Neutral Zone (Carolina Comets)

“Son of a…”

I glower down at the mess all over the floor of the donut truck I’ve practically been running on my own for the last six months or so. This isn’t the first time I’ve dropped a container of sprinkles and I’m sure it won’t be the last, but this whole situation would be much better if I hadn’t dropped an entire pitcher of cold brew too.

Why did I think grabbing ten things from the fridge at once was a good idea? Oh, right—because I’m running behind on getting ready to open and doing several things at once is completely necessary because if I don’t, there is no way I will get this truck open on time, and Scout will kill me if that happens.

Setting my hands on my hips, I close my eyes, suck in a deep breath, and then exhale.

In. Out.

In. Out.

Breathe, Rosie. You’ve got this. You’re off your game today, but you can fix this.

When my heart rate finds a natural rhythm and I don’t feel like the next thing out of my mouth will be a curse word, I peel my eyes open, then get to work cleaning up the mess I made.

It’s a Monday morning, and by morning, I mean morning. It’s currently 4:45 AM, I’m supposed to open at six, and I still have about ten things on my to-do list. Big things. Important-to-running-this-truck kind of things. I mean, it’s Monday, for crying out loud. There is no way we won’t have a line forming five minutes before we open, and there’s no way it will not be stretched out to the parking lot at one point.

This place is a hotspot for the players of the Carolina Comets, our local NHL team. I guarantee at least half the team will roll through here like they do nearly every morning. The last thing I want to do is upset Scout by making their experience here bad. They bring in big crowds, and if they think this place has gone to the crapper…well, it won’t be good, that’s for sure.

“I’m screwed,” I mutter to nobody else but myself since I’m the only one here for another fifteen minutes at least.

Stevie, the older sister of the truck’s owner, should be here soon to help prep for the day. She usually comes in before she drops her daughter off at school, then pops back in for the lunch rush we always seem to have. Who knew donuts and coffee would be such a hit at noon?

I let out a big yawn as I towel up the rest of the sprinkles-and-coffee mess, then dump the soaking wet rag into the wash bin.

“Real rude of you,” I say to the now-cracked coffee pitcher as I pick it up off the counter. “I was really looking forward to you this morning.”

I’m running on about four hours of sleep, so the beautiful pitcher of jitter juice was just what I needed to add a pep to my step, but that’s not happening now.

“Guess I’ll have to settle for hot coffee.” I sneer at the pot that’s currently being filled. “You’re gross, but you’ll do.”

“Are you talking to yourself again?”

I spin around to find Stevie walking in through the door at the other end of the truck. Her dark brown hair is pulled into a high, sleek bun, and she’s dressed in cute jeans and a form-fitting long-sleeve green sweater.

I look like a damn trash goblin standing next to her. My blonde hair is tied up in a messy bun, and I’m pretty sure the clothes I’m wearing—a pair of jeans and a simple long-sleeve striped shirt—are the same ones I wore two days ago. I didn’t even have the chance to swipe on some mascara this morning or do anything to my eyebrows.

I’m a wreck.

And an uncaffeinated wreck at that.

“You’re early,” I say by way of greeting.

She lifts a shoulder. “Greer woke me up early when he went out for his run, so I figured I’d get a jump on the day. He’s going to take Macie to school for me since she doesn’t like riding in my ‘lame’ SUV.”

I wrinkle my nose. “Running is so gross.”

I’ve never understood why people find it enjoyable, but to each their own. I’d much rather get my activity in by doing something more exciting like rollerblading or playing volleyball on a beach. Oh man, the beach sounds really nice right about now. Well, maybe not now now because it’s October, but still.

“Right? It should be outlawed unless you’re running from Michael Myers or something. Then I’ll allow it.”

“You’d run away from him? I’d run to him.”

“But he’s a total psycho killer, Rosie—why would you run to him?”

“A psycho killer, sure, but in a hot way. He’s just misunderstood.”

Stevie laughs. “You really need to stay away from Harper. You two together would be dangerous in the same room.”

Harper, the wife of one of the many Carolina Comets players who frequent Scout’s Sweets, is known for being obsessed with all things horror. She loves it so much she’s built a successful business making props for horror movies and creepy dolls.

Hmm. Maybe I can get her to make me something for my streaming setup.

“So, what’s going on here?” Stevie’s eyes wander around the chaotic state the place is currently in.

“I dropped the sprinkles.”

She grimaces. “Oh no.”

