Page 11 of It's Mother-Pucking Christmas!

“Barf.”

“Better than not being marriage material,” he shot back.

“Go to hell.” I flipped off Ryder O’Connell for the second time in twenty-four hours.

I’d have to find a different way to save my brother.

6

RYDER

The doors slammed behind Dakota.

I shouldn’t have said those things to her. Even if she hated the team, it was rude. Something about her, though, was like an itchy tag in a jersey. I just couldn’t ignore her and move on with my life.

“What the hell are you doing?” Coach raced into the lobby with a hoodie, followed by the rest of the team.

“You can’t go outside like that. You’ll freeze to death.”

“I’m not,” I complained as he stuffed me in the hoodie. “I’m hot. In Sweden hockey players do an ice plunge after practice.”

“This guy.” Coach grabbed the back of my neck. “Sweden? Get the fuck outta here. Wait, are you sick? Is he sick? Zack, call a doctor.”

My teammates and the assistant coaches mobbed me.

“Aww, is poor widdle Ryder sick?” Erik teased.

“He better not be, or I’m blaming you. I know you took him out celebrating last night,” Coach threatened. “We don’t want to break our winning streak.”

Erik held up his hands. “Relax, Coach, I’m just joking. Utah, tell him.”

“We know what’s wrong with Ryder.” Rick smirked.

“I’m fine.” I rubbed my forehead.

“What’s wrong with him?” Coach was about to pop a vein.

“Maybe the grilled chicken I ate last night was bad,” I said quickly.

“No! No bad food. I don’t trust you with your own meals anymore. Not before a game with the Frosthawks. You have to come to my house for dinner.”

“Coach, you eat microwave diet meals.” Mike’s mouth twitched.

“At least they’re cooked through!” Coach screamed.

“Ryder didn’t eat bad chicken. We ate the same chicken.” Pete snorted. “He likes a girl.”

“And she doesn’t like him back,” Erik added.

“I don’t. I’m fine, Coach.”

“If you want to date that girl, implying she’s a slut isn’t how you do it, eh,” Erik said, clapping a hand on my shoulder.

So they were eavesdropping

“Fucking Canadians. American girls,” Rick enunciated, “do not want nice guys. Especially not nice hockey players. If she’s going to be the girlfriend of a hockey player, she wants him to be a certain way in bed. Dirty talk. Rough sex.”

“I’m not trying to get a girlfriend,” I declared. “I want a wife, not a girlfriend.”

---