Page 12 of Jingle Devil

The knocking ceases and without it, my apartment is covered in a looming silence. The oppressive weight of the air settles on me, making my limbs feel heavy. Jesus. Looming silence? Oppressive weight? I guess that’s what happens when the Christmas Carol is on while you’re dozing in and out of consciousness.

“Fucking blanket,” I mutter, finally untangling myself, and throwing it in a heap on the couch.

I make no attempt to smooth down my hair or wipe the mascara I’m sure is still smudged under my eyes. If I have to look at Mr. Gilbert in his tighty whities, he can tolerate my messy hair and left-over makeup.

“Merry Christmas, Mr.—”

“Who the fuck is Gilbert?”

My breath catches in my throat and my stomach flips. My knuckles turn white as my hand grips the door, steadying me against the heat building up under my skin at the sight of Mick Weller standing in my hallway.

He looks worse than I feel.

He’s wearing a pair of sweatpants with a dark stain on the knee and a very worn Phoenix Lightening hoodie. His eyes are bloodshot and weary, and his shoulders are hunched like he’s carrying the weight of the world. His usual five-o’clock shadow has turned into a full-on scruffy beard, and despite myself, I ache to press against him.

“Tessa.” My name is a whisper on his lips as he reaches a hand toward me but must change his mind because it falls back to his side.

A wave of emotions crash over me. Hurt. Loss. Regret. Love. The last one hurts the most and I take a shuddering breath and close my eyes, squeezing them tightly to ward off the tears. When I open them, a lone tear escapes, sliding down my cheek. “I can’t do this, Mick.”

“Tessa.” This time my name is like a plea.

Jazz probably told him I quit. That’s why he’s here. So he doesn’t lose his competent assistant.

I take a deep breath and then another. “I’m sorry. I made this more than it was supposed to be. I can’t pretend last night didn’t happen. I can’t go back to normal.” I swallow past the lump in my throat. “I can’t work for the Devils and see you every day.”

With a hollow feeling deep in my chest, I start to shut the door, but his hand shoots out to stop me. “Tessa.” This time he says my name with more force than before. But not enough to break my resolve.

“I’m sorry, Coach Weller.”

He winces and captures me with his sorrowful brown eyes. “I can’t pretend last night didn’t happen either. And I don’t think I know what normal is anymore.”

“I can’t… I can’t go back to work. You’re going to have to find someone else.”

“I don’t give a shit if you ever take another step in that arena ever again.”

Wait. What? “This isn’t about the job?”

He takes a tentative step into my apartment and then another. “I don’t give two shits about the Devils right now. I want you to stay. With me.”

My mouth opens. Then closes. Then opens again as I stand there and stare at him. I may look halfway calm on the outside, but on the inside, my body is short-circuiting. All the little Tessas inside my head are running into each other, throwing piles of papers all over the place, and setting things on fire. It’s chaos up there, and it’s not much better for the poor organ in my chest beating to the rhythm of a very erratic drummer.

“I should have said something last night.” He hangs his head and shakes it, his brown hair flopping to his forehead. “But I got so caught up in you. I don’t want this to end. I don’t want this to be only one night.”

“You said you didn’t date.”

“I don’t like casual dating and all the games and bullshit that come along with it. There’s nothing casual about us, Tessa. Or the way I feel about you.”

I don’t dare move a muscle, afraid that the most miniscule movement would derail his train of thought. I might’ve even stopped breathing. “How do you feel about me?”

His chocolate brown eyes melt me as he pins me with a smoldering look. He raises his hand again and this time, the tips of his fingers brush my cheek. “I know this sounds crazy. I know it’s fast. But I love you Tessa, I think I fell in love with you the day you walked into my office with your red high heels and matching lipstick. Please tell me I haven’t completely fucked this up.”

The little Tessas in my brain have all stopped to swoon and I can’t help but rest a hand over my heart and join them. Mick Weller, Head Coach of the Nashville Devils, and the sexiest hunk of man alive has declared his love for me on Christmas morning—while I’ve got bed head, and I’m in fucking snowflake pajamas. FML.

My eyes widen and my hands fly to my hair.

“Stop.” Mick chuckles, his hands grabbing mine, pulling them away from my unruly tresses and holding them between us. “I like you like this.”

“Like a hot mess?” I squeeze his fingers, grounding myself in him, in his touch.

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