Chapter 6

CHAPTER SIX

When Badaszek’s daughter left the office earlier, he gave me an earful about honor and respect.

I was raised right, so I know all that. But I’ll admit that I’ve let things in my reputation get a little out of hand.

However, I wasn’t lying when I said Cara was pretty, smart, or funny. And I’m keeping the promises I made.

Coach has no problem working me out hard and putting me through my paces with forecheck drills, edgework, and the most mind-numbing puck-scooping reps ever.

I was already on thin ice from yesterday when Coach told me to clean up my act. It’s a small miracle that I’m laced up and out here.

We seamlessly sold the story of how I’m in love with her and how she’s busy studying to become a lawyer. As I gazed into Cara’s big hazel eyes, I saw a flicker. For a moment, it felt true.

But what bothered me most about what Coach Badaszek said is that he made the right choice in not making me Santa—Claus since he calls everyone, even the jolly man in the red suit, by their last name. Even his daughter, who I learned is Cara.

Cara. Cara Badaszek.

It’s a pretty name for a pretty woman. I give my head a shake, and it rattles in my helmet.

Sure, yesterday, I wouldn’t have objected to some cute female fans sitting on my lap and telling me what they want for Christmas. Today, there’s only one thing, er, person, on my wish list. But that’s the worst idea ever, and I’ve had plenty of those over the years.

There was the bulk Twizzler incident. The rental car race. The jacuzzi and Jell-o.

Quick Hands, aka Lemon, circles, ripping the puck from my control and passing it to Redd.

Vohn bellows my name, and it’s like an avalanche rushes toward me. Not because I biffed the shot. Rather, what not being good enough to play Santa says about my character.

Is sub-Santa who I want to be? I rock back in my skates as my gaze drifts beyond the glass to a figure sitting in the VIP box.

I drag in a breath.

What is Cara doing back here?

When I miss a slot pass, the guys boo. Vohn orders me to do a dozen Dom-Doms. It sounds an awful lot like Dumb Dumb , but it stands for Dominate or Domino and is a pushup punishment for being an idiot. Yes, in skates and gloves. Yep, also on the ice. You either dom inate the exercise or you fall like a dom ino. When I’m done, he’s not satisfied and has me do a few laps.

When I whiz past Cara, she’s gazing at a notepad, pencil scratching across the paper. I do another lap. This time, with her head tilted slightly, her teeth sink into her lip as she studies whatever is on the paper. She’d be in the perfect position for a kiss if I just lifted her chin ever so slightly . . . and weren’t being made an example for being distracted and dumb on the other side of the boards.

After the visit to Badaszek’s office, I don’t imagine she’ll want a replay of last night. But I wouldn’t mind. Not at all.

Kissing Cara gave me a head rush unlike anything I’ve ever experienced. We won’t discuss my past because, as far as I’m concerned, I’d like to erase it from the record. Nothing and no one compares. Not even a close second. If kissing can be like that, I’ll be kiss-less forevermore unless she gives me another chance.

Badaszek did. But I can’t imagine Cara will, given the comment about how things won’t work between us. What if I want to be boyfriend material?

I haven’t had that desire since I lived the farm boy life up north and didn’t know any different. Then I took on the role of Prince Charming and never stopped playing it, but the script feels old and tired—and not because I’m drenched with sweat under my uniform. I don’t think it fits anymore—the part as Prince Charming, not the uniform.

No one is taking away my cereal milk or my jersey!

As I slide by a third time, fully saturated with sweat, and Cara doesn’t so much as look up at me, I realize I’m being ridiculous. High on my own supply. It’s time for me to return to solid ground and forget about kissing Cara under the Merry Kiss Me arch in town.

New plan. I’m going cold turkey on women. But I could go for some of that turkey-cranberry salad Nat makes for the team. It’s like Christmas dinner, sandwich style.

That’s my singular focus after Vohn reams me out. I shower, change into street clothes, and head to the team galley.

I check to see if there are any more messages from My Dream Girl because maybe we could meet. As friends. She seems fun and not single-mindedly clingy like the puck bunnies. Maybe she could help me sort fantasy from reality.

Perhaps I should petition Coach Badaszek and request that they be denied access to the team. That might help my situation and prove that I’m Claus-worthy.

Lost in thought and texting, I collide with someone. A bunch of stuff clatters to the floor.

My apology at the ready because I’m guilty of texting and walking, a sweet baby powder scent meets my nose.

It’s Cara.

Something flickers inside. “Sorry, I was just texting a friend, asking about where the best place to get a tree is in Cobbiton.” That sounds wholesome and cannot be misconstrued as flirting, which will both keep me from getting booted off the team and is a little more like the guy I was before being a hockey hottie—puck bunny term, not mine—went to my head.

“You were what?” she asks slowly, palming her phone.

