Chapter 10

CHAPTER TEN

By the middle of the third period, there’s no chance of salvaging the game.

Redd and Hayden set up the perfect breakaway, and Pierre fumbles the puck. Liam a veritable thug fends off some of the opposing team’s attempts to get us on a penalty. Ted is a repeat offender with the ref calling him out for roughing, holding, and high-sticking. Micah remains solid, but when they’re not playing tight, he tries to take control, pogging—puck hogging—and the other team exploits their lack of cohesion.

To say the Nebraska Knights don’t play their best is an understatement. They’re in the penalty box more often than not, and player number seventy-four was more focused on the VIP box than the game as I cheer them on.

Or it could be that the Nebraska Knights’ branded confetti and red, black, and silver miniature swords that Ilsa brought are a distraction. I’m afraid of where I might find them lodged later.

It could be our chanting. “Knights of the Round Rink, conquer, rule, and turn the ice pink.” I asked my dad about that once and he winced, telling me it had something to do with blood. There’s also “We side with Silver,” and my personal favorite, “Stronger than steel, hotter than the sun, the Knights don’t stop until they get the job done.”

But perhaps it’s something else. Something having to do with a certain defenseman and an unintended elf.

Despite the loss, everyone is in festive spirits when the arena clears out and we make our way to the banquet room. I haven’t been to the team Christmas party for years. It’s not open to the public, but everyone involved with the team, from the concession stand workers to the GMs, attends. Dad hosts a private New Year’s party for the team and their plus-ones.

Tonight, if Helen follows the same format she always has, it’ll start with appetizers, drinks, and mingling. Dadaszek and some of the other staff will say a few words, and we’ll eat dinner. The Secret Santa gift exchange will follow before the ice opens up for skating and dessert served in the warm room.

We’re well into dinner, and I don’t spot Pierre anywhere. Dad makes his rounds and I try to keep a low profile, but given my getup, going incognito is a fail.

“Thank you for showing some modesty,” my father says when he meets me by the Nutcracker Knight display donated by some fans.

“Dadaszek,” I grind out.

“You don’t know what these guys can be like, ogling you and—” Eyes pinched, he’s flustered. “I always miss your mother, but it’s especially tough at times like this. We balanced each other in every way. We complimented each other. We were the perfect team.”

My nose tickles with emotion and I force away the incoming tears.

The concern and sadness streaking his features soften something inside me. I say, “You’ve done a really good job.”

Up there in the VIP room, he wasn’t trying to insult me. Rather, he pointed out a fact that I’ve hardly let myself realize. I’m an adult woman now and have the same shapely figure as my identical triplet sisters. I can hide behind my cardigans or a burlap sack, but I’m not just a brain on top of a body. I don’t have to wear a skintight dress either, but there’s more to me than that and my father was doing exactly what Dads do, trying to protect me in his clumsy didn’t get a “How-to-Raise-Girls-without-a-Mom” guidebook.

Being in school all these years stunted my self-perception. I’m not the baby. I’m a grown woman.

“You have too. I’m proud of you, even if you’re not in the law program anymore.”

My eyes bulge. “You know about that?”

“I had a feeling,” he pauses, “and I got a letter from campus affairs congratulating you on transferring to the graphic design program. They must not have had your new address on record.”

I slouch because I’m not entirely sure I even want to do that anymore. “I apologize for not telling you. I thought you’d be disappointed.”

“I am a little bit, but mostly because you didn’t think you could tell me. If the fact that I drink out of the #1 Dadaszek mug every day is any indication, you girls are my pride and joy.”

It’s true. While coaching a national hockey team, he always attended Ilsa’s music recitals, hiked with Anna, and helped me study, even when estimating limits for graphs had long since slipped from his memory.

Hugging him, I puff my cheeks, prepared to come clean about everything with “The Frenchman.” From over my father’s shoulder, I spot Pierre across the room.

