mock the heck out of them if their roles were swapped.
Man. He pitied the poor woman he’d be paired with. If he agreed to do it. But how could he say no?
Lord? Help!
CHAPTER 2
The sound of coffee beans grinding shrieked off the tiles lining the store. Despite the name, the Coffee Haus café had been designed to not encourage its customers to linger and treat the space as a home, its demographic more the busy office workers who were employed around here. There was only one comfy couch, the rest of the place consisting of stainless-steel tables and chairs that were lighter than they looked, and a narrow wooden bar with steel-and-wood stools where some intrepids liked to work. Bailey didn’t understand it. She much preferred the soft pastels and vintage wannabe French vibes of those cafes that longed to evoke Paris, but held little actual resemblance to those she’d seen when she’d lived in France five years ago. But a job was a job, and with her money worries she’d be jumping at any extra shifts she could take, hence this one, different from her usual, which meant a different array of customers.
And while she served customers, made coffee, wiped tables, she kept a smile on her dial, hiding the consternation within. The questions from yesterday continued. What should she do? God was with her, she knew that, and Jehovah Jireh was her provider, so she knew she’d have to trust Him to open a door.
Her parents and brother had all reminded her of that in the group messenger chat when she’d asked for prayer. Cindy, her brother’s wife, hadn’t acknowledged her comment, even though Bailey knew she’d seen it, thanks to the little face next to the chat. Her sister-in-law had never understood the close relationship the rest of them shared, and Bailey suspected Cindy was jealous. Whatever. She just had to keep turning the other cheek.
“Bailey, can you wipe down those tables?” Max, the non-binary manager, pointed to the corner from behind their spot at the coffee machine.
“Sure.”
She grabbed the cleaning products and stepped to the section, stacking empty cups on a tray then wiping it down. Her backside buzzed, but she didn’t answer. Phone calls were for break times only, and Max didn’t like it when people ignored the rules. And while this new world was hard to navigate as a Christian sometimes, and she knew her father would never understand, showing Max respect had to be something Jesus would do, right? Regardless of how Max chose to identify, God still knew Max’s name, and Bailey had determined to show Max God’s love however she could. It wasn’t like she hadn’t had to work with people dealing with similar issues before. The ballet world was full of people who needed God’s love more than being pigeonholed.
So she cleared and cleaned, and returned behind the counter to Max’s nod.
“Surprised to see you working today,” Max said.
She shrugged. “I’m after any extra shifts I can get.”
“Don’t you have classes?”
“Now it’s summer, there are less kids, and I still need to pay rent.” She smiled. “Hence you get the pleasure of my company.”
Max’s mouth flickered into a micro-smile. “I’ll remember.”
A new customer entered, a shadowed silhouette filling the doorway, and Bailey paused, taking him in. The man, who looked to be around thirty, was big, broad-shouldered and obviously muscled, according to the T-shirt straining across his chest. His hair was a dirty dark brown, flowing beneath a Jets cap in a style she just knew was her all-time least favorite on a guy: the mullet. But from his tattoos and very presence, she sensed he didn’t care what she or anyone else thought about him. She noticed the way others had paused too, subtly or not-so-subtly watching as he moved to the counter. He seemed aware of but not embarrassed by the attention, like he was used to it, even though he didn’t acknowledge anyone else. Instead, his eyes were firmly fixed on her. She shivered.
He reached the counter, nodded to her, unsmiling, just like Max. But unlike Max, there was no questioning the gender of this man, who was very much the embodiment of masculinity, at least in her limited experience. Muscled, strong jawline, thick dark eyebrows, a spray of fine whiskers on his jaw, with intense dark eyes. Not exactly handsome, but strong-featured. Just very… strong. The epitome of a tough guy. “Hey.”
Even his voice was deep, seeming to splay through her. She blinked, suddenly conscious of her petite height and frame and long hair pulled up in a high ponytail, and lifted her chin and lips. “Hi. What can I get you?”
“It’s okay, Bailey,” Max said, glancing at the new customer. “Usual?”
“Thanks.”
So Mister Intimidating was a regular. He tapped his card, then moved to the serving center, eyes on his phone, leaving her feeling weirdly short-changed. Which was dumb. She didn’t know the guy, had no desire to know the guy, but there’d been something in the way he looked at her which sent a ripple through her soul, almost like he was someone she was supposed to know. Which made no sense at all. Lord? This is dumb. I don’t know what’s going on, but please stop the weirdness.
She served another customer, a woman who nudged her friend as they glanced at the big dude, still on his phone. She peeked across. He was now pivoting away as he answered a call, his shoulders sagging, like this call was bad news.
Maybe it was because she was recently familiar with bad news that she felt a new ping of interest, but she kept sneaking glances at him, noting when he inched closer to the door, like he’d forgotten his coffee order.
Max eyed her, then called out, “Luke!”
The man didn’t turn, obviously listening to the call as he shook his head, his voice too low and rumbly to hear. Not that she’d ever listen to café customers’ conversations or anything.
“Can you—?” Max gestured to the coffee. Tall black, no sugar, according to the plastic lid.
“Um, sure.”
She picked it up, then moved to the man whose back was to her, time seeming to slow like she was being drawn by an indefinable, inescapable force. She lifted a hand to tap him on the back when he suddenly pivoted, and his elbow bumped the coffee she held. Her hand jerked, the lid popped off, and hot liquid sloshed on him and her.