I scramble to pick up a couple of notebooks and a tin of pencils, then pass them to her. Our hands graze, sending the hall slightly off-axis.

“Getting a Christmas tree,” I clarify.

“Me too.”

“You too what?” Confusion dents my brow.

“I was texting someone about getting a tree.”

“’Tis the season,” I say.

We stare at each other for a long moment as the conversation I’d struck up with My Dream Girl lines up like a row of evergreens.

“No,” I say slowly.

“No,” she repeats.

“Text pal?” I ask, afraid to hear the answer.

Her lips part. “Nolan?”

I tilt my head, giving it a shake. “The Zamboni driver? Sorry. My mistake. I’m just texting a friend. It’s not outside the bounds I made about my promise.”

Unblinking, Cara says, “That was my sister.”

I frown when I remember the triplets parading out of Badaszek’s office.

She explains how her sister pretended to be her and struck up a conversation with Nolan. “She snuck onto Dad’s phone and forwarded the number, but it must’ve been the wrong one.”

I rub the space between my eyebrows. It seems like Cara and I have been on a collision course. “Nolan Arscott. Pierre Arsenault. Easy-ish mistake to make.”

“So we’ve been texting?” Cara asks, dumbfounded.

I ring my hand behind my neck. “I guess so.”

She gives the middle distance a side-eye. “What sorcery is this?”

“I think it’s a series of coincidences.”

“Seems like something that has my sisters’ names written all over it.”

“I was thinking it was a team initiation. But maybe it was a happy accident that they set you up on a blind date with Richard and on a text date with Nolan, aka me.”

“But that’s the problem. You’re you.”

I slouch backward, not used to women pushing me away, instead of dragging me with painted nails into their clutches. Not that I objected . . . until now.

She winces. “I didn’t mean it like that. On paper, you and I aren’t—what I mean is, you have a reputation and I don’t. My sisters call me the innocent one. The brainy one.”

I chuckle. “Are you saying I’m dumb?”

She waves her hands. “No, nothing like that. But I’ve now seen the types of women you usually date. I’m not like them.”

Does she mean she’s more gorgeous? Gorgeouser? Cara’s physique is alluring. Her eyes are captivating. Her nose, adorable. Her lips, irresistible.

“The internet would beg to differ. The photos were pretty—” I make an explosion gesture.

As if trying to talk herself out of something, she says, “We’re too different. Opposites.”

I counter, “Maybe that’s what would make it work.”

“Don’t try your charms on me, mister.” She pokes me in the abs and springs back.

It tickles and sends a surge straight to my head, giving me a rush. I rock on my heels and can’t help but chuckle again. “Speaking of paper, what were you doing?”

“I’m in a graduate program to become a concept artist for video game design. My homework over break is to sketch live action.” She claps her hand over her mouth. Eyes wide, she says, “You did not hear a word of what I just said.”

“About you not studying law?” I quickly piece together that what her father thinks she’s getting a degree in and what she’s doing out in Los Angeles are two different things.

“I’ve been a student all my life, following expectations, what my family and peers thought I ought to do, become a doctor, a historian, a lawyer . . . I’m good with information, but it’s not what I enjoy.” Her voice is tiny when she adds that last part.

“Not so innocent after all.” My voice is a little husky.

She lifts her gaze to meet mine. “Apparently not.”

This brings to mind the fabrication we devised earlier. “Thanks for covering for me. You didn’t have to. I’m a big boy. I would’ve dealt with the repercussions.”

“Have you met my father?”

“In fact, I’ve been in his office every day for a month straight.”

“I’m shocked you’re still on the team.”

“I’d agree, but I’m an exceptional defenseman.” My mother would wash the smug smile off my face.

“Don’t be modest or anything.”

“Never am.”

“Nope. Not last night, but also thank you for rescuing me from Chard,” she says, eyes twinkling.

Cara and I might be different, but the seriousness mirrored in our expressions cracks ever so slightly. “To be clear, I didn’t know who you were. Certainly not my coach’s daughter. Believe it or not, I do have rules. Some boundaries. That isn’t one I would’ve crossed.” Never mind the fact that by some undeserved blessing, this should have been a career penalty.

“My father knows I’d never date a hockey player.”

“Why’s that? Too much brawn? Not enough brain?” I tap my temple.

“No, nothing like that.” Her shoulder lifts, and she gazes at the ground. I know the look. Someone hurt her.

Fire burns inside. Loser Billy Wagner had his way with my sister before he ditched her. Not that I think of Cara as a sister, but I’m upfront about my intentions. No attachments. No commitment. The puck bunnies know this and they’d agree to it. Except Cecilia.

Grinding my teeth, I ask Cara, “Who was it? Would I know him? I’ll take my stick and?—”

“Ricky never went beyond the AHL and is now behind a desk in Lincoln, probably hating himself.”

