Page 27 of Holiday Hostilities

10

OLIVIA

After the game ends, Sofia dashes off to Jake’s place to finish up some food prep, so I opt to go and wait for Jake. I want to give my brother a big hug and tell him I’m proud of him. Tell him that I’m glad I’m here today so we can celebrate Thanksgiving together.

And possibly hitch a ride with him to his place seeing as I took the train here.

But that’s beside the point. Mostly.

It takes me forever to get to the ground level, which is mostly due to lining up for the public restrooms (while kicking myself for not peeing earlier in the VIP bathrooms), and then getting thoroughly lost six times. By the time I flash my ID at security and enter the players’ area, some of my brother’s teammates have already emerged from the locker room and are greeting their wives, girlfriends, and families. Jake doesn’t appear to be out yet, so I hang back, hugging the wall while trying not to feel like a creep.

“OLIVIA!”

I turn to see Jimmy Jones-Johnstone bounding towards me, arms outstretched. He lifts me off my feet in a huge hug, andsmacks a kiss on both of my cheeks—I’d like to say it’s in that chic, French way, but this is more like being mauled by a pony-sized puppy.

When he finally sets me down, I wobble, slightly dazed by his sheer enthusiasm. “Hi, Jimmy. Good to see you again!”

“Same to you. I’ve missed you so much.”

“Likewise,” I tell my apparent best friend, who I have met precisely once, half a year ago.

“I’m making six types of potatoes for the dinner, by the way.”

Normally, I’d question such a whiplash of a subject change. But as it’s Triple J, I take the conversational detour—and the number of potato dishes he’s planning—in stride. “That’s nice. You must be feeding a lot of people.”

Jimmy nods eagerly. “I’m so excited for you to sample the mashed potatoes. They’re my specialty.”

“Oh.” I realize he has his wires crossed and smile apologetically. “Sorry to miss them. I’m having dinner with Jake and Sofia.”

“Yes, exactly.” He seems totally unperturbed. “I’ll see you there?”

I stare at Triple J for a moment, unsure he heard me correctly. Or maybe he has no family in town, and so Jake invited him to our little get-together? It’s possible, though uncharacteristically thoughtful of my brother. Must have been Sofia’s idea.

Deciding that this is the most reasonable explanation, I smile like I know exactly what he’s talking about. And while six potato dishes seems excessive for our gathering of four people, Jimmy seems like an all-together excessive person and I love that for him. “Great! Can’t wait to try the various potatoes!”

As he bounds off, someone behind me clears their throat.

I look over to see Aaron walking in my direction, eyes locked on me. He’s freshly showered, his dark hair damp and tousled,and he’s wearing a dark red Cyclones hoodie that’s made of the softest looking material that I have ever wanted tonottouch. He looks a little distant, his expression more closed than usual. A far cry from the winking, cocky Aaron who skated onto the ice not two hours ago.

I can’t help but wonder what’s happened since the game ended and how he’s dealing with what appears to be a slight media frenzy. For a moment, I feel a spark of sympathy for him. No matter what I think of the guy, it can’t be easy to be raked over the coals for the entire world to see.

“Hello,” I say.

He regards me almost warily, adjusting the strap of his gym bag on one broad shoulder. “Hey, Liv.”

“Good game tonight,” I tell him kindly.

But only because he seems somewhat downtrodden. And it’s a holiday.

And he used my real name, for once in his life.

At my words, however, the light in his expression returns and a naughty glimmer in his eyes makes me immediately regret my limp excuse for an olive branch.

“You did seem to be enjoying it. Especially at the end.” He smirks.

I arch a brow. “Like I said, it was a good game.”

“I’d say you looked just about ready to join Aaron’s Army. I can hook you up with a number 22 jersey, if you like,” Aaron goes on silkily. His green gaze moves over me and I’m suddenly aware of every single sensation on my skin—my jeans feel too tight, and my shirt feels too scratchy, and my bra feels like something that should be burned, and not just in the name of feminism.

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