Chapter 3

CHAPTER THREE

My father has a reputation as being the toughest coach in the NHL. Even though I know his soft spots (homemade corn muffins grilled with butter, us girls, and Christmas), he doesn’t let too many people see that side of him, so it’s a surprise when he greets me—in public at the arrivals lane at Eppley—with a big hug.

We don’t so much as get a whistle from the worker in safety yellow. The traffic security officers must somehow sense that he’s the master of laying on the whistle on the ice and off. Let’s just say, while growing up, we didn’t have an alarm clock in our house. No, it was the blast of our father’s shrill Fox40 Super Force CMG Finger Grip screecher.

If you know, you know.

When I get in the car, he has the heater running and the Christmas carols playing.

“I missed you, Badaszek,” he says.

“I missed you too, Dadaszek,” I repeat, using my sisters’ and my custom dad title. Just like he does with everyone except Mom, he’s always called us by our last name. Since I’m the last one he has yet to walk down the aisle, I’m still Badaszek.

“You’re unusually cheerful,” I say, soaking it up.

While it was devastating to lose Mom to cancer, our father made every effort to keep her memory with us. But without who he called his “Number one teammate,” parts of him got even tougher over time. I imagine those were the aspects that a wife would’ve kept soft and sweet. Or it could have something to do with spending most of his time with some of the roughest athletes in the world.

Either way, he doesn’t usually sing along to “Frosty the Snowman.” No, he’s better described as Frosty the Ice King.

I snap my fingers, remembering that I’d turned on the Knights-Lions game when I was packing but didn’t have time to see the results. “Oh, I know. You won.”

“We did. Looks like we’re heading to the playoffs.” His strained excitement never gets old.

“That’s reason to celebrate, and maybe this summer . . .” I press my lips together because, for years now, Ilsa, Anna, and I have been urging him to take a vacation. To travel. Well, he does regularly, but only for away games. He doesn’t lounge on a beach, trek on foreign trails, or visit famous museums. Nope. It’s all hockey all the time.

Our encouragement for him to take some time off is constant, but my sisters and I finally decided to do something about it. We planned a family summer vacation to Europe, complete with my sisters’ spouses, leaving our father and me as the fifth and sixth wheels, but that’s okay. While the couples are off doing coupley things, I can listen to Dadaszek remind me how to safely operate a pilot light and what to do in the event of a grease fire.

Like I said, hyper-protective.

He tells me all about the Knights-Lions game and his key players. When he gets to number seventy-four, a defenseman, he grunts.

“Let me guess, he’s a troublemaker.”

“A player.”

“Right, a hockey player.”

“No, a hot-headed, hot shot who uses a different stick every game and is a little too casual with the rotating cast of puck bunnies afterward. The only thing that’s saving him is that he’s got game.”

“On the ice?”

He follows up with a few choice words muttered under his breath.

I gasp, then scold my father. “Dadaszek.”

He arches an eyebrow. “I spend an inordinate amount of time in a locker room. I’ve heard worse.”

That means he’s probably said worse. I wince, thankful it’s never directed at me.

“I thought I’d chased all those fervid female fans back into their warrens, but with no thanks to Arsenault, the Frenchman, they’ve multiplied and returned in droves.” He rants about how he worked hard to clean up the team’s reputation and make it more family-oriented. But now, according to my father, the French Canadian defensive player lured them out of the woodwork.

When we pull onto Main Street in Cobbiton, Dadaszek runs out of grumbly gas just as “I’ll be Home for Christmas” choruses through the truck’s speakers.

The activities commission decorates the town center every year, and it’s one of the best things about coming home. Feeling the warm fuzzies, I’m convinced one of the CAC members is a former set dresser for a Hallmark movie.

The shops on Main Street outdo themselves with frosted glass window displays, festive wreaths, and icicle garlands. The light-wrapped street lamps, big red bows, and gold bells are perfectly classic. Choirs of light-up wire angels span the road, trumpets lifted.

It all leads to the Christmas Market, which is a winter wonderland of vendors selling everything from handcrafted ornaments to mulled cider. We have horse-drawn carriage rides, a parade, and a gingerbread house contest. Plus, there are breakfasts with Santa, photos with him and Mrs. Claus, and the lighting of the big tree on December first.

As we pass the town’s living advent calendar Christmas countdown, today’s window glows icy blue with 3D paper snowflakes. Each year, it’s different and draws people from all over the country.

I miss home with a longing that makes me feel like I’m far away rather than right here in the midst of it.

Letting out a breath because I haven’t yet gone shopping or done any of the many traditions we used to start as soon as the town tree was lit, I say, “With only twelve days until Christmas, I’d better get busy.”

“Hope to see you in the box, too.” My dad gives me the game schedule.

I promise to go to all the home games.

“Just stay away from Arsenault.”

I roll my eyes. “As if.”

My father had an unspoken rule that his daughters weren’t to date hockey players. Then, in high school, I foolishly fell for Ricky Koch. He then had the pleasure of hearing me say, Dadaszek, you were right.

