Back where it all started. Back where it all fell apart.
If I’m lucky, maybe I'll figure out who the hell I’m supposed to be now that I’m not Clay Barlowe, NHL defenseman.
And if not? Well…at least I’ll know I tried before walking away for good.
The kitchen smells like coffee and cinnamon when I walk in after lunch with Liam. Mom’s at the table, phone in one hand and recipe cards spread out in front of her, already planning the holiday meals.
“There you are,” she says, setting her phone down and looking up at me. Her eyes brighten instantly, that familiar spark telling me she’s been waiting to drop news I probably don’t want. “I just got off the phone with Lisa St. James. Can you believe it? We’ll all be at the lodge together this year. Finally.”
I stop halfway to the counter, my stomach knotting. I know where this is going before she even says the name.
“And Tessa,” she adds with a little clap, like she’s announcing a surprise guest on some talk show. “Lisa said she’ll be there too. Isn’t that wonderful? It’s been years, Clay. It’s been too long since all of you kids were under one roof for Christmas.”
Her excitement bubbles over so easily that I almost feel guilty for the weight that drops into my chest. Almost.
I keep my face neutral, or at least I try. “Yeah.Great.”
She doesn’t notice the edge in my voice. She never does when she’s on a roll. “I can’t tell you how happy I am. I was beginning to think those traditions were over for good, but maybe this year will feel like old times.”
Old times.I nearly laugh. Old times were simple—snowball fights in the yard that left our gloves soaked through, stockings lined up by the fire with our names embroidered in red thread, and family dinners that lasted until midnight with too much pie and too much noise.
But old times ended the second I kissed Tessa St. James against the hallway wall, her mouth hot and desperate under mine, my hands tangled in her hair. Everything shifted in one heartbeat, and the following morning, I had to watch heropen the ring Evan had gotten her, like the night before never happened at all. Like I’d imagined the whole damn thing.
I clear my throat, forcing the memory back into the shadows where it belongs. “I’ll be landing a little late. I’ve gotta fly back to Kolmont for that coaching interview.”
Mom blinks at me, startled. “You got the interview?” Her whole face softens with pride. “That’s wonderful, honey. Tessa will be arriving late too. She has finals to wrap up before she can leave. Maybe you’ll even be flying with her—” She breaks off with a laugh, reaching for her coffee like she can’t help herself. “Oh, wouldn’t that be something?”
I grunt, dropping into the chair across from her. The wood creaks under my weight, and the steam from her mug curls between us. Flying with Tessa? Christ. It’s been years since I’ve seen her, but the thought of sitting shoulder to shoulder on a plane, close enough to breathe the same air, pretending I don’t remember the last time we were alone together… yeah, no thanks.
The truth is, I remember it well. Too damn well. The burn of vodka sharp in my nose, the feel of her body pressed against mine, the way her lips parted when I asked if it was wrong. The way her eyes said it wasn’t, even when her voice never did. It’s haunted me every holiday since, carved itself into the quiet moments when I’m too tired to bury the memory.
I’ve managed to stay away from her. Away from the St. James family altogether. It was safer that way.
But this year? There’s no avoiding it.
She’ll be there. And I’ll have to look her in the eye, knowing the last time we crossed paths, I had her pinned against the wall, her breath mingling with mine like she wanted me just as much as I wanted her.
And I’ll have to act like none of it ever happened.
***
The air smells like cinnamon and peppermint mochas—because apparently, everything has to smell like Christmas. The airport is packed. People bump shoulders, dragging overstuffed suitcases and crinkling gift bags. Kids in elf hats run wild while their parents yell after them. A guy in a Santa sweater hums off-key to the carols playing, like the noise isn’t bad enough already.
It’s chaos, but the kind people smile through.
Me? I cut straight toward the rental counter. Get in, get out, get to the interview. That’s the plan.
The girl behind the desk has a strand of garland wrapped around her monitor and a candy cane tucked into her bun. She beams when I step up, like this job hasn’t worn her down yet. “Name?”
“Barlowe. Clay.”
Her nails—red with little snowflakes painted on them—tap across the keyboard. “Perfect, it looks like you reserved your rental online. I just need you to fill this out, and I’ll get your keys.”
She slides a clipboard across the counter. I pick up the pen, the cheap plastic thing bending under my grip, and fish my wallet out of my jacket. I’m halfway through signing when my phone buzzes in my pocket.
Of course. Mom probably tracked my flight and saw I landed thirty seconds ago. I yank it out, bracing for her voice, but the screen shows a number with a local area code.
“Hello?” I say, more bark than greeting, tucking the phone between my shoulder and ear as I hand over my ID.
