Chapter 4

CHAPTER FOUR

At first, my “girlfriend” doesn’t kiss me back. She’s frozen, possibly in shock. But she quickly thaws and returns the kiss, but only enough to leave me wanting more.

More of her baby powder scent. More of her soft skin. More of those hazel eyes that convey possibilities and promises that I feel certain a woman, so bright yet reserved, would never consider breaking.

“Yeah,” she whispers, possibly confirming my comment . . . or, though more unlikely, my thoughts.

I grip her hand in mine, a united front against the guy she called Chard.

There I was, minding my own business, playing darts, and wearing the ugliest sweater on the planet, but that’s beside the point. It was a rare moment in public when I wasn’t swarmed by people. Could have to do with the sweater warding off women.

I’ll admit that I was a bit butthurt that Badaszek didn’t pick me for Santa. Beau is so grumpy he’s going to scare the kids away. Is it wrong that being passed over makes me want to do whatever it is the coach wants?

What better way to start than by a rowdy game of darts with the team?

But every time I waited for my turn, my attention got pulled to my phone, the pretty girl sitting alone across the room, or the son-of-a-puck who was boasting to a table full of women about being recruited to the Knights and how he was going to be the greatest defenseman of all time. Pfft. My hockey backside. The loser, who turned out to be Chard, is merely on the prowl for puck bunnies and then made an obviously unwanted and unacceptable advance at the cutest girl in the room.

Meanwhile, I’m wearing invisible handcuffs, having vowed to keep my distance from them tonight. Though it’s not much of a challenge given this hand-knit opposite-sex repellent, I’m compelled to wear. There are braided epaulets on the shoulders, an embroidered kitten patch with a bell, and a sequence of sequins that I think is supposed to signify snow.

Yet here I am, locking lips with the prettiest woman I’ve ever laid eyes on.

She’s a modest five feet five or so, has honey-brown hair worn in a braid, and an oval face with smooth features.

This is unexpected.

I get a head rush and am nearly dizzy when we part. Must’ve forgotten to breathe or something. Weird. That’s never happened when I’ve kissed a girl and I have plenty of experience. Not that I’m proud of that or anything.

She’s different.

Her hazel eyes pierce mine as if she sees beyond the external—the charming guy with a killer smolder that I show the world to the secretly insecure farm boy who’s still wondering how he got here. Who sometimes wonders whether he belongs.

If looks could fill.

I linger in her gaze for a long moment, etching her image into my mind like one of those old drawing toys filled with silver sand. She has faint freckles and wears dangly earrings that look like Christmas baubles, sparkling when she moves.

So much sweetness and a bit of innocence .

The crowd erupts into arena-level clapping and cheering, hooting my last name and number seventy-four.

I glimpse Richard, red-faced with anger. He slinks away, and I hope this is the last I see of him. But maybe I should be thankful because had he not been a son of a puck, I wouldn’t have met the girl of my dreams. A surge rises inside, seizing my thoughts and leaving me with what feels, smells, and tastes a lot like a sudden crush. I only recognize the sensation because it happened only once before when I was in ninth grade.

She staggers back slightly. “My Knight in an Ugly Christmas Sweater. Guess Chard won’t bother me again. Thank you.”

“My pleasure, milady ,” I say gallantly.

The corner of her mouth lifts in a cute smile. As the moment lengthens, her teeth sink into her lip. I’m about to say something flirty when the situation at hand rapidly comes into focus. What was going through my mind? The guy was harassing her, but it’s like I’m cursed. I can’t step out of my house without having some kind of interaction with a woman, and more than likely, the kiss was captured on camera.

Attempting to be a gentleman rather than be associated with the nickname the Frenchman, I say, “I’d been listening to him hassle women all night. When I saw him approach you, It looked like unwanted attention.” But was mine ?

She presses her hand to her lips and then says, “I should go.”

A deep male voice at my back echoes nearly the same words. “We all should.”

I turn around to find Micah looking unusually stony. The guy is tough but typically pretty cheerful—a ray of sunshine like his last name.

When I turn back to the stranger I just kissed, she disappears into the crowd. I only catch the back of the Knights jersey with the number seventy-four emblazoned across the back.

And my name. My girlfriend.

A sense of warm possession rushes through me when I spot Richard watching her leave as well.

Mine.

Suddenly, the guys on my team flank me as if escorting me away for disorderly conduct. Their silence is grim, but I’m not sure what I did other than rescue the woman from Chard.