“Oh yes. It was extra unfortunate because I also dropped the cold brew.” I gesture to the busted pitcher. “It’s broken.”

“Oh no,” Stevie mutters again. “We open in…”

“Less than an hour? I know.” I exhale heavily, then give myself a shake. “Okay, here’s what’s happening: you’re going to the store and grabbing sprinkles. We need a mix of red, white, and blue, the biggest tub you can find. Hell, grab two. Then we need four things of cold brew, unsweetened, dark roast. And of course, another pitcher. But it has to be the forty-eight-ounce one or it’s not going to work.” I clap my hands together. “Annnd go!”

Stevie doesn’t move. She just stands there, brows raised. That’s when I realize…

“Oh god. You’re the boss’ sister, so you’re basically my boss and I totally just overstepped. I—”

Stevie’s laugh cuts off my words, and she waves her hand. “No, it’s not that. It’s just you remind me so much of Scout, taking charge and kicking ass. I love it. No wonder she trusts you with her baby so much.”

Phew. “Thank you. Truly. I promise I’ll have everything cleaned up and ready to go before you get back.”

“Oh, I know you will, you little badass.” She throws me a wink, then grabs her purse off the hook and pulls it over her shoulder.

“Has anyone told you lately how amazing you are?”

A saccharine smile curves her lips, and her eyes glaze over like she’s remembering someone saying that very thing only recently. “Only Greer.”

I want to be annoyed by her answer. I want to think, Ew, gross. Stop being so in love.

But I can’t find it in me, not after everything Stevie’s been through, not just in her life but with Greer, the goalie for the Carolina Comets who she started dating earlier this year. They deserve each other, and more than that, they deserve to be happy.

I wish I had that too.

“I still can’t believe you’re together.”

She laughs. “You’re telling me. Especially since I swore I hated him.”

“You hated how hot he made you, maybe, but you never hated him.”

Her cheeks pinken. “Hush or I’ll send you to run errands, and I’ll inevitably mess up the morning prep. Then, when Scout is freaking out about all the one-star reviews we’ll get bombed with, I’ll tell her it’s all your fault.”

I gasp. “You’d never!”

She lifts a perfectly shaped brow. “Want to bet?”

She wouldn’t, not really—but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t scare me.

“Fine.” I mimic zipping my lips and throwing away the key.

Stevie chuckles. “Smart move. I’ll be back in a bit. Try not to break anything else, and text me if you do!”

I gasp. “Too soon, Stevie! Too soon!”

She laughs her way out of the truck, jogging toward her car parked at the back of the lot next to mine, and I begin prepping the one thing everyone will be lining up for—donuts. I knead the dough, then move on to forming the donuts. Having done this for the last however many mornings, I move quickly, blazing through my to-make list like it’s nothing.

I glance at the clock: roughly twenty minutes to go until we open.

“I got this. I can do this.”

A throat clears behind me, and I nearly drop another container of sprinkles at the sudden intrusion.

When I see who it is, I narrow my eyes. “What the hell is wrong with you, just sneaking up on people like that? I could have had a heart attack, and then I’d be really pissed.”

“You’d probably also be dead, so would there really be anything to be mad about?”

“Yes!”

He grins at my answer. “Morning, Rosie.” That soft, velvety-smooth voice of his slides over me, tickling in all the best places.

I swear I feel my knees start to buckle, and I catch myself from falling at the last second. I’ve already had a bad morning; I’d rather not add to that by making a complete fool of myself in front of one of the star forwards on the Carolina Comets.

“How’s it going?” he asks.

“Fine,” I tell him, even though this morning has been anything but fine. “We’ll be ready to open in a few minutes.”

“No problem. I know I’m a bit early, and I’m in no rush. I’m early for everything today.”

I nod. “Stevie ran out to grab some coffee and sprinkles. We’re out. I dropped them. I dropped the sprinkles all over the floor and made a mess, and then I dropped coffee on top of it and broke the pitcher, and I—”

Am rambling. I’m rambling like a damn fool in front of Ivan fucking Fitzgerald, a professional hockey player who is by far the most attractive man I’ve ever seen in person. And on my television screen, because, yes, I do watch all of his games.

Man, I really wish I’d gone to sleep earlier last night. I truly am a mess today because rambling is so not me. Well, not anymore.

“Rough morning, then?” Fitz asks.

I huff out a contrived laugh. “You could say that.”

