Chapter 11

CHAPTER ELEVEN

While I get ready to head to the arena for practice, my phone beeps with a text. My chest thumps with anticipation, but it’s not a message from My Dream Girl. Apparently recovered from the bout of food poisoning, Hammer wants me to bring him some cereal milk. To be clear, I’m not giving him my ABC milk—Already Been Consumed cereal and just leaving him the milk. It’s a real thing for purchase and is available online along with select grocery stores.

Anyway, I think I got the guy hooked on the stuff.

And I’m hooked on Cara.

Big time.

Seeing her at the game and knowing she cheered me on in the ugly sweater hit different.

With her, I can’t default to charm. I have to work, to try. It’s the same feeling that kept me coming back to the ice day after day, perfecting my crossovers and edgework, that kept me in the basement of our farmhouse practicing stick handling for hours.

It’s the drive to do better, be better, and it’s all for her.

The locker room buzzes because the results of this practice are going to determine whether we have a cordial Coach Badaszek or will be met with blizzardy Old Man Winter when we play Denver post-Christmas.

While I wrap my stick with tape, the guys razz me about the coach’s daughter wearing my sweater.

“You trying to make a pass at her?” Ted asks with a note of uncertainty in his voice.

“I can no longer count on you being my wingman, so?—”

Redd interrupts. “Save yourself. Don’t finish that sentence.”

I snort. “You guys don’t have it right.”

“But we haven’t gotten it entirely wrong,” Hayden answers, counting off women who fangirl the Frenchman.

“Sure, I flirt, but the puck bunnies always come to me.”

“So modest,” Ted says sarcastically.

“It’s like he took a page from my brother’s book.”

“Canadian pride?” I say dumbly.

He shakes his head. “You’re not taking this seriously.”

Obviously, I don’t know Hendrix as well as his own flesh and blood but have gotten the gist that he can be a goofball. However, if I could say anything about Hendrix, it’s that he’s serious about hockey. Me too. No cap.

Micah adds, “You chat them up. Charm them. You don’t say no.”

“You could say no,” Redd echoes.

“I am from now on.” Because I want to say yes to Cara.

The guys exchange looks like they’re calculating an outcome. Possible queries include:

Will they still have a defenseman tomorrow?

Will Coach be tried for murder?

Will they be implicated?

Then a series of high-fives are exchanged.

Ted hoots. “That sweater. It works every time.”

I tilt my head at a threatening angle. “You all are going to get your sticks broken if you don’t fill me in. What is going on?” I grind out.

Beau Hammer, in a rare moment of involving himself with the team off the ice, says, “The ugly sweater tradition started years ago when our then playboy Micah Lemon just couldn’t get enough. We had Helen make the ugliest thing she could and stuffed him in it.”

Hayden says, “And he’s been married to Meg ever since.”

“Then, each year, whoever has to wear it gets the honor of adding an embellishment,” Redd explains.

I rock back, arms crossed in front of my chest. I wasn’t too far off. The guys were initiating me in a way.

“That’s twisted. You’re a bunch of rogue elves.” But with the sweater now perfumed with Cara’s baby powder scent, I offer no further complaint.

Since getting called up to the NHL four years ago, I wanted all eyes on me. It felt good. I became the biggest. The best. The showman. It was all for the win. However, looking back, it was more like for the lose because, in reality none of the attention quite satisfied, so I kept chasing. Kept striving. Kept trying to be bigger and better and take more, more, more, hoping it’d fill me up. What I need, what I’ve been seeking, is much simpler.

I crush practice, even with the battle drills mostly, so Badaszek can’t come down too hard on me. A few stiff winds blow my way from across the ice, but it doesn’t seem like he hired a hitman to run me over with the Zamboni, so things are looking good for the game against the Blizzard.

After showering, I check my phone before I head home. Lucky me. It’s a text from My Dream Girl. My grin rises when I read her message.

My Dream Girl: Can we schedule class #3?

Me: Absolutely. You’re my best (and only) student.

My Dream Girl: I was thinking we could use one of the private rooms at the library.

