Page 46 of Mistletoe Face Off

Love Actually in the Penalty Box?

Finding it hard to concentrate, I stop reading the headlines, watching the memes, and generally reliving Harry’s and my latest public argument. The goal was to keep the audienceengaged, and by the looks of things, our latest fight was a runaway success. #SantaFeudis even trending.

It’s everything we planned it to be, thanks to Abby Sinclair’s brainchild and Slippery Stephen’s eagerness to get one of his journos out there, and by association, the paper.

Arguing with Harry is fun. Him picking the topic of rival Christmas movies—even though I will never in a million years agree thatDie Hardis the best Christmas movie ever made—was nothing short of genius. It's the kind of topic people can get super impassioned about without it really meaning anything.

And then, when it ended and we went our separate ways, I shocked myself by agreeing to go out with Harrison on the basis that I would prove to him he couldn't resist dancing to that Pointer Sisters’ song Hugh Grant gets down to inLove Actually.

Why the heck did I do that?

Sure, I was swept up in the moment, enjoying our banter and the sheer ridiculousness of our argument. More than that, I enjoyed the way he gazed at me intently as though I was the only woman in the room.

A woman he wanted.

And then there was that moment when he fed me some of the chimney from the gingerbread house. It was so intimate and sweet that it made my heart thud and heat bloom in my cheeks. It was a moment. An intimate moment.

His wit is both infuriating and impressive in equal measure. In my time as a sports journalist, I've interviewed many athletes, but none have kept me on my toes quite like Harry can. Combine that with the disarming way he is with Macy, this tough, burly hockey player who turns into a gentle giant around my daughter, and I’ve got a serious case of the feels for the guy.

As inallthe feels.

It’s as though in spending all this time with him I’m getting to see behind the curtain of his macho hockey pro persona,and I can't help but want to see more—even though my past is screaming at me that getting close to another pro athlete is simply too dangerous to even consider.

Look at what happened last time, my past says.Marriage over, left literally holding the baby, trying to make ends meet just to survive because Phil doesn’t have the decency to send us more than the barest of minimums each month.

It is not a pretty picture.

I’m not saying Harry and I are going to get married, and he'll leave me the way my ex did. That's taking the way I feel about him several leaps down the road of commitment. But even at this early stage, I'm scared to get involved with him, knowing from bitter experience how this could turn out.

Why would a guy like Harry, who could have any woman he wants, go for a single mom with a painful past like me?

I blow out a breath as I knit my fingers behind my head and lean back in my chair.

“A penny for them?” Selena asks, watching me though her thick-rimmed glasses.

“You don't want to know,” I reply.

“Coffee?”

“I need something, that's for sure.”

A few minutes later, we've taken the elevator to the ground floor and found our way down the street to a Starbucks. We order our coffee and then sit in a window seat, watching people bustle by on a cold Chicago morning.

“Don't tell me. It's what they're saying about you and Harrison Clarke again,” Selena says without preamble. “There are some crazy headlines and posts out there today. But honey, it's not that bad. So what if you don't get on with an NHL player. From what I know about hockey, they're all big brutes who earn way too much and like to fight on the ice more than play the actual game.”

“Harry’s not like that.”

“So, what gives?”

“I—” I debate whether to tell Selena that this alleged feud between us is fake. I’m not loving lying to everyone, particularly to a friend. It feels like I'm carrying a heavy weight around, and it would be nice to have someone else help carry the load. And besides, Selena’s not only my friend, but a journalist, too. She’ll get how these things can work.

“If I tell you, you can't mention it to a soul. Not even Horacio.”

“Not even to my husband? Wow, this sounds super serious.”

“Is that a promise?”

She places her hand over her heart. “Promise.”

---