“I know how you feel. I’m that guy who always wakes up at five AM on the dot, and this morning, I was up at four thirty like some psycho, and I’m ninety percent sure I stepped in gum on my way here.” He scrapes his shoe against the gravel like he’s still trying to get it off.

“I was up at four thirty.”

I would have been up at four if my alarm had gone off. Apparently, that extra half hour really does make a difference for my sanity.

His cheeks turn a deep shade of red. “I…I didn’t mean…”

I wave him off. “I’m kidding. I mean, not about being up because I totally was, but I’m just playing with you. If I weren’t getting up for work at that hour, I’d also think getting up at four thirty is for psychos.”

“It should be outlawed.”

“Like running.”

He tips his head to the side, that run-your-fingers-through-it-worthy brown hair falling over with the movement. “Running should be outlawed?”

“Unless that hottie with the babysitter obsession is chasing you, then yes.”

He mouths babysitter obsession like he’s trying to figure out what I’m going on about. He shakes his head. “I was just running, and not because I was being chased.”

“So, you got up, got dressed, and decided to go for a run?”

“Three miles.”

“Three miles?! Like, on purpose?”

He laughs. “On purpose every day.”

“Even Sundays?”

“Even Sundays.”

I clutch my chest and gasp. “Sundays are meant for being lazy! That’s, like, a rule!”

He points at his chest. “Hockey player in the middle of hockey season.”

“So you don’t run during the offseason?”

The color on his cheeks deepens again. “Well, yes, I still run then too.”

“So you’re just a psycho year-round?”

“Yeah, I guess so.”

I shake my head. “I always knew there was a secret naughty streak behind your cute toothless smile.”

The second the words leave my mouth, I realize what I’ve done. I smack my hand against my traitorous lips, eyes wide with fear as what I said registers for Fitz.

His usually bright and cheerful hazel eyes darken a smidge, and that grin on his lips falters slightly. His cheeks turn a deep red.

I’ve embarrassed him.

Hell, I’ve embarrassed me.

I’m an idiot. A complete dumbass.

Why would I say that? Why? This is Fitz. Fitz! He comes here damn near daily. I have to see him all. The. Time. Why did I have to go and make things completely awkward between us by saying he’s cute? And using the word naughty?

What. Is. Wrong. With. Me.

The worst part? I can’t take it back, because that would make me look even worse. Complimenting him and then walking back the compliment? No. That’s tacky.

God, I need more sleep.

Fitz clears his throat, and I rush to say something—anything—before he can call me out on what a complete dumbass I am.

“Coffee will be a minute. You can wait over there.” I point to the picnic benches.

Fitz peeks over his shoulder to where my finger indicates, then looks back at me. His brows are raised, and his lips are rolled tightly together like he’s barely holding back whatever is sitting on the tip of his tongue.

But, to my complete shock, he doesn’t say anything. Instead, he spins on his heel and heads for an empty bench, sliding onto it, folding his hands on the table, and just…sitting there. He doesn’t pull his phone from his pocket and play on it or try to talk to me.

He just…sits. It’s weird and comforting all at the same time.

And like the well-mannered and not-at-all-awkward human I am, I turn my back to him and get back to work, pretending he isn’t even there.

Though that’s impossible because he is here.

He’s here, and I can feel his eyes on me, can feel his hazel stare boring into me as he rakes his gaze over my body while I finish prepping the donuts for the morning rush. It makes it hard to focus on the task at hand, especially when I can’t stop thinking about what I said to him.

“I always knew there was a secret naughty streak behind your cute toothless smile.”

Who says that?!

And who then sends the person away?

I’m horrible at customer service. Horrible! Scout should fire me. I don’t deserve to work here.

“You’re being dramatic, Rosie,” I mutter to myself. “It’s not a big deal. Fitz knows you didn’t mean anything by it. It’s fine. You’re fine.”

But I’m not fine. I’m anything but fine. I’m a sleepy mess who just made things awkward with a pro hockey player.

“Um, Rosie?” I turn to find Stevie walking into the food truck, several bags in each hand. She hoists and sets them on the counter before turning to me, then she drops her head toward mine. “Why is Fitz sitting out there looking like someone just told him he’ll never win the Stanley Cup?”

“Because I sent him away.”

“You what?!”

The words are shouted, and I swat her, trying to get her to be quiet.

“Shh!” I say. “Not so loud.”

“Sorry,” she mutters. “I’m just trying to figure out why you sent him away. And why is he here so early?”

