1
Wes
Ilift my head to the sound of seagulls squawking over the Bay of Fundy and breathe in the briny, ocean air. I’ve been on the road with the Seattle Shooters for the past hockey season and while I love what I do—I live to play the game—sometimes a guy just needs to return to his roots to center himself.
I take in the picturesque scenery before me, the fishing vessels bobbing in the rising tide, and the numerous tourists who flock to Nova Scotia every year for the scenic charm, friendly people, and of course, the catch of the day—which reminds me why I’m standing at the docks in the first place.
I tug my ballcap down on my head and walk to the Lobster Pound. The huge red building near the docks has been around for as long as I can remember. It’s one of many places dotting the shoreline that sell fresh and canned lobster, as well as other products, and supply our orchard with lobster shells. We compost the shells to feed the fruit trees on our family farm. Nothing goes to waste in our neck of the woods.
I swing open the door, a little bell jingling overhead as the air conditioning hits like a refreshing wave, cooling the droplets on my forehead. The smell of seafood fills my nostrils as my gaze goes to the guy at the back of the shop. He’s dressed in coveralls, a ball cap, and steel-toed boots. His back is to me as he takes lobster from a gray bin and places them in a big, gurgling tank. I shove my hands into my pockets and size up the fillets creatively arranged on crushed ice in the seafood display counter before me, as I wait for him to finish his task.
After a couple minutes pass and he reaches for another bin, I call out to him, assuming he hadn’t heard me come in. “Hey Mack,” I say. “I’m here to pick up the shells for the Hatfield farm.” I have no idea what the guy’s name is, but Mack is just a friendly moniker we call someone when we don’t know their name.
The guy straightens, and turns to me. That’s when I realize my mistake. Not a guy. Nope, not a guy at all. Just a girl dressed in clothes that made me think she was of a different gender. I’m used to the puck bunnies, and their tight, flimsy designer clothes. The woman before me is the anthesis of those women, and I’m not saying that’s a bad thing.
“Oh, I didn’t hear—” Her big eyes narrow in on me, and what I only assume was the beginning of a smile morphs into a scowl. It hits like a puck to the face, and I nearly falter backwards.
Okay, I get it. She doesn’t like being called Mack. I hold my hands up, palms out. “Sorry…I thought—”
“Your shells are over there,” she says and points to a big gray bin beside the door. My apology clings to my tongue as she goes back to what she was doing, completely dismissing me.
Alrighty then. “Thanks,” I say, even though I’m sure she’s no longer listening to me, but I’m a simple farm boy who was raised with manners, and can’t help myself. I’m about to grab the shells and leave when she mumbles something under her breath. Something that sounds like asshole. What the hell?
“Do I know you?”
“You tell me,” she counters, and drops the last of the lobsters into the big tank. She tugs off yellow gloves, and sets them in a nearby sink. I wrack my brain. We’ve been picking up shells from the Baxter family for years. It’s always been a family run business and if memory serves me correctly, there are four girls in the family, and they’ve all been helping out at the pound since they could walk. She’s obviously one of them, but not one I used to see regularly.
Her head lifts and I take in her pretty profile, and that’s when recognition hits. “Charlotte?”
She snorts, and shakes her head. “Don’t you mean, Charlie?”
Okay, now I’m confused. Was there a Charlotte and a Charlie and I’m mixing them up? Wait, isn’t Charlie short for Charlotte? I don’t know, but what I do know is that the Charlotte I remember was a few years younger than me. We very rarely crossed paths here at the pound, but I’d see her when she was leaving U15 hockey practice and I was gearing up for my U18 game. She was one hell of a player, and I used to enjoy watching the team’s highest scorer. I scratch my head, not sure what I ever did to her—I don’t even remember speaking to her—but it’s clear from her scowl that she doesn’t like me much.
She folds her arms and aims those gorgeous blue eyes at me. “Is there anything else you need, Wes?”
I blink at her. “You know me?”
“Of course, I know you,” she huffs out. “Everyone knows you. You’re Weston Hatfield, a famous hockey player. You put Digby, Nova Scotia, on the map.”
“It’s just Wes. I don’t go by Weston.” Not that there is anything wrong with the name—it was, after all, my grandfather’s name—but I just prefer Wes.
“Fine, Wes.” She takes her ballcap off, and bends forward to shake out her long blonde hair. My gaze goes to the sexy bend of her body, the way her overalls hug her curves, not to mention the sweet swell of her ass. As I stare, unable to tear my gaze away, I realize one of two things are happening. Either my jeans shrank in the laundry last night, or I really like the vision before me. She pulls an elastic off her wrist to tie her long hair into a ponytail. My heart beats a little faster against my ribs as she straightens and looks back at me.
“You’re still here?”
My dry throat scratches as I work to swallow. Despite what’s written and rumored about me, it’s been a while since I’ve been with a girl. I’m the new guy on the team, the rookie, and my first season was spent proving myself. I didn’t have a lot of time for extracurricular activities, no matter what was said. Now that the season is over, however… That thought brings on a laugh. Am I really thinking about starting something with a girl who clearly hates me—for reasons I don’t understand? Plus, lessons learned taught me the girls in this town are always looking for a way out. I’m not about to make the mistake of getting involved with anyone from here, only to get dumped when something bigger and better comes along. Not again, anyway.
A line forms on her forehead as she frowns at me. “Something funny?”
“No…I just ah…I don’t mean to sound stupid, but are you or aren’t you Charlotte from U15 hockey.”
“Of course I am.”
“You go by Charlie now?”
The cute freckles around her nose bunch as her lips pinch, and one hip juts out as she plants her hand on it in a no-nonsense manner. Nothing about her clothes, or the way she’s standing there glaring at me should be construed as sexy. It’s not the look she’s going for. She’s not trying to impress me by any means, which means my damn dick should not be hardening.
Down boy.