We pull up to the pale yellow brick colonial house I grew up in on Golden Bantam Lane. Shutters on every window border wreaths and the red front door and entry are bedecked in white lights.

I look up and down the sidewalk for the Victorian carolers who canvas town. They make their way through the various neighborhoods one night at a time.

“Home sweet home.” A deep breath fills me as I get out of the car.

Anna rushes out with Ilsa and Kangaroo Jack on her heels. Cal carries a pair of giant resin candy canes and plants them at the end of the sidewalk. We share a rowdy round of hugs, complete with happy squeals. The guys exchange a look as the three of us sisters link arms and head into the house.

While catching up with Ilsa and Anna, the sound of hockey highlights comes from the other room, along with Dad’s voice, likely instructing Cal and Kangaroo Jack on the fine art of the saucer pass.

If I were to ask—I wouldn’t dare after Ricky—he’d vote down having a hockey-playing son-in-law. But maybe he wouldn’t mind if at least one of his daughter’s spouses were fans. By the sound of his breakaway analysis, he’ll mold them into hockey aficionados one way or another.

But that’s not the focus as Anna takes out Mom’s massive KitchenAid stand mixer, and Ilsa lines ingredients up on the counter. The cookie-baking bonanza is about to begin, and I am here for it.

Every year, we make twelve different kinds of cookies—dozens each. Some of them are for our enjoyment and others we package up for friends, family, and neighbors, the firefighters and EMT team in town, and the hospice workers from the association that helped take care of Mom.

We call ourselves The Mrs. Claus Squad since she doesn’t get nearly as much of the spotlight as she should. Also, because Dadaszek called Mom Mrs. Claus from December first to the twenty-fifth, since our mother loved Christmas so much, it’s a way to keep her memory with us. Some people might think this tradition is sad, but we know Mom would love our little ode to her.

No sooner are we mixing and blending do Anna and Ilsa ask about my non-existent romantic life. I relay my encounter with Richy, the cute guy with BO from the plane, while dramatically holding my nose. This makes them laugh, and we reminisce about terrible dates over the years.

They both conclude that they married the loves of their lives.

“Which means it’s your turn,” Anna says, tossing a chocolate candy Kiss wrapped in foil my way.

I pop it in my mouth because I know what’s coming.

Ilsa spins by me, tying an apron around my waist. “We’ve been planning . . .”

I suddenly have an inclination about how Dad is going to feel when we present him with his mandatory European summer vacation Christmas gift. It seemed like a good idea at the time, but now I’m having second thoughts. Our father makes good money and if he wanted to spend a summer gallivanting abroad, he would. He’ll love the Hockey Hall of Fame museum in Finland but could manage to get himself there without our help.

By this logic, if I want to date, I will.

Right? I mean, right?

However, I have a knack for meeting guys with BO or an abundance of nose hair or who don’t tie their shoes—I couldn’t be worried Felix was going to trip all the time.

It’s not like I’m trying to check off every box, but basic hygiene and shoelace skills are a good place to start.

Anna parades by with a bowl full of sugar cookie dough. “We just have to get you out there.”

“You need some more experience,” Ilsa says, taking a swipe of the batter .

“I’ve done plenty of studying when it comes to the romantic arts. Take Dante and Beatrice or John and Abigail Adams, for example—” I’m about to launch into a retrospective on Queen Victoria and Prince Albert when Ilsa interrupts.

“When did you last meet a guy for coffee or go to the movies . . . in real life, not in a fictional escape?”

I look from side to side, wishing for an easy exit. Unfortunately, my sisters know where my bedroom is, and they more than likely know what I’m thinking. It’s a triplet thing.

“It’s been a minute. But while I’m here—” I didn’t quite think about how to present my “homework” sketching storyboards at the arena all week without revealing that graphic design and studying law aren’t the same thing. “I’ll be busy.”

I get a pat on the head from Ilsa. “Sure you will be.”

“Uh huh, starting with a blind date.” Anna grins like an evil mastermind.

“No way.”

“And you’re going to text the guy I have in mind.” Ilsa cackles and then runs out of the room.

Anna wants to send me on a blind date with one of Cal’s buddies. Not especially interested. Ilsa has someone she wants me to text. No, thanks. I can’t imagine either of those scenarios being the start of my happily ever after.

Seconds later, my phone beeps.

Pumping her arms in the air in success, Ilsa whisper shouts, “I just got his number off Dadaszek’s phone.”

I immediately know what this means. “No way. I’m not dating a hockey player.”

Ilsa clicks her tongue. “What’s wrong with a hockey player?”

“Where do I begin?” I tilt my head, prepared to count the reasons on my fingers. They’re all too familiar with Ricky.

Ilsa says, “Nolan is kind, thoughtful, a big ole cinnamon roll, who works with charities, donates to good causes and is responsible with his money. Plus, no record of being a player of any sort.”

The Frenchman defenseman my father mentioned comes to mind.