I shrug. “He said something about being up early and running.”

“What is it with these damn hockey players and their running? It’s so gross. Except for when they come home all sweaty—that part is kind of hot.”

I roll my eyes. “We aren’t all blessed with that.”

“True,” she says dreamily. She shakes her head, bringing herself back to reality from whatever dreamland she just drifted off to. “So, what happened?”

I slide my eyes in Fitz’s direction. He’s still just…sitting there. And staring. I wish I hated it, wish it made my skin crawl, but the way I feel is neither of those things. It’s the exact opposite, really.

I grab Stevie by the arm and tug her to the side of the truck that’s not visible from the lot.

“I told him he’s naughty and cute.”

Stevie’s jaw slackens, and I swear her eyes grow to twice their normal size.

“I’m sorry…” she says slowly. “You said what to him?”

“I told him he’s naughty and cute,” I rush out again, this time covering my face with my hands, again not caring about the mess. I’m already a wreck this morning; what’s a little icing in my hair after everything else?

“How? I mean, how exactly did you say those things to him? What was the context? What led up to that? Why?”

“Okay, that’s a lot of questions all at once, but what I believe I said to him was, I always knew there was a secret naughty streak behind your cute toothless smile.”

I don’t believe I said that to him. I know for a fact I did, mostly because those words are going to be permanently seared into my brain.

“Okay…and why did you say this again?”

“Because I called him a psycho?”

“Wait, wait.” Stevie holds her hands up. “You called him a naughty cute toothless psycho?”

“Sort of?” I wince. “It sounds so bad when you say it.”

“Yes, because I’m sure it didn’t sound bad at all when you said it.”

“Well, you’re taking it out of context, so yes, it’s worse coming from you.”

“Rosie!”

“Stevie!”

She laughs, then shakes her head. “I’m sure it wasn’t that bad. I mean, he’s still here. That’s something, right?”

“I guess. But I did tell him to go sit over there, so maybe he’s just a good listener?”

“We could say that. Or maybe—and this could be a stretch, it’s just a guess—he thinks you’re insane?”

“That’s plausible.” I grimace at the thought of Fitz never coming to the donut truck again because I scared him away. “I’m the worst.”

“No, you’re not. You’re…well, you.”

“Is that a good thing or a bad thing?”

“Good thing. I think. Most days. But maybe not today because something is totally off with you.”

I wince, then turn away from her, tugging my gloves off and swapping them out for fresh ones. I fit them over my hands, then dive back into getting the donuts ready. “I know. It’s… I’m just tired.”

“Late night?” she asks, reaching into the grocery bags and pulling out a fresh tub of red, white, and blue sprinkles for our Stars, Stripes, and Sprinkles donuts and a new pitcher to replace the broken one.

“That’s an understatement,” I mumble.

I want to say I was up late for a good reason, like studying for the bachelor’s degree I’m currently working toward or brainstorming an amazing new donut for the truck that’ll bring in even more customers. Something important. Something my parents would be proud of.

But it wasn’t any of that.

“Your usual?” I nod. “And? How’d it go?”

“Well, RoPlaying brought in a bunch of cash last night, all while painting her fingernails.” I pull off a glove and hold my hand up to show off my fresh manicure.

“Oh, I love that color!” Stevie grabs my hand, looking at it closer. “I wish I was talented enough to paint my own nails, but I can’t do anything with my damn left hand. It always looks like I let a toddler loose with a paintbrush.”

I laugh, because I used to be the same way, but I trained myself to get better at it.

“You know we have no problems with the streaming, but these late nights…” Stevie starts in that mom tone of hers.

“I know, I know,” I say, understanding what she’s getting at. “I promise to get to bed earlier tonight and triple-check my alarm.”

When I started my account on MyFans, I was just uploading photos. I wasn’t completely nude in them, but they weren’t tame either. I was shocked when people began purchasing them, though I didn’t really want to think about why they were purchasing them. It was fun, and it made me feel good. Appreciated. Desired.

I loved the feeling so much that, after a few months of selling pics, I gave streaming a try. If people were paying that much for photos, what would they pay to see me live?

At first, it was strange having a camera trained on me while I went about my normal routine, but after a while, it felt weird to not have eyes on me. I liked it—a lot. Being watched was…exhilarating. It made me feel like I could do anything. Made me feel sexy, something I had never felt before.

