“The best players know not to blame the ice when they mess up.”
I snapped my mouth closed, realizing this wasn’t just a usual check-in.
Coach fixed me with his famous stare-down, and went on. “You’re a beast out there. I don’t need to tell ya. But somethingyou might not know since you’re only a season and a half into this… No player’s beyond warming my bench, so you better watch yourself. I won’t have that kind of attitude on the ice.”
“There’s no attitude, Coach.”
“I didn’t ask for your input, Cross.” He glared at me, arms folded. “Now get your ass to the locker and gear down.”
He couldn’t see my smile as I started down the tunnel, helmet under one arm. Bench? Yeah, right.
3
Nicole
I felt like crying. If I didn’t have just over two hours to pull this off, I would’ve cried. Instead, I squinted at the recipe for marry-me yams again and tried to figure out what the first step was. For the tenth time.
Our one day off in months, and I had everyone coming over to celebrate. There was the holiday too, of course. We were a bunch of rejects with nowhere else to go on Thanksgiving, not even a hockey game. I wanted it to be perfect.
My kitchen looked like a war zone. Flour dusted the counter in uneven snowdrifts, the sink groaned under the weight of dishes, and the turkey… the turkey.
I turned around and was met with a blank square on the oven door where moments ago there was a promising yellow glow. A light that showed me things were moving along on schedule.
“You’ve got to be kidding me.”
I touched a palm to the door. Nothing. Pulled it open, and my heart sank before my brain fully caught on to what had happened. No rush of hot air. No sizzling sign the bird was doing the thing I needed it to do. I pushed the buttons and tried the dial, but nope. It was totally dead.
“Shit. Shit, shit, shit.”
Heart hammering, I gave in to the quiver of tears that had been threatening. I was gonna have to present this uncooked monstrosity to my friends after promising them the dinner of the year. Now all I could think of was the mocking messages that would undoubtedly fill our group chat for the next few weeks.
Then, as I stared into the cold, dark failure in the belly of my oven, something struck me.
Like some sort of divine culinary intervention, a plan clicked into place.
I slipped on my oven mitts and grabbed the bird, leaving myself no time at all to reconsider this hairbrained idea as I rushed out my front door and swung a hard right.
Maybe this was insane. MaybeIwas insane to think it qualified as any kind of viable solution.
But this was what neighbors were for, right?
Hands full, my only option was to kick his door.
A few seconds of silence, then the sound of lazy footsteps gradually grew closer. The handle rattled, and I held my breath. This was it. If I changed my mind now, he’d see me running back into my apartment like an idiot, and then I’d have to live with that embarrassment on top of a ruined Friendsgiving dinner.
There was no time to think about the fact that I was wearing my Hello Kitty pajamas and an apron that said “Kiss the chef”, because the door swung open and the world stopped spinning.
Landon Cross. Shirtless. Sweats slung criminally low, hair sticking out at an improbable angle, like he’d just been pulled from a nap. Shit. My brain short-circuited, leaving me with nothing but a mental Out of Order sign, flashing in my head.
“Hat girl, right?” His Bostonian accent wrapped around his words, making me want to lick them clean out of his mouth.
The warmth that shot to my cheeks was the worst betrayal I’ve ever suffered as I stood there, blinking at him. And also staring. Blinking and staring. I was familiar with the full sleeve of tattoos on his right arm, so it was the star on his left pectoral that caught my attention. That, and the rustic ribbon inked around it, blank spaces where names would usually go.
Another thing, I realized without an ounce of guilt or shame, that I wanted to lick.
My mouth wanted to form words, but the only thing that escaped the riot in my head was a pathetic squeak.
He breathed a little laugh, and I shook my head abruptly. Friendsgiving. Turkey. I only had a couple of hours to make everything perfect. This wasn’t the time for getting caught up in his mouthwatering physique or his tattoos or that smug look on his face that said he knew exactly what I was thinking.