Anna says, “Sounds like you did your homework.”

Ilsa bounces a little as if she thinks I’ll appreciate this because I’m the studious one and all.

“As I said, I have homework and cookies to bake and time to spend with my wicked sisters.”

Anna breezes past my comment. “Back to the blind date. He’s in finance, has a 401K, and no criminal record.”

“That all sounds great, but?—”

“We didn’t forget about love, obviously,” Anna says as if that’s the most important ingredient as she gets a little generous about adding cinnamon to the oatmeal cookie dough. “Oopsie.”

“But that’s something that comes with time. First, you have to get out of your books and onto the ice.” Ilsa spins me on the counter stool.

I wrinkle my nose because she sounds a lot like our father. When it comes to true love, you can’t tick items on a list, and I certainly don’t want a hockey player. They belong in the penalty box.

“Dadaszek isn’t going to like you trying to hook me up with someone from the team.”

“Technically, Nolan isn’t on the team. He drives the Zamboni.” She makes sparkle fingers because that also means he dresses up like a knight in shining armor between periods. It’s not the team mascot, but it’s a team “thing” that fans love, along with throwing corn cobs (or fruit, whichever is available) on the ice.

Anna’s eyes widen. “I always wondered who was under there. ”

“There are a few ice-resurfacing knights, but Nolan seemed sweet. It could be a love match,” Ilsa sing songs.

The timer on the oven dings.

Anna hops to her feet. “First, we have to get you ready for your blind date.”

While they pilfer our respective closets to find me the perfect outfit, I protest. “Can we not do this? I just got home.”

Ilsa pulls out her makeup pouch. “It’s going to be fun.”

Pouting, I say, “If Dadaszek finds out, he’s going to lock me away in a tower like Rapunzel.”

“While that would be a good excuse to let your hair grow longer, Dadaszek knows Nolan. He’d approve. I just know it,” Ilsa says.

“And when he meets Richard, he’ll have a third victim to whom he can subject his hockey obsession.” Anna wears a smug grin.

“Who?” I ask, inclining my head.

Anna clears her throat. “Richard.”

“Like Ricky?” I grit my teeth.

“He might go by Richy,” Ilsa suggests.

Anything but that. I blurt, “Or Chard.”

It cannot be helped. We all burst into laughter. I can’t be mad at my sisters. They’re trying to help. But I’m not exactly thrilled by this surprise turn of events.

Dadaszek, forgive me for the Christmas gift trip to Europe if you hate it. I know how you feel and won’t ever spring something on you again.

“Cara is going to fall for Nolan,” Ilsa says, like they have a bet on the side.

The two of them banter back and forth about my one true love and how they’ll get matchmaking credit and become my favorite sister. In this family, there are no favorites, but we faux fight about it anyway .

Just then, my phone beeps again.

Ilsa squeals and checks it. The facial recognition feature thinks we’re all the same person, so we have access to each other’s devices, which tells me one thing. While I was mixing the shortbread dough, she took the liberty to reach out to the guy whose number she nabbed from our father’s phone.

Let’s just say this isn’t the first time an attempt of this sort has been made. In the past, I was able to intercept a not-so-innocent love note before she pressed send . For the record, I did not have a crush on Augie Mitchum. We helped each other with math.

i(3)u was the answer to a problem. Ilsa trying to translate it to I love you was incorrect.

Her eyes bulge. “Oh, he’s flirty.”

“What did you write?” I lunge for my phone and scan the messages.

Me: Hey, we met after the game last night, and I got your number from a friend. I hope that’s okay. I was the one wearing the red scarf.

“I have a pink scarf.” My nostrils flare. “You posed as me.”

Ilsa shrugs. “Jack said it was fine if I acted on your behalf. We’re identical triplets. Nolan wouldn’t know the difference with me all bundled up.”

Knight in Shining Armor: What are you craving right now?

Me: Snacks.

Only the “Me” is Ilsa, pretending to be yours truly.

Never mind my cheeks, my entire body heats with the burn of embarrassment. “Ilsa, I would never have written that. I don’t even know what that means.”

“Exactly.” She winks.

Anna says, “It’s a way of telling him you think he’s cute without telling him you think he’s cute.”

“But I didn’t see him, you did,” I say to Ilsa.

“You’d approve.”

“My judgment cannot be trusted. I thought a guy on the plane was cute, and it turns out that he smelled like?—”

My phone beeps in my hand, and Ilsa snatches it, rapidly typing out a reply. I practically have to wrestle it from her.

Knight in Shining Armor: If you were a piece of fruit, what would you be?

Me: A perfect peach.

I gasp. “Are you saying I have a big butt?”

Anna taps my rear end. “You have a perfect butt.”

“I’m not cut out for this.” I hide my face in my hands.

“That’s why we’re here to help.”

“Anna just means that when talking to guys, sometimes you have to add some of Dadaszek’s favorite hot sauce to spice things up.”

“But Kablamski! is not hot,” I say, ever logical.