Swishing my mouth from side to side, I’ll admit that sounds sweetly studious but not exactly romantic. Cara’s first kiss was almost at the Fish Bowl—which gets zero stars for ambiance unless you’re looking for a fight. Officially, we kissed under the Merry Kiss Me lights, which scored some points on the romance scale. But I want this one to be somewhere other than the pub or a supply closet.

On second thought, perhaps the library is fitting for Cara since she’s been a student for so long. Then her comments when we were slow skating about not knowing who she is anymore makes me pause.

Bottom line, I want to spend time with her. It’s too risky to come back here because the place is crawling with members of the hockey crew. Where can we go?

Me: How about my place?

My Dream Girl: Actually, if you’re available after seven, you can come to my house.

Me: Is that a good idea?

My Dream Girl: My sisters and their husbands could only get four tickets to see the Nutcracker and my father had to fly out for the game early, meaning he won’t be home for Christmas morning.

Me: But it’s Christmas Eve.

My Dream Girl: I need someone to see all the decorating or it didn’t happen.

I chuckle, and we make plans for me to swing by later. It’s a risk, for sure. I work up a plan to park down the street and be covert.

I scrub my hand down my face. Wow. I feel like a teenager using sneaky strategies to hang out with the girl he likes.

Only that wasn’t my high school experience at all. I was a dorky farm boy who didn’t date, much less kiss a girl, until I moved out. Maybe I’ll include that information in tonight’s lesson. Since getting to know Cara, I see more clearly and can admit that I got caught up in the clout that being a desirable hockey player has given me. While I didn’t take things as far as I let social media followers and fans believe, I’m not proud of my reputation either.

Before I left Quebec, my father cautioned me about the world. He said he and Maman raised us the way they did so we’d always have a steady foundation of values and principles. They’re still there, buried under the guy I thought everyone wanted me to be, under empty social media likes, comments, and false attention.

It’s all meaningless. Real connections and relationships are what matter. Although I walked backward into what’s growing between Cara and me, I want to turn toward her and away from the hit of self-importance and being wanted that I get from fame.

“Arsenault looks like he’s contemplating the meaning of life,” Ted says as he grips his gear bag.

I sigh. “You might say that.”

Hayden holds up his hand, counting off, “I find that hard to believe. More like Pierre Arsenault’s top three: Cereal milk, puck bunnies, oh, and puck bunnies.”

Micah casts me a questioning look as if challenging me to deny it.

So I do. “It’s almost a new year. Maybe that’ll change.”

“I hope so,” our team captain mutters.

Redd ruffles my hair. “I think our boy is about done getting his jollies.”

I’m not sure if he’s referring to how Coach conceded and let me wear the Santa suit or that the last few years of me playing the field, er, ice, as it were, is coming to a close.

What do they put in the water here? Could be in the air. No, it’s the ice. The sweater.

We play hard and hold each other accountable. My lifestyle hasn’t been conducive to team culture.

That changes now.

Then I get hit in the head with what feels like a cold brick—figuratively not literally, though I wouldn’t be entirely surprised because the girl I have an arena-sized crush on is off-limits.

“What are you doing tonight?” Ted asks.

“Oh, um, probably hanging out,” I say vaguely, not yet wanting to reveal the truth.

“It’s Christmas Eve.”

“You’re welcome to hang with the Lemon fam,” Micah says.

“Thanks. I’ll text you.”

They exchange a look, then drift to the hallway as I scramble to gather the rest of my gear and get ready to see Cara.

Thirty minutes later, I pull down Golden Bantam Lane to scope out Cara’s house and to make sure Coach Badaszek’s truck isn’t in the driveway. Only an old minivan sits parked in front of the garage. Just in case Cara’s father has a tracker on my rig and turns the airplane around when he senses my proximity to his daughter, I park one street over and walk up to the brick colonial festooned with wreaths tied with red bows in every window, twinkling white lights, and a glowing family of reindeer grazing in the front yard.

A twitchy kind of nervousness creeps in. Should I use the front door or the one on the side? Do I ring the doorbell? Does Cara’s father have an attack dog? Poison darts with their targets set on young men who show interest in his daughters?

But the big red front door opens, and Cara appears wearing a creamy cable-knit sweater, jeans that hug her curves, and socks with a candy cane heart print. Swaths of evergreen swag and glowing white lights—my favorite—frame her.

