Page 11 of Holiday Hostilities

“What’s up, Lil Griz?” I inquire with an innocent smile. I gave her that nickname a million years ago. Mostly because, back in high school, I thought she was insanely hot and it was a good way to constantly remind myself that she was my best buddy’s little sister.

A decade later, the name has stuck.

She’s still hot, too.

I cut a piece of waffle and dunk it in syrup, followed by whipped cream. Some of the guys on the Cyclones follow strict nutrition plans and count their macros during the season, but I’ve always been a bottomless pit where food is concerned. Mymotto is the more, the better. It doesn’t seem to matter how healthy or unhealthy, calories just function as fuel to me.

“Everything’s peachy with me.Olivia.” Her tone drips with sarcasm. “But there’s clearly something very wrong with you.”

“Nah, I’m good actually,” I reply easily, then enjoy the way she looks even more maddened.

Despite all the years that passed without us seeing each other, it took us no time at all to reestablish this equilibrium—the one where I only ever seem to provoke annoyance from her, and for some reason, chase that reaction like a dog chases a freaking tennis ball.

Because oh yeah, she clearly still hates me for what I did back then. Or, more accurately, what I didn’t do.

“So, I’m not correct in assuming that the texts coming in are from someone offering to make something up to you with sexual favors?” she demands.

She’s cute when she’s mad.

Not that I’d ever tell her that.

“You are correct,” I confirm. Then, I meet her eyes and point down at my phone. “But as you can see, I am not taking her up on said offer. So honestly, I’m worried that you consider that to be somethingwrongwith me. Your moral compass is clearly askew, Grizzy.”

“You are the absolute worst,” she seethes, her eyes flaring.

“So you seem to think.” I shove another bite of syrup-drenched waffle in my mouth.

I’m playing it cool, but those texts have me a little stressed. What I don't tell her is that, at the beginning of this hockey season, a woman who goes by AaronMarinosMistress on social media started sliding into my DMs. It seemed innocent enough until she progressed to lurking around our training facility and even scoped out my house. No idea how she found out where I lived.

I did the only thing I knew to do:ignored it all. Unlike some of the other guys, I’d never had a fan with stalker-esque behavior before, and I wasn’t too worried about it.

I’ve been pretty lucky with my fans. I’m flattered to have a group known as “Aaron’s Army,” and they often turn up to games wearing my jerseys and carrying signs. I’ve never actually dated a fan, but I always blow them a kiss from the ice, which just makes them scream and cheer louder. It’s all in good fun. Tongue in cheek. The media sure seems to love it.

So, yeah. I didn’t think too much about AaronMarinosMistress…

Until sheproposedto me.

Outside my house, down on one knee, and surrounded by a million flickering candles which were most certainly a fire hazard on my dry-ass, August-crisped front lawn.

Half of me wanted to turn and run. The other half felt bad for this woman, who I’d never even met—hell, whose name I didn’t even know at the time—on one knee in front of me.

The soft half of my heart won out, and so I approached her, gently helped her to her feet, and explained that, while I was flattered, I couldn’t accept her proposal.

I was trying to be the nice guy, as kind as possible, while still making sure to be honest and clear about why we couldn’t be together. Because never let it be said that I don’t learn from my past mistakes.

She thanked me for being honest, and as she turned to leave, I thought I’d done the decent thing.

The next day, though, the story hit the internet. A story in which Brandi (her name, it turns out) painted herself as the jilted ex-lover, and me as the man who crushed her. It didn’t bug me too much—like I said, I have a pretty good reputation in general, and most people seem to like me. The notable exception being the woman sitting next to me at this very moment.

Luckily, the whole thing died down pretty quickly, and the media found more exciting things to talk about. But I’m ninety-nine percent sure that Brandiis the “Unknown Number” texting me right now. And while I’m baffled that she managed to get my new number, I’m sure as hell not getting dragged back into that mess just to inquire how she got it.

Olivia pushes her fork around her plate so it makes that awful screeching sound like nails on a chalkboard. When she sees me flinch, she smiles and nods down at my phone. “You can’t just discard your dates like used Kleenexes, you know.”

“I never dated her.”

Her, or anyone else, for months.

“So this woman younever datedis randomly sending you suggestive text messages, then?” Olivia’s eyes are full of scorn.

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