That’s the joke. Our father is of Polish heritage, and their cuisine is not known for being especially spicy, meaning he can’t handle much more than a shishito pepper. Having lived in Los Angeles with its amazing Mexican food, I’ve upped the family heat tolerance on the Scoville Scale considerably. Dad thinks his Kablamski! Sauce is spicy, but it’s negative mild if there were such a thing.

Anna shrugs. “Depends on your taste. Plus, those sausages Dad gets at the Polski Festiwal every fall are inarguably a tongue burner.”

I groan when another text comes through and take control of my device, not at all wanting to think about mouths or tongues in the context of my sisters matching me with random guys because this could lead to only one thing: Kissing.

Knight in Shining Armor: If you’re a Knights (and corny jokes) fan, I bet we’d make a great pear.

The joke is beyond cheesy, but I get the reference. The fans of some pro hockey teams throw rats or fish onto the ice. Knights fans mainly toss corn cobs, but when those aren’t available, it could range from apples to oranges. After all, beyond the Cobbiton suburbs, it’s all farm country.

Me: Hi again! You seem nice, so I bet you’ll find someone you’d like to see s’more, who’d make your heart skip a beet. A special someone with whom you’re mint to be.

My sisters banter about how I’m impossible.

Ilsa says, “You should’ve mentioned pasta-bilities between you.”

Anna adds, “And asked what kind of fruit he is.”

“Then you could’ve said—” Ilsa starts.

My hands fly to my hips. “No, don’t say it. I don’t even know what he looks like. You two are taking this too far. I’m going to report this to your husbands.”

Given Cal’s last name being a misspelling of a popular fruit, this silences Anna. Ilsa goes quiet because after she met Kangaroo Jack, she referred to him in code using the pineapple emoji. I later found out this was because she considered him a fine apple, a fruit of which we do not speak for reasons not having anything to do with Jack McMann.

Sober-faced, Anna says, “We don’t want you to be late for the blind date.”

“I can’t double date two guys.”

“Technically, you’re going on a date now with Richard and just texting with Nolan. No big deal.” Ilsa shrugs.

Panic seizes me and I flap my hands. “What if I accidentally call him Chard?”

They push me out the door. Then, as if instantly knowing that if I drive myself, I’ll end up cruising around for hours looking at Christmas lights and standing the guy up, Ilsa hollers over her shoulder, “Guys, we’ll be right back.”

Quick and nimble, Anna flies by me and hops in the driver’s seat of the 2002 Dodge Caravan Dadaszek passed along to us when we got our licenses. Yes, it’s called the Cara van, even though I rarely got dibs on it. He happily upgraded to a truck.

“Still runs like a dream,” Anna says, telling us how she had to borrow it a few weeks ago while her car was serviced. “Dadaszek even had me run some hockey errands in exchange for a full tank of gas like old times.”

Ilsa and I can’t help but laugh. During high school, the deal was the three of us had full control over the minivan, and our father would pay for gas if we’d occasionally ferry hockey merchandise around town to various shops that support the Knights enterprise. He said it was good practice for the future, but I wouldn’t touch hockey with a thirty-nine-and-a-half-foot stick. No siree.

Call me the Grinch, but the pineapple reminder on top of multiple Richards makes my heart hard and feel like an empty hole.

In protest of this travesty of blind date injustice, I refuse to get in the minivan. Standing my ground, I say, “I’d rather freeze outside in the cold Nebraska winter.”

My sisters apply various forms of pressure. They know my weakness, mainly in the form of Christmas fudge.

Finally, I give in and say, “But I’m driving myself.”

Ilsa and Anna exchange a measured look. “Fine, but we’re motorcading to make sure you don’t stand Richard up.”

Accepting defeat, I end up following them to O’Neely’s Fish Bowl, a Cobbiton classic in the way the minivan is classic or ambrosia is classic. It’s a hockey player haunt that serves mozzarella sticks, fried pickles, and fights after hours.

“You can’t be serious?” My tone is low.

Gripping the steering wheel, I idle by the curb, refusing to get out of the minivan. Ilsa hops out and gestures for me to roll down the window. The power button is cranky, but I manage to drop it a few inches.

“Parking is around back.” She points.

I shake my head. “I’m aware, but no.”

Anna hops up and down as if she’s not used to the frigid temperature. “Cal said this is Richard’s first time back in Omaha in years. They went to UNO together. He probably wanted to swing by the Fish Bowl for old time’s sake.”

“As the hockey great said—” Ilsa starts.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. ‘You miss one hundred percent of the shots you don’t take,’” I repeat our father’s favorite quote.

“He’s not a hockey player, promise,” Anna says, knowing that’s a penalty in my book.

“And don’t forget to reply to Nolan. You might just find your knight in shining armor tonight,” Ilsa chirps.

Pressing my lips together, I inhale through my nose, gathering patience . . . and courage. My native habitat is the hallowed halls of some of the world’s finest institutions of higher education where it’s not at all unusual to have a date night in the library . . . with a book or ten.