Our eyes lock. His expression is part Let’s run into each other’s arms and part Old West showdown in the dusty town center .

I can almost hear him say, What’s it goin’ be, pardner? To which I’d reply, How are you going to play it, player?

Vohn, the assistant coach, confers with Pierre for a moment and then they both beeline for my dad and me. The gears in my typically supercharged brain slow and I’m torn between Plan A: pretending to dislike him while he pines over me with one-sided love. And Plan B: throwing myself at him like a common puck bunny and making my father flinch in his fleece.

Vohn says, “We need to circle the wagons to discuss travel plans. Looks like we have more than a few last-minute itinerary changes.”

“Not unusual this time of year,” my father replies with ease, as if nothing surprises him this far along in his career.

Oh, except the baby of the family liking the one guy he asked her to stay away from.

With a smirk on his lips, Pierre says, “Cara, thanks for cheering me on earlier.”

My father’s expression sharpens.

“I always root for the Knights,” I reply stiffly.

“In such festive spirit wear?” he asks, referring to the ugly sweater.

My cheeks now match the garish red yarn. But I rally and swing my arm like a team player. “’Tis the ho, ho holiday season.”

His smirky smile reaches his flirty eyes. “I can’t decide which I like better, seeing you in my jersey or the sweater.”

“Don’t get used to it,” I stammer, doing my best to feign dislike for my supposed ex purely for my father and Pierre’s benefit.

“Too late for that,” he says warmly.

I thought he was supposed to be the Frenchman, the flirt who went through women like hockey socks. Actually, Dad told me a story about a superstitious player who insisted on wearing the same pair an entire season. Grody.

Giving my head a little shake, Pierre winks at me. I belatedly realize that I’ve been staring. No, gazing like I’m the one who’s been pining after him and not the other way around.

Get it together, Badaszek.

Turning to my father, Pierre says, “Sir, you wanted to see me?”

While I waffle between my various devious and nefarious plans and then get sidetracked by some old friends of the family, Dadaszek calls for everyone’s attention to get started with the Secret Santa gift exchange. I’d picked up something to donate to the pile from the market when I got Pierre the tree. He’s nowhere in sight.

Then the jolly old elf in the red suit waltzes in to the song “I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus.” He waves at everyone and winks at me.

Despite the white beard, I’d recognize those flirty eyes anywhere. To my shock, this year’s Claus is none other than my kiss class professor. My father picked Pierre, after all?

The puck bunnies line up, all too eager to sit on his lap and tell him whether they’ve been naughty or nice.

My heart craters as he makes merry with what seems like an endless supply of attractive female hockey fans who don’t even have to try hard to get his attention by wearing a silly outfit.

I watch as he passes out gifts, feeling foolish in his sweater. It’ll look like I want to be his Mrs. Claus. I don’t. He’s just teaching me how to kiss. It’s that simple.

My stomach clenches when Pierre’s laughter mingles with a woman’s high-pitched crow as she gets her photo snapped with him.

I pace, my feet aching in Anna’s high-heeled boots. Instead of joining in, I need a moment to breathe. I pass the gear manager and his wife in the hall, which makes me think of the closet outside the locker room. I hurry in that direction.

Soon, the sounds of the party fade as I go deeper into the labyrinth of the arena. What was I thinking, wearing this getup and then adding the ugly Christmas sweater to it?

This is not my lane. I’m the brainy one. Not the flirty one. I don’t feel like a bunny, not even an elf. More like a fool.

As I pass the trophy room with its cases and photos on the walls, I remember how much awe I felt when coming here as a kid. Hockey was the center of our family’s world. But what is it for me now? School? Graphic design? Like this outfit, none of it feels like it quite fits. When did I last feel most like myself?

The arena doesn’t host public skates the same way regular rinks do, but they do offer periodic events, especially for schools and organizations . . . and the head coach’s daughters had special privileges.