I also enjoyed bringing pleasure to other people. I’m not doing anything overtly sexual, mostly just stroking my body in suggestive ways and posing to show off just enough skin to leave them wanting more. It’s just enough to get your mind and heart racing. I’ve been asked to do a few private videos, but I always decline them. Being on camera and chatting is one thing, but I’m not sure I’m ready for more just yet. I don’t plan on doing this forever, but it’s fun for now and a great way to pay for my classes.

When I started working here, I was upfront with Scout about my late-night activities. My confession was met with nothing but support, and I knew I’d found the perfect place for me to work.

“I would never be brave enough to put myself out there like that, so I’m proud of you,” Stevie says with a warm smile.

Unease slithers through me. I haven’t told Scout and Stevie about why I’m doing this—money.

Don’t get me wrong, Scout pays me well, but college isn’t cheap. When I got my bill for my tuition this semester, I wanted to puke, but I didn’t let it stop me because I need this degree and knowledge if I ever want to make my dream come true—opening my own bakery.

But how do I tell the people who gave me everything I want to branch out on my own? I’m scared, something I promised I’d stop being a long time ago. I guess old habits and all that…

“Thanks,” I reply quietly before peeking at the clock. We’re down to only a few minutes before opening, and I’m almost ready. “Want to tell Fitz he can come grab his donut and coffee before the chaos begins?”

“Why should he get special treatment?”

Stevie and I both spin around at the new voice.

“Greer!” my co-worker squeals excitedly like she didn’t just see him this morning. She crosses the truck and stretches over the counter, puckering her lips. Her boyfriend happily meets her for a kiss, and I avert my gaze.

Only I’m not so smart because instead of looking literally anywhere else, I turn my attention straight to Fitz.

He’s looking at me too.

There’s a moment when all we do is stare at one another. His hazel eyes are locked on to my own green ones, and I’m trapped in a damn staring contest with a hot-as-hell hockey player.

It would be great if I hadn’t already embarrassed myself in front of him several times today.

Just the reminder of it has me tearing my eyes away. I grab the nearest towel, smacking it against Stevie’s ass, which is practically through the window at this point.

“That’s enough.”

She pulls her lips from Greer’s and sends me a pout. “But kisses.”

Greer, the grumpy asshole he typically is, sends me a glare. “Yeah, Rosie, kisses.”

I shake my head. “You’re both ridiculous and we need to open, so finish up or I’ll be the one telling Scout you ruined the day,” I tell Stevie with a pointed look.

She sighs, presses another quick kiss to her boyfriend’s lips, and slides back over the counter and into the truck. “Fine. But only because angry Scout scares me a little bit.”

“Based on what I’ve heard from Miller, that’s a fair statement,” Greer comments.

“I’m pretty sure you can’t take anything Miller says seriously. He still plugs in a night-light when we go on the road.” Fitz chuckles lightly, his eyes drifting to mine only briefly before he turns to Stevie. “Think I could get a cold brew and two of the Strawber-licious donuts?”

“Sure thing, Fitzy Baby,” she says, heading for the donut rack where several fresh strawberry donuts are cooling.

“Baby?” Greer practically growls.

Stevie ignores him, and I can’t help laughing. Everyone on social media calls him Fitzy Baby, and I know Stevie is just doing it to screw with Greer. She loves getting him all wound up.

I get to work on making Fitz’s coffee for him. He’s been coming here since he was traded from Vancouver last season, so I know his order by heart at this point: cold brew with a pump of vanilla, a splash of half-and-half, and two pink packet sugars. Then, depending on the day, he’ll get one or two strawberry donuts. He’ll eat one sitting at the picnic bench he just abandoned, then he’ll take the other to go. He’s definitely a creature of habit, something I’ve come to learn about all the hockey players who stop by here.

I finish his drink, then slide it over the counter his way. He reaches for it before I can remove my hand, and when our fingers brush, I swear I feel it right down to my toes. A spark of something I can’t quite figure out rushes through me.

If he notices it too, I can’t tell. His face gives nothing away.

“Thanks, Rosie,” he says quietly, retracting his hand as well as all the warmth that just flowed through me. “I like the color you chose.”

I glance down at my hand and my newly painted nails, the one I chose because a subscriber suggested it because it’s his favorite color. I don’t tell him that because then I’d have to admit to what I do on the side. It’s not that I’m ashamed, because I’m not, but I’m also not ready to announce it.

When I look up, Fitz is gone, taking the rest of the concentration I had right along with him.

This is going to be a long day.