I’m dead.

Scrape me off the sidewalk. The story of Pierre Arsenault has reached its conclusion. My breath puffs in the air as my jaw lowers and I breathe my last. Must be my heart because it aches for her in a way that I’ve never experienced.

Cara. Is. Radiant.

“Merry Christmas,” she calls.

I walk up the path, keenly aware of my stride, of the swing of my arms—do they normally do this?—and my massive smile that just won’t quit.

“Merry Christmas,” I repeat when we meet on the stoop. “Your house looks beautiful.”

“My mom grew up in a tiny apartment. When she and Dadaszek bought this place, their first Christmas here, she went, and I quote, ‘Christmas crazy.’ My father, sisters, and I carry on the tradition, even when they’re not going to be here to enjoy it.”

I gather that Mrs. Badaszek is no longer with us in a permanent kind of way, but instead of offering words of consolation that Cara has probably heard a thousand times, with a nod at the glowing white lights, I say, “Your mom had good taste.”

Cara beams a smile. “She would’ve liked you.”

“Wish I could’ve met her.”

With a little shiver, she ushers me inside, closing the door.

Its thud jolts me slightly, but mostly because I am in my coach’s house with his daughter. “On the other hand, your father’s appreciation of me is questionable.” Don’t be fooled; I’m questioning my sanity right now.

“Give him a chance.”

“He’s given me more than I deserve,” I mutter, knowing that he put up with several stupid scandals with me at the center this past year.

“He’s tough for sure, but he’s also forgiving and usually gives second chances.”

“How about third chances? Fourth? Fifth? Tenth?” I’ve lost track.

“Speaking of thirds, this is class number three.”

I tut. “Getting right down to business, I see.”

“What else would we do?”

I can think of a few things, but can you blame me for looking forward to kissing this woman again?

Cara has me take off my boots. “Santa Baby” plays vaguely in the background. I peer around, noticing the grand piano and a few other instruments in the front room along with a sofa and Christmas tree. The wall covered in family photos makes me feel like I’m in a museum of Cara, but since she’s a triplet, I’m not sure who’s who.

Pointing at a picture of the three sisters at a lake, I ask, “How do people tell you apart?”

“Dad has always been able to. There are slight differences, height for one—they have three-quarters of an inch on me. Our mother gave us color labels. Anna was purple, Ilsa was red, and I’m pink.”

“Like your coat?”

She nods. “It’s become a habit. We all kind of gravitate to our assigned colors.”

I study the photos and notice their coordinating bathing suits. “You were adorable.”

Cara grunts. “I was the nerd of the bunch. The brains. Ilsa is a talented musician.” She gestures to the instruments as we exit the sitting room. “If you find muddy boots, a terrarium filled with some rare species of plant, aka a weed, and sticky burrs, you know Anna is nearby.”

We enter the kitchen that features modern appliances yet is cozy with Christmas decorations and a cookie jar on the counter.

“I’m not going to lie, I’m terrified your father is going to appear from behind a closed door.” And I can’t quite piece together that Badaszek lives here and not in a lair draped with pelts and smoked meats.

“Before my sisters left for the play, we all video-called. He’s definitely in Colorado.” She mentions the coaches’ meeting.

“I’m glad we don’t have to play on Christmas Eve or Christmas, but I’m sorry your dad can’t be here with you.”

“Thanks. It’s okay, we have plans to spend time together this summer. I have a feeling he’s going to hate the gift my sisters and I got him.” She bites her lip.

“Hate it? What did you get him? A giant cardboard cutout of me?”

She laughs. “A month-long trip to Europe with us—my sisters and their spouses included. We saved up for it for four years.”

“That’s so generous. Why would Badaszek hate that? ”

She wears a playful grin. “Because it’ll mean he can’t keep an eye on you guys.”

“I think we can manage to behave ourselves for a month.”

She slants her head. “Can you?”

“I’m working on my New Year’s resolutions.”

“Polls show that only eight percent of people stick with their goals for the first month. Hashtag New Year’s Resolutions Fail.”

“Maybe I’ll start now. Give myself a head start.”

Cara raises her eyebrows in question. “What are your resolutions?”