They can’t be too mad or surprised. They don’t know what went on in Badaszek’s office earlier. And they’re well aware that flirting and kissing is kind of my thing. If they were so concerned, we shouldn’t have gone to the highest-profile sports establishment in Cobbiton.

I’ll admit, given the Christmas decorations and this sweater, I fitted in rather well.

When we get away from the crowd, tension rolls off my teammates in waves.

“Dude,” Hayden says, voice a growl.

Micah’s lips pucker like he’s holding back saying more.

Ted shakes his head slowly.

Redd runs his hand down his face.

Liam’s nostrils flare.

Of course, Beau remains silent, stoic as always.

“Sorry, not sorry.” I start to explain what happened .

“It’s not that,” Ted says.

“What did I miss this time?” I ask.

When they don’t answer, I turn to our goalie, hoping for an assist, even though that’s not typically his move. “What’s going on?”

Micah mutters, “You’ll find out soon enough.”

And that’s it. They disperse, leaving me standing on the sidewalk in an ugly Christmas sweater in the cold and completely clueless.

Most of the guys live in Cobbiton, but my place is in Omaha proper. Even though it’s a Thursday night, it feels too early to go home, but I head back to my condo anyway, racking my brain, wondering why the guys got so serious.

Is it another bet?

Did I do something wrong?

I pick through the fridge, looking for a snack, but there are only old takeout containers. I flick on the light in the living room, but it’s too bright, like I’m standing alone and naked under a spotlight. Like one of those dreams when I had to deliver a presentation to my high school class but lost my voice.

Flicking on my phone, I watch some sports highlights. My phone beeps with a text.

Before I read it, I snap my fingers. “Ah ha! I get it now.”

Even though I was a season starter with the Knights, the entire day has been a delayed initiation. They wanted to see if I made it through the first few months as a team player. Now, they’re springing some kind of rite of passage on me when I least expect it. The text is probably a cryptic message with instructions to meet them on a rooftop or in an alley with a pizza, a cape, and something else so random it’ll only make sense after the fact. A surge of excitement rushes through me. Finally, answers!

Maybe .

Or not. This is even better. It’s been a long time since I communicated with a woman without subtext and expectations. It’s my text pal.

Girl of My Dreams: I had the strangest night.

Me: You’re not the only one. Do tell . . .

Girl of My Dreams: I won’t bore you with the details, but I was expecting to return home to the house lit up with decorations and my family inside doing Christmassy things. Instead, they went to do the lights drive through Groveland Park. That’s my favorite. Well, one of the holiday activities I love and they know it.

Me: Traitors.

Girl of My Dreams: Our Elf on the Shelf got revenge for me.

Me: My sister’s kids love that tradition.

We exchange a long thread about all sorts of elf shenanigans ranging from the Elf covering the toilet in wrapping paper to making snow angels with powdered sugar to taking a bath with mini marshmallows in the sink.

I only realize I’m smiling wide when I see my reflection in the glass window of my high-rise condo.

Girl of My Dreams: Thanks for the comic relief. Goodnight, Nolan.

I send the sleepyhead emoji and set down my phone. On a yawn, I can’t ignore how refreshing it is to chat with a woman in a friendly way and not have it be a thing. Then I trip over the name Nolan . It’s relatively unique yet familiar. After today, I’m too tired to analyze it. Must’ve been an odd autocorrect. She probably meant Knight or something.

I have to be up early in the morning for practice. I’ll bring my all, not that I ever leave anything on the ice. Despite my reputation, I give the team everything.

As I drift off to sleep, the woman whose lips I kissed earlier floats into my mind. Unlike the other women I’ve hooked up with, I don’t want her image to leave.

The next morning, I’m up with the buzzer, which sounds exactly like the one that lights up the arena when we score. I tap the button on the blinds and they lift, revealing a cloudy morning that washes out the surrounding buildings.

Still in a sleepy haze, the coffee timer turns on and starts percolating. The scent gets me motivated. While the coffee brews, I shower. The day before slides back to me as bubbles form from my body wash. With a chuckle, I let it rinse off because stranger things have happened.

But not better kisses.

That heady feeling I got when kissing my girlfriend makes me dizzy. I must have the water up too hot and turn the knob slightly.

After putting on my workout clothes, I pull out my container of cereal milk—don’t knock it until you try it. Plus, our team nutritionist approved a splash of it in my coffee, so I have Nat’s backing.