“Sounds like that’s what he deserves.”

She puffs her cheeks on an exhale as if that’s still a sore spot. “Definitely.”

“I’m sorry someone hurt you.” I would never, could never hurt this woman. Not so much as a hair on her head.

Our gazes catch and linger for long enough for me to get that fuzzy inner rush .

Footsteps squeak as someone approaches. We both stiffen.

Clearing her throat as if preparing to give a monologue on stage, Cara says, “I appreciate your apology. I don’t think it’s a good idea for us to try to be friends, though.”

Miguel Martinez, the DPD, Director of Player Development, who reports to Badaszek, walks toward us.

Hanging my head, and in a low voice in case this gets back to the coach, I run cover, “I understand. I respect your wishes. I just hope you find a guy worthy of someone as stunning, sweet, and smart as you are, amour .”

Her gaze flits to mine as if approving of my delivery. “That’s just it. I’m intentionally single, focusing on my studies.”

Nodding, I add, “Since we’ll both be in this building, it’ll be hard to avoid each other, but we’ll keep our distance. I hope you have a Merry Christmas.”

“And bah humbug to you too,” she adds as Miguel turns the corner and out of earshot.

We both droop against the wall, wearing smiles of relief. Before I sputter with laughter, Cara grabs me by the shirt and drags me into the nearest closet, peering into the hall before quietly closing the door behind us.

We break down in silent laughter.

I whisper, “I have to admit, we make a great team and I know a thing or two about that.”

“Are you referring to the Knights or dating?”

“Honestly, the former, but the latter works too.”

She tilts her head, eyebrows lifting as if surprised by my word choice. “Brawn and brains.”

The corner of my lips curl with a charming smile. “I’m here to impress, amour .”

“That’s what I want to talk about.”

“So, you do want to kiss again? ”

She bites her lip and shakes her head as she shifts closer. “No. Yes. Listen.”

I lift my hands and then drop them, feeling oddly clumsy and not at all like Prince Charming. “I am all ears.”

She glances around at the shelves filled with hockey equipment. “I thought this was an office, and we could make a deal.”

“The best kinds of deals have been made in supply closets.”

She wrings her hands. “I don’t know what that means. And that’s the problem. I’m deficient in the art and science of flirting. Okay. Here goes. I’ll pretend to be your one true love and you’re pining over me. I’ll pretend to despise you and?—”

“Despise is a strong word.”

“Loathe, abhor.”

“Hey, I rescued you from Chard. Maybe show a little love.” I cross my arms in front of my chest, wondering where this is going.

“Fair enough. How about I dislike you and want distance from you?”

“It’s a fine line because I don’t want your father to get his hackles up.”

“I wish I could say his bark is worse than his bite, but that’s not true.”

“So why would you need to dislike me?” I ask.

“Badaszek.”

“You?”

“No, my father. The one who has your career in his hands. The one who didn’t let you dress up as Santa.”

I wince. “How’d you know about that?”

“It’s a Knights tradition that the newbie to the team gets the honor, and trust me, it’s an honor. For him not to let you be Claus, you must be close to getting erased from his list.”

My cheeks puff on an exhale. “I gathered that. By the way, do the guys do any kind of initiation? Hazing? Secret society stuff?”

“I wouldn’t know.” She wears a smile that suggests having been around the team her whole life, she’s heard otherwise.

I brace myself anew.

“If you want to prove to my father that you’ve changed, you have to temporarily pretend that I’m the girl you can’t get over and keep that promise you made by staying away from other women.”

“That’s what I’ve been doing, but it seems risky.” On multiple levels. Falling for her wouldn’t be hard. Heck, I’m on both feet, and I already feel like I’m tripping.

“If we can pull this off, you’ll have cleaned up your reputation as far as my father is concerned, and I’ll no longer live in fear of the third date.”

“What do you mean?”

Her throat bobs on a swallow and she glances at her hands. “Until the Merry Kiss Me moment, I’d never been kissed.”

I narrow my eyes. “I find that hard to believe.”

She looks up with surprise. “I’ve gotten a smooch on the cheek. A peck on the lips and slightly slobbered on. But not a proper kiss. Not like that. A real one. The kind that makes me understand what the fuss is all about.”

I can’t quite wrap my head around the fact that I was Cara’s first kiss, but I’m a little puffed up, too. For whatever reason, she waited and I’ll admit it was an honor that she let me be her first. I have hockey awards and some shiny stats to write home about, but this feels like a big deal, especially because Cara is so beautiful, smart, and discerning.

The corner of my lip quirks. “Do you mean to say you didn’t have to go through a lot of frogs to find a prince?”

A giggle escapes and she playfully swats me. “My sisters are trying to find me someone to date—Nolan and Richard to start. Even though they’re married and changed their last names, they’re still Badaszeks at their core.”

