Page 58 of Mistletoe Face Off

I shake my head, holding her close, her warm curves pressed against me. “I don't want to get ahead of myself here, but you feel this thing between us, too. Don't you?”

“I do,” she breathes. “But Harry, I'm scared.” Her voice trembles and I look into her eyes and what I see makes my chest tighten.

I can guess what she's thinking. I'll be just like her ex. Another hockey player who will leave her. But what she doesn't know is that there's no way on this sweet earth I'm letting her slip through my fingers.

“He did this to you?” I grind out. “Your ex-husband?”

She looks down and I know it was him. Phil Channing, a jerk on the ice and off. If I could only get my hands on him… But this isn't about Phil Channing, no matter how much I hate the guy for what he's done to Holly. This is about her. Her and me and the possibilities of us.

Phil Channing can wait.

She nods slowly. “Phil turned out not to be such a good guy. He… cheated on me while I was pregnant, but I didn’t find out until after Macy was born,” she says haltingly, and a fresh wave of hate for that man rolls over me.

I place my hands on her arms and pull back to look her straight in the eyes. “I’m not him, and I tell you, Holly, there's nothing to be afraid of. That I promise you.”

Her lips lift into a hint of a smile. “You do? You promise?”

I take her hand, pressing her palm against my chest. “Do you feel that? My heart is racing, and it's all because of you. I'm in this with you, Holly. All in."

She takes a shaky breath. “I want to believe that, Harry. So much.”

“Then believe it. It’s that simple,” I tell her. “We can take it one day at a time."

She nods, her smile growing a little brighter, the crease in her forehead softening. “One day at a time.”

I pull her against me, wrapping my arms around her. I hate her ex for what he did to her. He hurt her so bad, and he continues to hurt her with his lack of commitment to his daughter. I will never understand how a man can shirk his responsibilities to his kid. That's not a man, in my mind. That’s a low and dirty coward.

Both Macy and Holly deserve so much more.

I want to be the man that gives it to them.

As she rests her head on my chest, I feel something shift inside me. This thing between us is real. Real and big and, yeah, a little scary. But I want it so bad I can almost taste it.

As we hold each other in the soft glow of the Christmas lights, I realize that for the first time in my life, I'm exactly where I want to be. On or off the ice, Holly Coleman is the teammate I've been waiting for, and together, I'm ready for whatever comes next.

Chapter Thirteen

Holly

I’m waiting at Paddy’s Irish Bar for Donald Mitchell, the place reeking of stale beer. There are only a few patrons, all sitting at the bar, looking maudlin. There’s sad and saggy tinsel decorations hanging on the walls, the wooden table I’m sitting at is sticky, and I have to resist the urge to pull out an antiseptic wipe and give it a clean.

On second thoughts I won’t resist that urge. I pull a wipe from my purse and give that table a much needed clean. I catch odd looks from the neighboring patrons.

“It’s sticky,” I tell an elderly man with a bulbous nose and ears that stick out at right angles from his head. He merely looks me up and down and turns away.

Friendly guy.

Despite my less than salubrious surrounds—and who I’m here to meet, more to the point—I catch myself smiling, as I have so often these past few days since Harry took me to the Art Institute for our amazing first date. That he would do that for me, knowing that I love art, shows what a truly great guy he is. I could tell he was totally out of his comfort zone, knowing nothing about any of the works we saw—other thanAmerican Gothic, and he made me laugh when he said the man reminded him of Hunter “The Enforcer” Adams with his hockey stick. But he did it all for me, and I’m so touched by it.

Top that off with his Hugh Grant inspired dance moves—which, incidentally, he did way better than Hugh Grant, sorry, Hugh—and those really rather incredible kisses we shared, that was one spectacularly unbeatable first date.

He's been travelling ever since, playing away games, but we've been messaging one another, and last night we Face Timed after his game. We talked about anything and everything, just as we always do, both of us opening up about our lives, our hopes, our dreams.

I've not felt like this about a man since I met Phil—with one key difference. This time I'm not some young, naive nineteen year old, dazzled by the good looking, famous hockey pro with a cheeky grin and smooth lines. Harry is as much like Phil as chalk is like cheese, which is exactly the way I want it. I might be scared by the strength of my feelings for another NHL player, but I know Harry is ten times the man Phil ever was.

I can see it in his every look, his every action, his every word. Phil would never throw on a Santa suit and charm kids. He would see that sort of thing as beneath him. And yes, I know Harry admitted he did it because he wants to be the next captain when Dan Roberts retires, but that doesn't mean he fails to put his all into it, acting the part with a warmth you simply can’t manufacture.

The dedication he shows at these charity events isn't just for show. I can tell he genuinely cares. And that is something I never thought I would say about an NHL player again in my life. But it's the simple truth. Not only that, Harry’s passion is infectious, whether he's defendingDie Hardas a Christmas movie or talking about wanting to be captain, or showing a willingness to learn about my interests. He's already an incredibly attractive man but add his passion? Well, let's just say it more than adds to his appeal.

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