Me. She’s talking about me.
She pats my shoulder. I grit my teeth. She’s the only person I have ever met that can anger me with a compliment. “Thanks but this talented defenseman wants the decorations dusted.”
She casually walks over to her desk. “You’re welcome to go above my head.”
I know that will do no good. She’s a total goody-two-shoes rule follower. If she says she has approval, she does. So instead, I huff and say, “Why are you so into the holidays?”
“Why are you so out of them?” She counters my question with her own.
I open my mouth but nothing comes out. I don’t know this woman, and I’m not about to share personal details with her. So instead, I turn and stomp my way back to the elevators, trying to come to terms with the fact that I’m going to have to endure another holiday season full of sparkle and joy and all that other crap. I swear she turns up her stupid Christmas music when I storm off because I hear it all the way down the hall.
Chapter 2
Felicity
What is his deal? I have been trying to figure that out since I started working for the Comets and ended up in an elevator with him first thing in the morning on my first day. I was on my way to HR to fill out a mountain of paperwork. I was nervous but excited and feeling happy and blessed that this job fell into my lap after some pretty massive…well, let’s just call them hiccups in my life. I stepped into the elevator, and every nerve ending in my body took notice of him. He was in gray sweats, low on his hips, and a tank top, with a towel around his neck, skin glistening as it wrapped tightly around muscle upon muscle.
I smiled at him and said. “Good morning!”
He looked confused, so I said it in French because some of the players were French and maybe he was one of them. Because of that fact I learned while researching hockey for my job interview, I brushed up on some basic phrases. But as soon as I said. “Bon Matin” he rolled his eyes. “I understood you the first time,” he said, his annoyance clear. “Yeah. Hi.”
And then the elevator doors pinged and he motioned for me to exit before him, which would have been chivalrous if he wasn’t doing it with a frown on his face. He limped out after me, and I later found out he was heading up to HR to sign some paperwork to go on leave because he had a torn tendon in his knee that needed immediate surgery. So I gave him a pass that time, but he’s never been anything but aloof at best to me. And this radioactive anger he has towards the holidays turns him into a Class-A jerk.
I’m explaining this all to Martine, who runs the team’s social media. We work essentially hand-in-hand since all the events I organize need to be tweeted, recorded, posted and shared. She’s the only other woman in this organization who is my age, so we’ve been thick as thieves since I started. Martine has been here a year longer than me. She is smiling as I rant, which I’m trying to ignore because it’s kinda smug. “I’m not the jerk here. I sat down with HR when he voiced his concerns after I decorated last year, and they consulted with Mr. Isles. Mr. Isles, the owner of the team for crying out loud! And even he said Nolan’s concerns weren’t based on religious or moral reasons, so we should continue as always.”
“So Isles has asked him what his beef is?” Martine questions, tucking a strand of her short, brown hair behind her ear. “Why can’t he share that so we all have more sympathy for his grumpy, but rock hard, ass?”
I shrug. I wish I knew. Martine pauses a minute to do something on the laptop in front of her and she focuses on me again, and her smile returns. “You’ve been thinking about him all night haven’t you? Since it happened yesterday?”
I nod. “I have to go down there and make them draw Secret Santa names today. You’re filming it. He’s going to be all emo, which everyone will notice if you post the video. Or worse, he’ll complain out loud.”
Martine chuckles, leaning back in her chair in the staff break room. “I can edit out his grumpy, but still sexy, ass. Honestly though, the fans love how grumpy he is. The female fans think it’s hot.”
I scrunch up my nose. Martine laughs and shuts her laptop, standing up. “Did I ever tell you that the female fans use the hashtag ‘masturbation material’ when I put up the grumpy vids of him? Maybe you should try that. If he gets you worked up, let him work you down too.”
My eyes grow so wide it almost hurts. “Are you insane?”
She starts toward the elevators, and I follow with my Santa hat filled with neatly printed names of players and staff. She turns to me after punching the button to call the elevator. “There’s no rule against inter-office dating.”
“That man hates me, and the feeling is mutual,” I reply. The expression on Martine’s face says she doesn’t believe me, which is horrifying. But the elevator opens, and it’s got the head of our PR and an assistant coach in it, so the conversation dies.
We all get off at the same place, the bottom level of the arena, ice level, and head to the locker room. The team had off-ice training today, which means watching videos and doing weights and meeting with the trainers, but it ended about twenty minutes ago. When we waltz in, I make sure to put on my brightest smile. “Thanks for waiting for us everyone. Happy holidays!”
I get a round of hellos and heys from everyone but Nolan Duggan. Ebenezer Scrooge is leaning against the back wall, arms crossed in front of his hulking chest, glaring at the Christmas tree, trying to melt it with his mind or something. “So you know the drill. This is our annual Secret Santa gift exchange. You pick a name and over the course of the next couple weeks, starting tomorrow until the night of our community Christmas party, you leave a token gift every now and then on the desk or in the locker of the person you pick. Three or four gifts, total, over a few weeks. Nothing too expensive. It’s not money, it’s the thought that counts. Be fun, be creative and enjoy the season of giving. Now, who wants to pick first?”
Nolan is still staring at the tree. Viktor happily raises his hand. I bounce over there, making sure there is extra pep in my step, and extend the hat toward him, taking a moment to give it a little shake so the names mix a little more and the sleigh bell on the end jingles. Nolan finally looks at me to glare. I grin.
He sniffs. “What is that smell?”
“My Christmas perfume,” I explain. “I only wear it in December.”
He stares. And then the tip of his tongue breeches his full lips and skirts along his bottom lip. Slowly. And my eyes are glued to the movement like a wolf tracking prey. Only I’m pretty sure the wolf doesn’t get the same tingling feeling in their lace undies that I’m getting. I blink. He speaks. “Smells like… an Alaskan wood cabin was set on fire in the middle of a baking competition.”
“It’s called Christmas Spirit,” I blurt out. “You won’t like it because you don’t have any.”
Viktor snickers and I frown and shove the hat at him. “I didn’t say I didn’t like it.” Nolan mutters half under his breath.
“Yeah. Because being told you smell like a house fire is a compliment.” I snap and focus on Viktor as he pulls a name and unfolds the paper to read it.