I down my first cup of coffee before I take the second cup to go. Ted thinks cereal milk is vile, and I may as well slug slush—not to be confused with a Slushie. Every time I’ve tried to keep it in the team galley fridge, I find it dumped down the sink. At first, I thought it was Nat, but my fellow defenseman was the guilty party. Usually, I check my email and scroll through social media, but my mom calls just before I exit .

“ Bonjour ,” I say, switching to French even though my mother is also fluent in English. She prefers we keep our heritage alive, and I honor that.

In French, she asks how I’m doing, but worry filters into her tone. We chat for a few minutes, and she gives me updates on our family farm, when my siblings and their families are arriving for Christmas, and how she laments I can’t make it this year. She saves the pressure of me finding someone to settle down with for another time because one guilt trip is enough.

Merci, Maman.

Checking the time, I say, “I have to get going.”

It’s not because I want to get off the call. Rather, I’ll drop it in the elevator, and I’ve learned that my mother doesn’t stop talking when I tell her to hold for a minute while I head downstairs, resulting in missing half of what she says—including my brother’s thirtieth birthday plans. Thankfully, he forgave me.

“I hope you have a great day,” she says in French.

“The only downside is I have to wear a hideous Christmas sweater.”

“I know and I love you.”

We say goodbye, and I wonder what she meant when she said, “I know.”

When I hit the down button to get to the basement parking garage, I realize she must be in on this team initiation thing, too. Perhaps the call was intended to slow me down or know exactly when I’ll get to the arena so the guys could get into position to do . . . well, whatever prank they have up their sleeves.

Thankfully, traffic is light, but I sense a heaviness in the air when I reach the locker room. The full team is here today, not just the guys Badaszek usually plays, which means we’re doing the “Running Lines” drill, aka an intense stamina workout. The upcoming Denver Blizzard game is at altitude, so a conditioning prep makes sense .

Redd says, “Badaszek brought doughnuts.”

“That’s a first,” I mutter as my brows knit. Everyone remains quiet. No response. I look around with suspicion. Perhaps this is a tough love practice.

Ted adds, “You should go grab one.”

“Nat would sooner duct tape my mouth shut.”

“It’s the holidays. Go wild,” Micah says in a flat tone.

Hayden murmurs, “That didn’t stop you last night.”

I narrow my eyes, surveying the space. Everyone is accounted for except Hammer. He must be in on this, too, a surprise since the guy doesn’t seem to have a sense of humor. It all must be part of the plan.

“Sure. Okay. I’ll go get a doughnut.” I make an exaggerated wink and waltz out of the locker room.

I pause outside the door, listening. It’s dead silent. There’s another exit, and I anticipate they’ll use it to leave the locker room and execute their ridiculous initiation plan.

I’m onto them!

When I reach the galley, I spot the box of doughnuts containing pillows of fried rings of dough decorated with Christmas icing and sprinkles. To my surprise, they’re only half-picked through. My mouth waters. I can’t remember the last time I had a doughnut. That’s not true. The last time I was home, I snuck a blueberry doughnut. Mom makes the best ones with a light glaze.

As I exit to the hallway, guilt punches me in the gut because if Nat sees me with a doughnut, not only will he slap it out of my hand, but he’ll make me play hockey with it in place of a puck. Doughnuts are not part of the nutrition plan.

Peering around to make sure I’m alone, I sneak one bite of the doughnut because I can’t very well let it go to waste.

Oh, sugary, doughy goodness !

From down the hall, a door opens. “Thanks for the doughnuts,” hollers Jenny, our equipment manager’s assistant.

She eyes me and then scurries away as another woman exits Badaszek’s office. My blood runs cold as a woman wearing a red scarf exits. Her eyes widen as she passes.

My mouth goes dry . . . because she and I kissed last night.

My coach calls, “See you at home, McMann.”

“Don’t be late, we want to decorate the tree, Dadaszek,” she replies.

Forget guilt, my stomach plunges and my appetite drops off the side of the earth.

Another woman who looks identical to “McMann” but wearing a dark green coat and purple hat follows. “I’m making cocoa with a full toppings bar. Calvin insists on including bananas. I think he’s gone bananas.”

“Bannanna, chocolate, peanut butter, and bananas are a perfect trio. I’d give it a try,” Badaszek says, following the two women out of the office.

Did I hear him correctly?

“You’re just as bad as him,” Bannanna says with a laugh.

My brow rumples so deeply, I’m afraid it’s going to fold in on itself. Perhaps I’ve fallen into a black hole or traveled to an alternate universe. Questions fly at me like meteors. How are there two of them? Why are they here? Who are McMann and Bannanna? Did one of them call Coach Dadaszek ?