When we were younger and Dad got called in or couldn’t find someone to look after us, we’d play “office” with Helen’s supplies. She’d ask what I wanted to be when I grew up. My answer vacillated between, You, meaning having her job because I liked that she got to spend all day with my dad, and a Zamboni driver because the few times I got up there felt so cool. That was on par with the times my sisters and I got lucky and were here outside practice times and had free rein over the ice.

I find the room where they keep the skates and grab a pair in my size. Dad never pushed any of us girls to play hockey or do figure skating, but we spent more time on the ice than your average pee wee player or junior figure skater. I can toe drag and layback spin with the best of them.

One of the things I always loved about hockey was the enormity of it. Feeling small in the middle of center ice. Or experiencing the thunder of the arena filled to the brim with enthusiastic fans. We’d occasionally travel north to Canada for games and other events, too. The sky there is different, bigger, broader, and more silver—the flecks in Pierre’s blue eyes come to mind. I always had the sense that we were on top of the world. That’s what being part of the hockey family felt like. I miss the rush of anticipation of the game and watching my dad and the rest of the team—both managerial and on the ice—make magic happen.

Maybe I want to be part of something like that instead of making my way through life alone as I’ve done since going to school—set apart because of my intelligence and then later insistent on finding “My thing.”

Still wearing this silly outfit, I slide on the skates, lace up, and take to the ice, thankful that Nolan already resurfaced it.

During our Kiss Class slash date, when Pierre told me step one was to breathe, I thought it was silly. But I have to give him some credit. I often hold my breath, keeping myself in a steady state of mild anxiety. But with this reminder, all I can do is inhale and exhale as my legs pump or I’d risk collapsing.

The ballooning in my lungs makes me feel alive. The slight sheen of sweat and the cold air is a refreshing contrast. For some reason, tonight, my social battery feels like an early-model flip phone, and I don’t have the energy to socialize.

I do a few slow laps around the ice, thinking about my past, present, and future. It’s not that I’m unhappy, but I’ve never felt like any of my studies or degrees were right for me.

Who am I? I’m not quite sure. Maybe part of this has to do with being a triplet. Or it could be that I was told I was the brainy one and so I tried to meet those expectations to the exclusion of a lot of other things, including kissing.

A long sigh escapes on a cloudy breath.

From somewhere in the arena, a door closes with an echo. Technically, I’m probably not supposed to be here. The banks of arena lights flip off one by one, leaving a single spotlight shining on me. My pulse quickens.

I look around but can’t see into the stands. Worried I’ve been caught, I start to skate toward the exit when “All I Want for Christmas is You” plays through the sound system.

A tall Santa with broad shoulders and no round belly to speak of glides toward me on hockey skates. My stomach plays tug of war with nervousness and excitement. I slowly meet Pierre halfway as if dragged by an invisible magnet.

My breath stalls and my insides turn to liquid. “Hey, Santa.”

“You didn’t come sit on my lap and tell me if you’ve been a good girl,” he teases.

“You know the answer to that already.”

“I like seeing you in that sweater even more than my jersey.” He reaches for me and I glide away, maintaining distance because I worry about what I might do.

“Ha ha. My attempt to dress as a puck bunny backfired,” I say dryly.

He moves closer as if disagreeing while lifting and lowering his eyebrows and saying, “Hubba Hubba,” confirming his Whoa earlier.

I want to object, but his gaze refuses to let me deny it or even wriggle further out of reach.

Pierre slides toward me, swift and steady. “Cara, you don’t have to try to be anyone other than yourself.”

I slow down with a T-stop and Pierre erases most of the space between us. He taps the bell on the end of the elf hat headband, dragging my eyes to his again. I quickly avert my gaze.

His voice is rough when he says, “I’m not looking for a puck bunny. ”

I can’t say I was waiting for him, but hoping for someone like him, my very own Bannanna or McMann . . . maybe.