“Good luck,” Anna says, hurrying back to her car with Ilsa scurrying behind.

I pull around to the parking lot and lean back in the seat, taking a deep breath. Knowing my sisters, they’re probably staking out the Fish Bowl like two secret agents, waiting to make sure I go inside.

The one feature that we collectively loved about the minivan was the sunroof. It’s dirty and covered in pollen from the fall, but I push the button to open it so I can make a wish on a star before I take my life into my own hands inside the rowdiest hockey pub in the state.

No sooner is the sunroof cracked open an inch do I get dowsed with cold water.

“No, no, no.” Dodging out of the way, I quickly close it, only now remembering Ilsa mentioning there was a leak . . . six years ago.

Drenched, I’m about ready to turn around and go home when the prospect of dealing with my sisters’ scolding and withholding of all things fudge prompts me to come up with an alternative plan.

Anna mentioned she’d driven the van recently, so maybe she left a sweater or something I can put on. A box labeled NK Shirts, Large rests on the backseat, and I pull out a Nebraska Knights player jersey. Pulling it over my head, it hides my damp jeans since my lap took most of the water and will make me fit in at the Fish Bowl.

Hand on the door, I freeze.

“I can’t do this. I don’t want to,” I whine at a whisper. But the disappointment I’m sure to face when I tell my family about school will only double if I back out of this, too.

After checking my hair, I bravely exit the minivan. The deep intonation of “You’re a Mean One, Mr. Grinch” plays from inside the building.

I take three steps forward, then two back, and turn around, retreat, continue on, spin in a circle, and—with my sisters’ voices in my ears—march forward.

Hesitating, I pull open the door, and now “Run Rudolph Run” blares along with chatter and laughter from inside.

Should I take that as a sign?

To be fair, the Fish Bowl, as locals call it, is a family-type establishment until nine p.m. Thankfully, it’s only seven. After that, it’s the place to watch hockey games, drink beer, and toss peanut shells on the floor with abandon. If an errant popcorn kernel goes up instead of down, hitting the wrong guy at the same time as an opposing team makes a play, fists fly. At least, that’s what I’ve heard.

I square my shoulders and enter. It’s somehow bright and dim at the same time. Colorful Christmas lights line the ceiling around a messy mishmash of hockey memorabilia, including signed jerseys and helmets, hence the name “Fish Bowl.”

Foil starbursts, bells, and pom poms that I’ve seen in the background of old photos of my parents taken during their childhood Christmases hang from the domed stained glass lights that hover over the tables. They twist and gleam when the servers bustle by.

A jukebox glows in the corner. The bar is full and groups of people gather in circles, laughing loudly. Others sit closely huddled together over tables and chatter at a lower decibel. The smell of fried everything fills the air along with the buttery scent of popcorn.

Toward the back, some people play pool and others throw darts.

I don’t see a guy seated solo at a table as if waiting for his blind date, and I’m not sure of the etiquette. Do I seat myself? Wait for a hostess? Or throw a dart and see where it lands? Maybe not that.

A couple of girls come in on a gust of cold, perfumed air and waltz past a table full of guys whose gazes trail them to an empty booth.

Toward the back, there’s a vacant table for two near a pair of middle-aged men with a large group of children who’re in various stages of making paper airplanes with their coloring menus. I’m guessing it’s a youth hockey team. This location should be safe-ish.

A waitress, wearing a tight green T-shirt with O’Neely across the back, nearly gets run over by a group of teens. On the front of the shirt is a guy wearing hockey gear inside of a fish bowl. She greets me with a distracted smile, likely worried about being impaled by a paper airplane. Like everyone else here, I get a fish bowl filled with free popcorn.

I order a water, keeping my eye on the door and hoping I don’t get hit in the back of the head with an errant billiards ball . . . or worse. Those kids look like they have good aim.

When ten minutes elapse, and there’s no sign of Richard, my phone beeps. It’s Anna, checking in. I inform her that I had a last-minute shower and wardrobe change with no thanks to the sunroof.

Me: Also, Chard has five more minutes and if he’s not here, you’ll have to come pick me up because I am not sitting in the pool of dank minivan roof water.

Anna Bannanna: We just got home and put another sheet of cookies in the oven. Give him ten more minutes.

Me: Seven.

Kangaroo Ilsa: While you’re waiting, text Nolan.

Kangaroo Ilsa: TEXT HIM.

I groan, knowing she’ll check later to see if I obeyed—and will take it upon herself to message the guy if I don’t. I open the thread Ilsa started. She named his contact Knight in Shining Armor , given the whole Zamboni costume thing.

Me: Hi, it’s me again. Well, it wasn’t me before. My sister initially texted to “break the ice.” Sorry, that was corny with the whole hockey thing. Actually, residents of Cobbiton know better than to make puns. The competition is fierce.

Knight in Shining Armor: No worries. I’m known for my sense of humor, among other things.

What does that mean? I’m not fluent in Flirt .

