“Romance novels?” Hayden howls.
Redd mimes tearing off his shirt. “Like the ones with the shirtless lover boys on the covers?”
“Historical Western romance. She’s quite successful,” Nina responds primly, if not a bit defensively.
My mind reels with this information. Bree writes romance novels. The serious journalism student who once grilled me about hockey scholarships and pay gaps in college sports now makes her living writing about ... love? There’s something ironic, poetic, and perfect about that.
And if she kissed me under the mistletoe with wild abandon, that must mean she’s single.
The plot thickens.
I’m not sure how—maybe a dash of theater magic—but within minutes, everyone finds out about our mistletoe moment. And I do mean everyone—from the Nebraska Knights volunteers to the Nannas sewing costumes to the sound engineer who plays a kissing song playlist over the PA system.
I try to play it cool, however, my neck and ears must be as red as the Santa hat worn at the charity game the other day.
Two hours later, I’m at the Fish Bowl with the guys, half-listening to them argue about power play formations while my mind repeatedly drifts to Bree.
This is our local joint, and I make myself at home even though half the menu is off-limits due to the team nutritionist, Nat, and his strict dietaryregimen.
The Fish Bowl is family-friendly until shortly after dark, when it becomes a hockey hub. We’re still early, but that doesn’t stop Pierre from tossing a piece of popcorn at Jack after the latter commented on a lousy slap shot at our last game. The one I didn’t play in because I fancied myself a rockstar one night on the stage, only several feet away from where I sit now. Moving forward, I will conduct thorough background checks on all potential women I date to be sure they’re single.
Except Bree.
The jukebox plays “A Holly Jolly Christmas,” and they dialed up the décor with big old-fashioned Christmas bulbs draped along the perimeter walls, along with a jumble of hockey memorabilia. They went retro with metallic, holographic vintage Christmas decorations dangling from the stained-glass lights suspended over each table. Faux snow drifts paint the windows. The scent of fried food and popcorn makes me wish I weren’t committed to staying fit for when Badaszek lets me back on the ice.
“Seriously, what is up with you tonight?” Mikey asks.
“You look like you’re skating through gravy.” Pierre reaches for a French fry from the basket in the middle of the table, disregarding Nat’s protocol.
“Is it because Badaszek didn’t formally announce you’re off injury leave?” Liam asks.
I shrug. “Just tired.”
“Tired of being single,” Jack says.
“I knew it was about the girl,” Grady says without letting me answer our team captain’s question.
“Tell us more about theromancewriter.” Jake Twiles waggles his eyebrows.
“We had a moment in college, that’s all.” Sort of.
“A moment? Or THE moment?” Mikey presses.
If I know anything about my teammates, it’s that they won’trelent until I crack. Seeing as this is where the jawbreaker incident took place, I don’t want to risk any more fractured bones.
Pressing my palms to the table, I plan to lay it out in brief without giving them enough rope to hang me. “Back in college, she interviewed me for the school paper. It was my first big game after being named captain. I was riding high, showing off. She asked where I saw myself in ten years, and I said something stupid.”
“Something stupid like—?” Jack lets the question dangle.
Taking a breath, I tell them, “I told her, ‘I’m going to marry you someday.’” I mumble the last part, but it’s an exact quote.
“Those sound like famous last words,” Grady says.
“Smooth.” Robo snorts.
“It became this whole thing. Took on a life of its own. People teased her about being ‘Mrs. Hockey Captain’ for weeks. I tried to apologize, but she avoided me after that, so I, uh, kinda owned it.” Took every chance I had to repeat those words. I cringe now even though, for a minute, I’d wished it were true. There was something about her—she was a brunette bombshell in a Lois Lane kind of way: smart, feisty, and she teased me with the challenge of pursuit.
Not that I was worthy of her back then.
