Page 79 of It's Mother-Pucking Christmas!

“Brothers.” I hauled myself up off the floor, forcing down the nausea. I wasn’t puking in the jail cell toilet; I was puking outside in the bushes like a goddamn American.

“They confiscated my Stanley cup,” I said to no one in particular as we were herded out of the police station. My nose, my mouth, and my eyes throbbed. I was pretty sure I had a broken finger, and my arm hurt.

It was worth it, though, because Ryder wasn’t critically injured. He could still skate. He’d sign a seven figure contract, go to a big NHL team, meet a nice girl who didn’t fuck him over, and have the family he’d always wanted.

I stumbled out behind my family, half propped up on Granny Murray.

“Atta girl, Dakota! You gave those boys what for. They won’t think about fucking around and finding out with you anymore, no, ma’am.”

My grandmother dragged me out into the numbing cold. If my ribs weren’t making that weird popping noise, I’d bend down and grab some snow to numb my hand.

“Next time,” Granny Murray whooped, “I’m packing boxing gloves. Man, what a night.”

“Dakota.”

“Ryder?” I croaked.

His eyes were still a little red, but he’d changed jerseys. He looked worried. “You got out of jail. Good.”

Granny Murray went to complain to a nearby cop that she wanted her things back on account of she had a bottle of alcohol and a thousand dollars of cash that she knew someone in there was planning on taking home and that violated her constitutional rights.

Ryder gingerly cupped my face. “Are you okay?”

I blinked up at Ryder in the dark. He was looking at me like I was something precious, like he loved me.

I shrugged. “Yeah. I’m good.” I looked through the tangle of my hair at him. He was so perfect.

I did not deserve him.

“You do love me.” He gave me a crooked smile. “I heard you.”

“I do,” I admitted, “but we can’t be together, Ryder.”

“But why?”

I started crying, even though it made my nose hurt. “Because you deserve someone better than me, nicer than me. Someone who will appreciate you and love you like you deserve.”

“You’re the only one I want. I’m in love with you, Dakota.” His eyes searched mine. “Besides”—he gave me a small smile—“we had premarital sex, and that means I have to marry you and make an honest woman out of you.”

“I can’t,” I sobbed. “I’m sorry I screwed up your life. Goodbye, Ryder.”

I hurried off.

He ran after me. “Dakota!”

We rounded the corner and were immediately confronted by a thousand camera flashes and swarmed by reporters, who crowded around Ryder. They were asking about the game, about the fight, about the stalker, about the dog, and about the New York team.

He was swallowed by a sea of media, separating him from me forever.

30

RYDER

“Idon’t even want to know what happened.” Coach, eyes still red from the pepper spray at the game the night before, stalked in front of us.

The stadium was still being cleaned, so we were doing drills in the parking lot. Well, we were supposed to be doing drills, but really we were listening to Coach blow his lid.

“All of you played like shit. Every single one of you. You’re fucking lucky Ryder’s stalker went nuts and shut that whole game down.”

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