The server brings me water, and I order an appetizer. Feeling awkward, sitting here as the only person in the Fish Bowl who is alone, I turn back to my phone.

Me: Are you in town for the holidays?

I instantly feel stupid because, of course, he is since there’s a game a few days before Christmas. He’ll have to run the Zamboni and dress up like a knight who wields a Christmas lights-wrapped hockey sword. It’s a thing. I have to admit, that’s kind of cringe. So are the rowdy group of guys behind me playing darts. Why do they have to be so loud?

Well, one of them isn’t. He’s busy texting. I can’t decide if it’s rude that he’s ignoring his friends or if he’s cool for not participating in their childishness—the game of darts has escalated to include a Christmas fruitcake points-based system. Maybe he’s messaging his grandmother, asking what she wants for Christmas.

All those guys have my father’s build, well, when he was younger. They’re also boisterous, and a few have longer hair and beards so it’s safe to assume they’re hockey players. This is not typically my scene. I do my best to avoid hockey and not because I’m not a fan. Mostly because Ricky ruined it for me. And romance. I should be over it by now, but his trickery was humiliating. To this day, I cannot smell pineapple and not gag.

Knight in Shining Armor: Yep, I’ll be there. Nowhere I’d rather be—will you watch the Knights crush it?

Me: I’d rather be anywhere but here. Not Cobbiton. It's great. But my sisters set me up on a blind date. I hope that doesn’t make me sound shallow or pathetic, considering the auspices under which we’ve started texting. Truth is, if there’s someone out there for me, we’ll find each other. No sisterly intervention is required.

The little dots blink, indicating he’s typing. The time in the corner of my phone says that Richard is officially thirty minutes late, which means I’m leaving as soon as I pay for my “Stuffed Pub Potato Skin Pucks.”

Knight in Shining Armor: I’ll be honest, too. I don’t quite recall your sister, but I meet loads of people all the time. I hope that doesn’t make me sound shallow, either. Now we’re even. But I like what you said about finding the one. That’s sweet, and I don’t come across a lot of that.

His comments bolster me a bit. I tell myself to branch out. Be brave. And maybe rebel. By that, I mean prove to my sisters that I’m not just the brainy-innocent one. I glance around to find someone also sitting solo. Once again, my gaze lands on the guy with the hockey team but still on his phone, probably texting his girlfriend or a puck bunny.

If I can get through tonight, perhaps I’ll find the courage to tell my family that I’m going to be a video game concept artist.

Probably.

It’s not a foregone conclusion, but I left law school and officially enrolled in the program, so hopefully, the sixth time is the charm because that’s how many majors I’ve gone through.

Once more, I survey the room, wondering if this is one of those sliding doors blind dates. Perhaps Richard has been here the whole time, and so have I, but we didn’t connect and will repeatedly pass through each other’s lives until it’s too late.

Again, my gaze lands on the guy who sporadically involves himself in the game of darts but is otherwise texting. He cuts a glare at a guy seated at a table with several women, then returns his attention to his phone.

He has flirty eyes ringed with dark lashes. I tilt my head, hoping to get a better glimpse in the low light. His irises are lighter, and the contrast is pleasing—purely from a color theory and design standpoint. It’s not like I think he’s attractive, especially if he’s a hockey player.

Everything about him is broad, built to fill extra-large garments. I can’t see much of him from the midsection down, but I’d bet that he spends a lot of time working out and on the ice like all the hockey hopefuls in Cobbiton.

He and another one of the guys exchange a few words. My gaze freezes on his lips. His eyes float to mine for the briefest moment before I avert my gaze, kind of wanting to hide under the table. I return to the text thread with Knight in Shining Armor because that feels slightly safer.

Me: That’s nice of you to say, and I’m glad we’re on the same page. I don’t want to be rude, but is it okay if we just skip the dating thing? The blind date turned out to be a dud, and I’m not exactly looking for a knight in shining armor.

Knight in Shining Armor: You certainly don’t seem like a damsel in distress. How about we just be text pals?

A giggle escapes because maybe Ilsa wasn’t entirely wrong in her matching me with this guy. Text pals? Who says that other than a certifiable dork? I almost raise my hand in the middle of the crowded room. Dork? Nerd? That would be yours truly! But the proof is in the Christmas pudding. Guys don’t date dorks like me. My phone beeps again as I leave money on the table for the tab and a tip.

Knight in Shining Armor: I win King of Corny.

Knight in Shining Armor: I can’t believe I sent that to you. It’s so not my style. Don’t tell a soul. Promise?

Me: Considering you made me actually LOL, it’s a deal. I won’t tell anyone, and we can be text pals. Signing off for now.

Knight in Shining Armor: Over and Out, Girl of My Dreams.

Getting to my feet, I push in my chair and blink a few times, not quite registering what I read.

Girl of My Dreams?

What does that mean? What happened to being text pals?

Is there a Flirt thesaurus? A translation guide or some other kind of manual?