For the third time in the last twenty-four hours, I’m desperate to understand what’s going on. Most importantly, why are there two of the women I kissed last night? Yet, I can hardly believe that either one of them is her.

The doughnut is poisonous. Or I got hit in the head with a puck, am in a coma, and this is a strange hallucination. I got it! This is part of the initiation. Yeah, that’s it. The guys are messing with me .

Then, a vague memory slams into my mind. One of these women is the same one who gave her number to Nolan. Girl of My Dreams wrote Goodnight, Nolan . If that’s her, then why was she texting me?

I’ve bypassed confusion. I stagger backward, the doughnut limp in my hand.

Like a shark spotting prey in the water, Badaszek whips his head in my direction. His glare is unmistakable. “Arsenault, my office. Now.”

As if sensing danger, the two women scurry down the hall, each of them casting a concerned look over their shoulders, but it’s not directed at me.

I’ve been skating since I learned how to walk, but right now, it’s the latter I’ve forgotten how to do. From this vantage point above the arena, I spot the guys gathering on the ice for practice as Vohn gives instructions. I should be down there.

What gives? What’s going on?

Badaszek disappears into his office, and I follow, wishing there was somewhere I could stash the doughnut. Despite how eager I was to eat it before, my stomach is a rock in a pit of tar.

Coach occupies his commander’s chair, and a figure fills one of the two leather guest seats opposite his desk.

“Sit,” he orders.

I obey, lowering slowly, but then I remember this is some kind of set up so I relax, crossing my ankle over my knee. Glancing up, I nearly fall out of the chair even though I’m seated.

I am seeing triple. There are three of them. The woman I kissed last night doubled. And why is she in my coach’s office?

“If this is about last night. I didn’t mean?—”

“Then you acknowledge that you’ve met,” Badaszek says.

Her gaze slides to me and searches my eyes, drawing mine up, down, and all around as the kiss comes back in full and inappropriate detail while seated across from Coach.

Never mind endurance drills, my pulse sets a new record.

“Yeah, of course,” she says, voice faltering.

He eyes the fried pastry with red, green, and white sprinkles in my hand, and says, “Badaszek, it was thoughtful of you to bring doughnuts for everyone this morning, but that’s not going to change what happened.”

“I always bring doughnuts when I visit. It’s my thing, Dadaszek,” she says in a sweetly familiar voice.

I press my head into my hands and rub my face. When I straighten, I open and close my mouth. “I don’t understand. Why’d you call her—?” I go abruptly silent as everything slides into focus. We’ll go with the puck-to-the-head theory because I’ve been awfully slow picking up on what’s going on.

Coach calls everyone by their last name. Apparently, including his daughters, who are triplets. Ted mentioned two are married—McMann and Bannanna, leaving Badaszek with her maiden name. This can only mean one thing.

I kissed my coach’s daughter last night.

This could result in suspension from the team. I can’t be certain about my contract, but it’s an unspoken rule. The coach’s daughter is off-limits. I tell myself it was a one-off thing. Never going to happen again. I’d never seen her until last night. Probably won’t ever see her again.

My eyes are dry from not blinking.

Then they land on Badaszek—the woman, not my coach. I regret that I kissed her, but only because I did so before knowing her name. I can’t very well think of her as having the same one as the guy who puts me through my paces on the ice.

Her eyes catch mine. A lingering moment when I hold my breath passes between us. When she breaks contact, she stares at her hands. My stomach churns, but then I remember her lips, filled with promise. The way they curved against mine and the rush that resulted.

“What do you have to say for yourself, Arsenault?” Coach barks.

Recalling the lie that spewed out of my mouth when I sat in this very chair yesterday, I think fast. Grab a shovel and dig my hole deeper. Who knows, maybe I’ll find treasure down here.

“Coach, this is who I was telling you about. My, um, unrequited love.”

Her jaw lowers.

His tightens.

“I knew you wouldn’t approve. I’m sorry. I let you down.” I’m letting myself down by lying, but it all pours out with nowhere to go but down like a big puddle of drool because Coach Badaszek’s daughter is beautiful. I’m not too far gone along the proverbial player road to know she’s entirely off-limits, but if last night offers me an assist to not lose this game, I’ll take it.

However, I send any desire, inclination, or even an itch in my hockey skates—to repeat the kiss from last night straight into the penalty box.

In other words, I’m going to save my spot on the team even if it means using the coach’s daughter as cover, but I can’t let there be a repeat kiss—a repeat of anything—even though I want to see her in my jersey again more than anything.