“That’s just it. I don’t know who I am. I’m having a mini-identity crisis. Puck bunny, deranged elf, graphic design student, or someone else—?” It all pours out of me as I look everywhere but at him.

“I’m not sure whether my opinion matters, but since seeing you, meeting you—kissing you—I rather like the woman I’m getting to know.”

“You don’t have to keep up the whole unrequited love shtick. Everyone is at the party. It’s just us.”

“Yeah. Us.”

I glance up at him. We have another one of those lingering gaze moments like we’re both afraid to look away because if we do, this charade might be over. Our bubble burst. Then what?

He holds out his hand for me to take. After a moment’s hesitation about what this could mean and where it could lead, my palm slides into his.

“Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas” now plays in the vast arena.

Pierre spins away and then draws me toward him before arranging us in a classic slow dance position with our joined hands lifted and his other on my waist, forcing me to grip his shoulder.

The corner of his lip twitches. “I saw you skating. You’re good.”

Taking the lead, he slides one foot forward, and I shift back in a box set formation on skates.

I say, “I practically grew up here.”

“Your dad loves you. I can see why he’d be protective. I haven’t exactly given him a reason to think otherwise.” With his hand wrapped around mine, we continue to dance on the ice.

“Except he let you be Santa. That’s a high honor. ”

“Beau got food poisoning. No one wants a sick Santa. So I volunteered.”

“You weren’t volun told ?” I ask as Pierre lengthens his arm, sending me spiraling away before reeling me back in.

“He did use his stern Dadaszek face, but I want to prove that something inside changed that night at the Fish Bowl to you, mostly. Coach, too.”

“The less my father knows about that, the better.”

Pierre chuckles as our dance on ice continues like we’re a professional figure skating pair. “Cara, you’re different.”

The comment makes me wither like a post-Christmas poinsettia. “Yep. Story of my life. Different, nerdy, dorky, dare I say, corny. Not a stretch, considering I’m from a town called Cobbiton.”

“Maybe I like all of that, amour .”

He used that term of endearment in my father’s office, but it was just part of the act. Now, it’s smooth, like a caress, and makes me want to believe him.

Pierre says, “I’m from a blueberry farm in the middle of nowhere. I told you that when I got to the States, I went a little wild in the romance department. I changed and not necessarily for the better. I blame growing up extremely sheltered. Then, with one kiss, I woke up and realized that I’d dug in so deep I didn’t know how to find my way out. My way back to something real. Something meaningful. That’s you. I want to be different because you’re different.” He drags me against his chest as the song ends.

I risk glancing up at him.

His eyes are aflame.

Never mind just my stomach, my entire body is aflutter.

The song changes again, this time to a slow Elvis Presley carol. Chests close together, our slow dance finds its natural rhythm. One all our own.

My cheek presses against his soft Santa suit, my eyes dip closed, and my shoulders relax slightly. Is this what falling feels like? If so, I wouldn’t mind staying here for a while.

My thoughts drift like snowflakes for a long measure before my mind revs up again and it turns to sleet.

Sure, I’ve grown up on the outside, but I feel like an immature little weirdo inside. I’m still a student, but in the short amount of time I’ve been away from school, I’ve had zero interest in being a video game graphic design artist.

I’ve played Pac-Man at the pizza place in Cobbiton and that’s about it. I gaze up at the ceiling. “What am I doing with my life?”

“Dancing with me,” Pierre says, voice rumbling through his chest and into my ear.

Just as I did when I was a little girl, I feel most like myself out here on skates, in the enormous but familiar arena.

The song “I’ve Got My Love To Keep Me Warm” by Dean Martin now sounds through the speakers and our slow dance continues until Pierre asks, “I wonder if anyone left cookies for Santa.”

“I always thought he was so lucky to be able to get away with charging a cookie tax.”

We both laugh as we glide toward the exit, but before we leave the ice, Pierre brushes his lips across my cheek.

“Does this mean we just had class number two?” I ask.

“Or was it date number two?” he replies.