Page 3 of Mistletoe Face Off

“Thursday night, the Christmas event at the Hawksworth Community Center. I need one of you in the red suit to hand out presents to the kids.”

“Has this got anything to do with the captaincy next season?” Lorcan asks.

“Of course not. That would be crazy. I'm not going to choose a captain based on whichever one of the two of you volunteers to dress up in a red suit, stuff a pillow down his pants, and say ‘ho ho ho’ to a bunch of kids, now, am I?” Coach has an unexpected sparkle in his eyes that suggests to me stepping up to be Santa for a bunch of kids could in fact help grease those captaincy decision-making wheels.

Lorcan pulls his lips into a line, shaking his head. He must have missed the Coach’s sparkle. “I can’t do it. I've got my image to uphold, Coach.”

“As an underwear model?” Coach asks, referring to the reportedly lucrative deal Lorcan signed a few months back—which has meant I’ve had to suffer his shirtless, grinning image on a billboard on my way home from the arena for the past week.

I get enough of the guy on the team. I don’t need his shirtless, grinning image invading my personal time, too.

“I’m proud of it, Coach. I don't think it's a good idea for me to go prancing around in a big ole red suit,” Lorcan replies. “That’s way more Clarke’s speed. Isn’t that right, Clarke?”

“I'll do it,” I say.

“You will?” Lorcan scoffs. “You know what? Now that I think about it, I bet you'd make an excellent Santa.” Lorcan slaps his hand against my bare abs.

I shoot him a look. What does he think he's trying to say? That I've got a Santa belly?

“That's good news, Harrison. The kids will really appreciate it,” Coach replies. “I've got a suit, a wig and beard, and this prosthetic nose you can wear, too. It’s in a bag at my place, along with some other Christmas costumes.”

Lorcan’s eyes are alight. “A prosthetic nose? You’ll be fighting the hot babes off with that on your face, Clarke.”

I don't look at him.

“It's actually quite life-like,” Coach replies, and Lorcan snorts. He is so enjoying this. But I don't care. Whatever it takes to secure the captaincy. And if that means throwing on a red suit, stuffing a pillow down my pants, and wearing a life-like prosthetic nose, then I’ll do it.

“You got it, Coach. Whatever you need for the team,” I say. Because we all know nothing says “captain material” quite like a six-foot-five defenseman crammed into a Santa suit, right?

It’s Coach’s turn to slap me on the back, although he does it a lot more gently than Lorcan. “Great attitude, Harrison. That'swhat we need on this team: a great attitude and a willingness to step up when it counts.”

Lorcan throws his hands in the air. “Ask me to do anything else and I will. Just not the red suit.”

I grab onto an idea. “Coach, shouldn't Santa have an elf helper?” I ask.

“An elf? I hadn’t thought about that, but it's a great idea,” Coach replies.

“Lorcan the Elf. I can see it now, although you’ll have to wear more clothes than you do in those underwear ads,” I say, loving the way I'm making Lorcan squirm.

He opens his mouth to protest, and I can almost see the cogs in his brain whirring to life, trying to work out how he can avoid being seen dressed as an elf, helping me as Santa, his boss.

Huh. His boss. I like the sound of that.

Coach lets out a laugh. “We don’t need an elf, Lorcan. You can relax.”

Lorcan’s face morphs into his billboard smirk. “I knew you were. But even if I'm not Santa, you can count on me to be there Thursday night. I'll even bring some toys for the kids.”

“That would be great,” Coach replies.

“I'll bring some, too,” I add, winning a smirk from Lorcan.

“Oh, you'll have a whole sack of gifts when you come crashing down the chimney,” Lorcan says, laughing at his own joke.

All I do is smile benevolently. I've got the moral high ground over this guy. Sure, it might be in a fur-trimmed red suit with a thick prickly beard and a surprisingly life-like fake nose, but it's high ground all the same.

It’s Thursday afternoon and I trudge through a fresh coating of snow into the Hawksworth Community Center, the bag of Santa gear from Coach Newton slung over my shoulder along with a sack full of kids’ toys I ordered online. ‘Tis the season of giving, as they say, and what’s more deserving than a community center full of underprivileged kids?

A short, middle-aged woman with cropped gray hair and bright pink rimmed glasses bustles over to me, greeting me with a wide grin. “I know you. You're Harrison Clarke,” she says, her eyes dancing.

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