I glance around, hoping we’re not being surveilled by Badaszek. “I’m going to lose the reputation, get rid of the puck bunny association.”

Color stains Cara’s cheeks and she breezes past my goal. “We’re fresh out of eggnog, but we have warm cider if you’d like some.”

Without waiting for me to answer, she turns to the crockpot on the counter, turns her back to me, and ladles us each a cup. When she passes it to me, our hands brush.

I get that momentary heady feeling. “My mom makes a version of this and . . .” I trail off, not exactly sure what I’m going to say because neither Cara nor I wear shoes. Her feet are cute in the holiday socks. Mine are huge and I’m wearing the dark green socks Maman sent that have blueberry Christmas tree ornaments on them. That feels strangely like a big deal, like without footwear, we’re more vulnerable. Like we’re wading out past our ankles.

After taking a sip of the cider, Cara sets down her cup and pats a notebook and a pencil. “I’m ready for Kiss Class.”

“Are you planning on taking notes?”

“Of course. ”

I release a breath because I let myself think this might be something more. Maybe I made it more than it is and I’m merely in the odd and unbelievable situation of teaching my coach’s daughter how to kiss. That’s all. It’s nothing else.

Puffing another breath, I say, “Okay. Kiss Class. Here goes. Write this down.”

She sits with the notebook open and the pencil poised, prepared to learn.

I pace like a thoughtful processor and say, “The slope and the radius cannot bisect the constant mean . . .” I’m totally making this up.

“Uh-huh.” Cara’s pencil slides across the paper.

“The capacitor is the biomarker for optimum chelation uptake,” I squish together as many scientific-sounding words as I can remember from high school.

“Okay. But what about the gradational return of—” she asks without looking up from the notebook.

“Not to worry. We’ll solve for that once we find the intercept quotient.” I have no idea if that even means anything.

She says, “Got it.”

I add, “Oh, and Pierre Ardor Arsenault is not a hot mess, but he is the hottest man you’ve ever laid eyes on.”

Cara remains focused as I spew nonsense. Okay, maybe not that last part.

“Did you get all that?” I ask.

Wearing what can best be described as an impish smirk, she looks up from her pad of paper. “Sure did.”

“Let’s see.” I gesture for the notebook.

She clutches it to her chest.

“Just want to make sure you got it all down, word for word.” And because I can’t fathom that she bought any of that nonsense .

“I did. I’m an excellent note-taker.”

“Great. But I just want to?—”

I reach for the notebook.

At the same time, she turns away, shielding it from me.

“If that’s your diary or something, I promise I won’t look at any of the other pages. You can even hold it while I check your work.”

“Professor Arsenault, I, um, don’t think you’ll be able to read my handwriting.”

Frowning, my curiosity sparks. Is Cara trying to hide something? Thinking fast, I offer to sweeten the deal. “If you let me see it, I’ll toss in an extra lesson on How to Get All Other Guys to Stop Noticing You In Ten Easy Steps for free.”

“How does that work in my favor?”

The first night in the Fish Bowl is why. She’s mine.

“Why won’t you let me see what you wrote?” I stalk closer, closing the space between us.

“Because.” Cara flings the notebook across the room.

I can’t help but smile at how rash and irrational that was as I scramble after it. She chases me, but even off the ice, I’m faster. When I pick the notebook up off the floor, at the top of the page are the words Kissing Class #3, and below that is a sketch of . . . me, standing in the kitchen with a cup of cider in my hand. She drew a frame around it, making it look like a social media post with little hearts floating up from the corner.

With “Underneath the Tree” playing in the background, the moment lengthens like a rubber band stretched taut.

I feel an inner tug, a growing warmth between us. I step closer. “I like these notes better than anything I said and not because you sketched me. You’re super talented, Cara.”

Hands wringing in front of her chest, she stares at the floor. “It’s just a doodle.”

“It’s amazing, and if no one has told you lately, so are you.” I pass her the notebook.

Her throat bobs on a swallow. “But I don’t think I’m good enough to be a video game concept designer.”

“If that’s your dream job, I believe you’ll figure out a way to make it happen.”

“That’s the thing. It’s not my dream job.” A long sigh escapes as if she’s been holding that in for a while.