“I take that to mean the three of you are a force to be reckoned with.”

She shakes her head slowly and gazes at the floor. “I didn’t get that gene.”

“Yet here we are.” I gesture to the inches between us in the narrow supply closet and that she’s devising a master plan to deceive her father, my coach, and evade her siblings’ matchmaking quest.

“Considering you’re not actually boyfriend material, Richard was a dud, Nolan was non-existent, and the few guys from the past—never mind—this is probably boring to you.”

“I’ve never been more intrigued in my life.” This woman mesmerizes me, makes me feel like I’m skating on sunshine.

She shifts her weight and lets out a shaky breath. “I’ve never told anyone, but it was easy to talk to Not-Nolan, so it should be easy to tell you. I have a rule. I don’t kiss on the first date . . . or the second or third.”

A pit forms in my stomach because that’s all it seems like the women who flock to me want. To kiss and stuff. But Cara is different. Lately, part of me wants more. Do I want her? “A physical connection is good, but it’s not everything.”

She balks. “Says the Frenchman.”

“I hate that you know that about me. The truth is, I’m a bit of a hot mess. But that’s behind me. I’ve turned over a new, um, puck?”

She snickers. “That makes two of us. Sort of. If we inverted our respective situations, I kind of worked myself into a corner. It all started with Ricky. On the first date, we hugged. Second, a kiss on the cheek. The third—” she clears her throat, face reddening .

“Oh, now you have to tell me,” I say, gathering it’s a juicy story.

“It was prom night, and we went to an Asian fusion restaurant in Omaha. Trying to be fancy, I said I wanted to order a fruity drink—the kind with an umbrella and frills. I had to use the bathroom, so Ricky ordered what I thought was a mocktail. Let’s just say I got silly and then sick. I’ve never looked at pineapple the same way again. Later that night, my sisters caught him making out with Dawn Edwards in the back of his PT Cruiser.”

For some people, a situation like that might be a regular Friday night. Others might take some time to process it and let go. By the strain in Cara’s voice and the pain in her eyes, it was beyond humiliating and affirmed stories she’s told herself about how desirable she is. The idea of her hurting or not seeing her beauty makes my chest crater.

I gently pinch her chin in my hand, lifting her gaze to mine. Then, I brush my thumb across Cara’s lower lip. “Ricky didn’t deserve you.”

Her eyes dip and when she glances up at me they turn heavy. My breath stills.

Swallowing, she says, “Back to the plan, I’ll continue to pretend to be the girl you can’t get over and make sure my dad knows how wonderful you are even though I don’t like you . . . if you give me kissing lessons.”

I snap out of my haze. “What? No way.”

She steps back, expression slack. “You’re a first-class flirt and kisser. You can show me the ways. Do you see what you did just now? I was like butter in your hands.”

The quaking inside tells me it was real. I wasn’t playing the role of Prince Charming or affirming my reputation as the Frenchman.

“Seems risky,” I say, running the plays in my mind .

“You’re a defenseman, an enforcer, not the kind of guy who shrinks from danger.”

“True.” I can’t deny the grin that builds inside at the prospect of kissing Cara again.

“I’ll pretend to hate you so no one gets suspicious.”

“That seems extreme.”

“So you’ll do it?”

I counter, “As long as you upgrade me from hated to tolerated.”

“Would kissing someone you think hates you be hard?”

“Extremely.” This whole thing seems like it’ll be difficult. Has Bad Idea written all over it. Well, except for being with Cara.

“Okay, so we’ll just carry on with breakup status. You’ll pine. I’ll be aloof. Deal?” She holds out her hand for me to shake.

Our palms press together. Warmth shoots through me and I get another head rush at her touch.

Cara adds, “No one can know about this. Thank you for being my knight in shining armor.”

I raise an eyebrow.

“That’s what my sister used as your contact, thinking it was Nolan.”

“More like a Knight in an Ugly Christmas Sweater,” I say.

A slow smile of realization rises on Cara’s lips. “Wait. You called me Dream Girl.”

“Because you’re funny, smart, and have a great personality. Not a damsel in distress.”

“Do you get a lot of those?” She drops back. “Oh, right. Last night. Me.”

“And I’d do it all over again, protecting you against the Chards of the world.” My lips quirk.

Her cheeks turn pink and she giggles. “Thanks again. ”

“My pleasure.”

She grips the doorknob. “We’ll exit separately. Count to fifty and then make sure the coast is clear. I’ll text soon.”

Notebooks in hand, she disappears, leaving me alone in the supply closet.

Despite what Cara may think, given my reputation, she does know how to kiss. The one we shared last night was remarkable. Unforgettable.

Does going along with this, if only to get away with kissing her again, make me a bad person? If so, I don’t want to be good. Santa can send me straight to the South Pole, or whatever it is he does with people who’re on the naughty list.