Eyes glued to my phone, I make my way to the front of the Fish Bowl. It’s nearly nine o’clock, and that means I’ll soon turn into a pumpkin, and O’Neely’s will transform from family friendly to fist and fight friendly.

Just then, a guy gets up from the booth with the women who came in at the same time I did.

Is this Richard? Had he been with them the whole time?

His button-down shirt untucked, he marches toward me and stumbles over a chair leg. He casts a glare as if the wooden object jumped in his way.

Waving at me, he slurs, “Hey, I’m Richard. Are you Carla?”

Had he been here all along?

I open and close my mouth, trying to come up with something snappy to say about keeping me waiting. The best I can do is, “No, I’m not Carla.”

“I was supposed to meet some chick for a blind date. Thought maybe it was you. Doing my college roommate a favor.” He snorts.

Chard? Is this Calvin’s friend from UNO?

He looks me up and down and then puffs his lips. “I was just getting to know the locals, if you know what I mean. But maybe we should get to know each other better even if you’re not Carla. ”

“Maybe not,” I say, stepping back, which only seems to invite him into my space.

He gusts me with stale alcohol breath and twirls a piece of my hair around his finger.

“Dominick the Donkey” plays in the background, and people sing along to the “Heehaws.”

I start to swat Richard’s hand when he takes hold of my mine and brings it to his shoulder at the same time, he plants his other one on my waist. I jerk away, but he doesn’t let me go.

I look around. Is anyone witnessing this?

Catching movement in my periphery, a low and menacing voice grinds out, “Hands off my girlfriend.”

An arm connected to an ugly Christmas sweater slings around my shoulder, gripping me close. I gaze up to see that it belongs to a man with heavy-lidded blue eyes that spark when our gazes meet. He’s the attractive guy among the hockey players throwing darts. A flutter passes through me. I quickly glance away.

“If she’s your girlfriend, then why was she sitting alone at the table all night?”

“It wasn’t all night—” I start, stomach swimming with nerves.

“She’s not a fan of darts or guys who’re drunk and disorderly,” says my knight in an ugly Christmas sweater.

Richard pokes the embroidered Santa face in the nose on the sweater, “Well, I’m no fan of yours, either.”

My knight flicks Richard’s hand away. “I don’t want fans like you.”

Like a cat following a bouncing ball, I watch the verbal volley. I should probably make my way to the exit, but my real-life knight (as opposed to Nolan, who I was texting) still has his arm around me. I cannot deny that it’s a pleasant and protective weight. Unlike Richard’s slimy grasp, I’m not eager to squirm away.

Then I remember that I’m not a damsel. “I’m not interested in a date with you or raisins. No dried fruit for this peach,” I splutter at Richard.

He looks at me blankly, not getting the pun, which tells me that not only is he a crude jerk but also lacks a sense of humor.

The knight murmurs. “If I had a fruitcake leftover from last year, I’d throw it at this guy.”

Richard continues, “Come on, Carla, Carrie—what was your name?—come back to my hotel,” Richard says, eyes unfocused and definitely delusional.

The knight’s jaw ticks.

I rapidly shake my head. “That’s a solid no.” I am not remotely interested in Chard. There are a lot of problems with his statement, but I’m not about to reveal my identity. I’ll stick with being the knight’s pretend girlfriend, thank you very much.

“She’s with me,” he replies in a warning tone.

“I know all about your reputation. Prove that she’s your girlfriend.” Richard rocks back on his heels and then reaches out to a passing waiter to stabilize himself.

The knight’s blue eyes, flecked with silver, land on me with a wink. He spins me around and says, “She’s wearing my jersey. Number seventy-four.”

I am?

Doing my best to ignore Richard’s simmering and building rage at his bruised ego, I glance over my shoulder at the jersey from the Caravan. I can’t read the last name, but sure enough, I see the upside-down number seventy-four.

I turn so I’m facing them again. “Get lost, Chard.”

My knight says, “She’s mine. ”

“Half the puck bunnies in this place are wearing your jersey,” Richard says.

At risk of blowing my cover, I peer around, wondering about the last name printed across the top.

“You want me to prove she’s my girlfriend?” Number seventy-four smirks. Smolders? Then glances overhead.

I follow his gaze to a sprig of mistletoe wrapped in red ribbon hanging above us. My jaw lowers slightly.

“I’ve been wanting to get you under one of these,” he says, sticking with the girlfriend story.

Our gazes connect for one long moment that sends a shaky breath through me. They say the eyes are the window to the soul. His crinkle at the corners, holding both mischief and making me melt.

My eyebrows cram together. Words gather but don’t form on my lips.

He bites his, intention etched on his features.

An inner buzz builds inside.

His head dips toward mine.

My inhale catches.

His lips part ever so slightly.

My surroundings, the sounds in the room, and Richard’s presence fade along with all my sisters’ dating nonsense.

