There’s something else under the sweater too. I’m almost afraid to look. But I brave the sloppy Jingle Balls, and gingerly reach for…yup. A thong.
A matching black thong.
I raise my face, and the assholes I call teammates can’t contain themselves. They erupt in doubled-over laughter. When it subsides a minute later, Miles chokes out, “You can wear it…to a…date.”
My jaw falls open. “You assholes bought the damn matchmaking package for me!”
But logic has no home here.
“And you’re welcome,” Tyler puts in with a smart-aleck nod.
“Be sure to let the future Mrs. Bishop know it’s the first of many ugly Christmas sweaters,” Miles adds, in between catching his breath.
I toss the sweater and the matching underwear into my cubby. There will be no future Mrs. Bishop, but I keep that to myself.
Once I’m in uniform, I tap the pic of Mia I keep in my stall. It’s a shot of her leaping in front of a graffiti wall in the Mission District, and it’s my good luck charm. Then I tap the spot above my right pec, also for good luck—that’s where my favorite tattoo is. With those twin superstitions done, I stretch and warm up. Then I head to the tunnel with Tyler, skates and helmets on, sticks in hand.
He tips his forehead my way. “Seriously though. How did the cookie swap go?”
“Now you want to know how it went? After buying me a thong?”
He shrugs off the question. “Yeah, I do. We might be giving you a hard time, but I still legit want you to be happy.”
“So you guys don’t have to babysit me at the gala,” I toss back, using Miles’s words from the night of the auction. But I’m not mad. I’m just reporting the facts.
As we wait for the announcer to invite us onto the ice, Tyler presses again. “Come on, Bishop. I’m serious.”
Fair enough. Since he’s being earnest, I give him a serious answer. “I’m doing my best.”
His eyebrows rise. “That so?” He sounds doubtful, but hopeful too.
“I am,” I confirm. Because committing to be real on a practice date with Isla feels a whole lot like trying. And that has to count for something, right?
With a hint of a smile, he claps me on the back. “Proud of you.”
We hit the ice, and I block Christmas, dates, and thong-wearing Santas from my head as I jostle for the puck, picking it off from Vancouver one minute into the first period and feeding it to Devon, who sprints down the oval in a breakaway.
Then scores.
Yes. That’s my favorite kind of gift. An early lead.
We don’t squander it. A couple hours later, the horn blares and “Tick Tick Boom” blasts in the Sea Dogs arena. I high-five my teammates, then look up to the family suite on the second level, where the world’s cutest kid is dancing in celebration and waving my way. Mia’s smile is huge, fueled by the electric excitement of a child. My heart floods.
A few suites over, I spot Jason. Huh. I hadn’t realized he’d be here tonight, but it’s part of his job to see his clients in action, and he reps some of the guys on the Vancouver team too. He’s probably here to visit with them.
I head off the ice, eager to see my kiddo.
But not so fast. In the locker room, Coach McBride praises us for a well-fought win. “You played hard. You never stopped battling for the puck or defending the net. Keep that up,” he says, and briefly, I wonder if he tried anydating sabotage when Isla set him up with his girlfriend. But he’s a straight shooter so I guess the answer is no. “Now I need you all to stick around for a few minutes for a quick marketing meeting.”
Most of the guys groan. No one likes post-game meetings.
Coach sighs with exasperation. “Really? You play a demanding game for a living, and you can’t handle a fifteen-minute chat?”
“Now it’s fifteen whole minutes,” Max grumbles, but our goalie’s being borderline playful.
Still, Coach deals him an intense stare. “You’d think I was pulling your teeth.”
“Less painful than a meeting. Of any length,” Max adds.