“No? What’s your dream job then?”

“I’m not sure. I don’t know what I want to do when I grow up.”

“You look pretty grown up to me. What did you want to do when you were a kid?”

“Draw, but everyone said they were just doodles. Granted, it took me a while to get hands right. They’re so hard.”

“I play in the NHL and could stand to improve my wrister. It wouldn’t be worthwhile if it weren’t at least a little bit of a challenge, you know?”

“Everyone always told me how smart I was. My teachers said my intelligence would be wasted if I just spent all day doodling.”

“This is hardly a doodle, but I imagine it was a lot of pressure,” I say, sensing she’s never told anyone this.

Her arms open emphatically. “Exactly. I didn’t want to let my family down, especially without Mom. My brain has always been in fifth gear. When I draw, it slows down. When we kissed under the Merry Kiss Me sign, it went quiet. So quiet it was just you and me and—” Liquid brims in her eyes.

I’ve been told that I’m good at a lot of things—making blueberry jam, playing hockey, kissing . . . but never listening. It’s a new skill I’m going to employ because I think that’s what Cara needs right now .

And a hug.

I draw her into my arms. She’s rigid at first, but when her palms press to my back and the steady beat of my heart meets hers, she melts a little. I get an instant head rush as I breathe in her baby powder scent.

We linger in the hug much like we do with those loaded gazes we exchange.

When we eventually part, I say, “If you want my unsolicited advice, I’d say look back at where you’ve been and what you’ve learned. Even if you don’t pursue any of the fields you studied, you still know all those things. Be sure to track how far you’ve come. Then look ahead, but not at where you want to be in ten years. Who you want to be.”

Cara’s breath catches as if something I said resonated. “Wow. Thank you.”

“You can thank Dadaszek.”

“My father?”

“When he interviewed me for the team, that’s what he asked me. I never expected that I’d be here with you. Granted, it hasn’t quite been ten years.”

“Thank you and I appreciate you coaching me on how to kiss.”

“Class isn’t over. Everything I told you to write down was nonsense. Pure nonsense,” I say with a chuckle.

“Good thing I doodled instead.”

“To really learn how to kiss, you have to practice.”

“Is that so?” She lifts her eyebrows and wears an adorable grin.

“Mmmhmm. Frequent practices.” Taking her hand, I lead her into the sitting room with the softly glowing Christmas tree.

I say, “Keeping our Merry Kiss Me kiss in mind, recall our first lesson.”

“Breathe,” she says.

We both draw a soft breath.

“For the second lesson, we got more comfortable with each other. We don’t have to be dancing, but think of our positions as a standing cuddle.”

Cara giggles and I cannot ignore the curve of her lush lips as I anticipate what’s coming.

Then she stiffens. “Wait. Do I keep my eyes open or close them?”

“You’ll know when to close them.”

Her throat bobs on a swallow. “Do I move my head from side to side or—?” Making kissing lips, she demonstrates.

We both laugh. Then she raises her hand as if we’re really in class and she has a question.

I twine my fingers into hers and then, with my other hand, I hold her jaw in my palm. “Trust that you’ll know what to do.”

Fretting, she asks, “What if I hiccup?”

I chuckle. “Don’t overthink it. Just be in it. Let go.”

Nodding, she says, “Okay, but how do I know when it’s over?”

My grin is irrepressible because her first kiss fears are adorable. “It’s over when we can’t stop smiling.”

The corners of her mouth lift, making her eyes sparkle.

“ Amour , you don’t have to worry.” But I do. My heart is on fire.

“Why not?” she asks, her voice small.

I tip her chin up slightly. “Because you’ve got me. Forget everything else.”

Taking a deep breath, she asks, “I do?”

“You do,” I repeat as my gaze dips, turning heavy.

She leans in, lifting onto her toes.

We’re a breath apart.

“Are you sure?” I ask to confirm she wants this.

“Yes,” she whispers.

Our mouths crush together because Cara doesn’t need lessons. She’s a natural. I’d like to believe that’s because she was holding out, passing up other guys, for me.

With her lips on mine, this is one of those situations where I want to hold on super tight to the grass outside or to a tree so I don’t fall off the earth.