Right now, it’s just him , me, and the Christmas sweater. A funny thought enters my mind: a guy who can get away with wearing that and still look good, who intercepted Chard—who turned out to be the biggest dud on record—and whose lips are so perfect is definitely worthy of a kiss.

But not like this.

I draw back and inhale, realizing I was holding my breath . . . along with seemingly everyone else in O’Neely’s. Whispers breeze through the room and then grow into chatter, echoing from every direction .

My would-be boyfriend comes into focus with Chard vaguely nearby. His jaw is slightly slack as if confused about why my lips aren’t all over him right now. Like he’s not used to being rejected? No, it’s not that, exactly. However, I do half expect him to expose this charade and storm off, leaving me to fend away Richard on my own.

Giving my head a slight shake, in a low voice, to my knight, I say, “Not like this.”

Loud enough for the rest of the room to hear, Richard crows, “Ooh. Burn. Looks like she wants me instead.”

As if lighting both ends of a wick, my knight in a Christmas sweater and I jerk our heads in his direction, eyes ablaze.

“Do not talk about her like that,” my knight says.

“Do not even entertain that idea,” I say at about the same time.

“Well, the fact remains that I didn’t see you arrive together,” Chard counters.

My knight wraps his hand around mine. A question lights in his eyes, and I squeeze his palm.

He says, “No, but you’ll watch us leave together.”

We make a grand exit to the sound of thunderous applause and hooting with a Christmas remix bass beat in the background. The nearby onlookers have become very invested in this, whatever it is.

My hand on fire inside Seventy-four’s, he leads me out of O’Neely’s and onto the sidewalk. A sizeable portion of the pub’s patrons follow us, thrusting us into the stream of passersby heading toward the center of town and the lights display.

I try to draw a much-needed deep breath, but they sweep it from me.

In a low, rumbly voice that lifts the butterflies in my stomach, he says, “Sorry about that. Can I walk you to your car? I don’t want that creep bothering you.”

“Thanks. I parked in the back lot.” I point over my shoulder, but there’s no break in the flow of traffic as we’re being pushed from behind...directly toward Cobbiton’s town square side entrance. Caught in the current, we can’t break free and only stop when we arrive at the Merry Kiss Me arch, surrounded by red and white lights where couples pose for a sweetly romantic kissing photo op for social media or as a keepsake.

“My car is—” I mutter because there are so many people gathered around for the lights and festivities. I can’t tell which way leads back to the parking lot.

He looks around. “Yeah. Honestly, I didn’t mean for us to end up over here, especially wearing this thing.” He pinches the sweater by the shoulder.

“It’s not the worst,” I say.

“It totally is.”

Our eyes meet, and we share a laugh that feels as much about the sweater as it does this peculiar situation.

Surrounded on both sides by throngs of people, a low murmur of people start chanting, “Merry Kiss Me, Merry Kiss Me, Merry Kiss Me.” It gets louder as the seconds tick by.

Eyes twinkling, he says, “I could Hulk my way through and lead you to safety,” he says, eyes twinkling.

“How very chivalrous. I could probably drop down and crawl away. No one would notice.”

“Oh, they’d notice,” he says, almost as if to himself.

I glance around, but the only safety and assurance I feel is with him, as strange as that sounds. He’s my hockey-playing fake boyfriend who rescued me from Richard. Now, being out of O’Neely’s and under the Merry Kiss Me sign, maybe sharing a tiny kiss would be okay. I mean, he is handsome. Strong. Steady. Didn’t ditch me when I didn’t kiss him.

I steal a peek at his blue eyes. They really, truly sparkle. With mischief? Longing? Something else?

His mouth opens and closes like he’s going to say something. Instead, he draws a breath.

I remember to do the same.

Biting my lip with my teeth, I shift closer, lifting slightly onto my toes as the enthusiastic crowd all but commands us to kiss.

Before, I thought kissing him was a bad idea. But now, is it weird that I kind of want to . . . to find out what happens?

I didn’t want to someday tell my daughters the story of my first kiss at O’Neely’s Fish Bowl—with a stranger, no less. But under a Merry Kiss Me sign is kind of romantic, right?

“Here is better,” I whisper.

His eyebrow lifts with surprise.

“Really?” he asks in a soft yet surprised tone.

“Really.” I nod.

The space between my knight and me closes.

His hand cups my cheek and the other curls gently around my neck with his thumb on my jaw. Our lips connect.

The press of his mouth to mine is warm, soft, and entirely pleasant. Like a pleasant rain and not old minivan sunroof water. He smells spicy like cinnamon, like home during the holidays. His grip that wraps toward the nape of my neck is firm, protective, and welcome as he lingers there, lips against mine. My fingers splay across his shoulders, a pair of immovable boulders under the red sweater.

When we part, his flirty blue eyes, fringed by dark lashes, hold mine for a long moment. “Yeah, my girlfriend,” he says, voice husky .

My heart skips, not only a beat but across a meadow, through a field of wildflowers to the top of a hill, and straight up to the clouds in the sky, to a time when the world still made sense because that kiss knocked me out of orbit.