Page 63 of The Mistletoe Makeover

“Not die,” she says. “But you might not get out of bed tomorrow.”

I swallow hard. “Can I sneak away?”

“Oh, no,” she says, nearly shoving me out the door.

“Suggesting you participate in a fundraiser is entirely different from me getting destroyed by your brothers.”

“Not really. I’d say it’s just as painful.” She hands me a hockey stick. “I’ll watch you play once I finish cleaning up. Good luck!” She gives me a satisfied grin before slamming the door.

I sigh as I wobble across the yard.

It’s been at least a decade since I’ve even stepped on the ice. As soon as I try, I flail like an idiot—arms windmilling, ankles shaking, before I find my balance.

“Try some drills first,” Vale says, pushing a puck toward me. I attempt to hit some pucks toward the net and miss every shot by a wide margin.

“Did I mention I’m bad at hockey?” I say.

“We don’t have to keep score,” Vale says, practicing some fancy footwork as he glides across the ice.

I attempt to follow him, trying to remember how to balance on skates. Just about the time I feel confident, he passes me a puck. I stretch to reach it with my stick, but it throws off my balance so badly, my feet slip from under me and I fall backwards on my butt.

“You okay?” Vale calls across the rink.

“Sure,” I say, rubbing my aching hip while I get to my feet. I paste on a tough look even though mybackside is screaming in pain. “I’m really terrible on skates. Music is my thing. Not hockey.”

“You can’t be any worse than our sister,” Brax says.

“I heard that,” Mia shoots back.

I spin around on the ice and almost fall for a second time.

Mia’s sitting on a bench in the yard, looking like she’s enjoying every minute of my humiliation. “And I’m notthatbad.”

I can’t resist the bait. I raise an eyebrow. “Then prove it.”

“I don’t want to take you down,” she says with a spark in her eyes.

“I think she’s scared,” Vale taunts.

“I’m not scared of you,” she says. Then she grabs some skates that are under the bench and slides them on.

Without hesitation, she glides across the ice like an Olympic skater.

“Oh, shoot,” I mutter under my breath. She can take me down.

“What was that?” she asks with a grin, speeding up.

“You didn’t tell me you were a good skater,” I say.

“You didn’t ask,” she says, turning around so she’s skating backwards, toward me. “I’ve been skating since I was four. I wanted to become a figure skater until I broke my ankle when I was twelve.”

“A career-ending injury?” I ask.

She nods. “I missed tryouts for the biggest ice-skating competition that year. After my ankle injury, it was never strong enough for all the jumps.”

“But plenty strong enough for hockey,” I note, watching her thread through her brothers as they pass the puck back and forth.

Mia turns as her brother passes the puck to her. With seemingly no effort, she hits the puck toward the net and nails it.

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