Page 87 of Holiday Hostilities

“Should it?” I ask dumbly. I’m not sure what to think. I could tell that he planned our ice skating date tonight to showcase the tacky, fun side of Christmas, and I thought he’d done that to keep things light, seeing as he knows I don’t like the holidays.

But this is something else entirely. This is nostalgic, whimsical,storybookChristmas. The sort of place designed todeliver that specific type of Christmas magic feeling I’ve been running from for so long.

Why would he take me here?

For a moment, I’m thrown back to the past, remembering the last time I let my guard down with Aaron, and then felt like a fool for doing so.

But I stop that line of thought in its tracks. Because I know that he’s not the guy I thought he was. Back then, or here now.

I trust him,I realize. Trust him with my feelings. Trust him with what I’ve shared. Something within me seems to recognize this on a fundamental level. Recognize that he’s here for me.

He stops walking and spins me around to face him. When he sees my expression, his mouth presses in a line.

“If it’s too much, we can go. But I had a thought…” He swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “Did you know that my dad died while I was playing a hockey game?”

I dip my head. “I had no idea. I’m so sorry.”

“It was a long time ago.” His eyes focus on mine. “My first season with the Cyclones. After a game, I got off the ice to learn that I had a phone call and it was an emergency.” He takes a breath in through his nose, and then out. Quietly, subtly, but I notice the pause. “He’d been sick for a long time, so I knew it was coming, but I wasn’t ready, you know? I don’t know if you can ever be ready for something like that.”

I stroke his coat sleeve, feeling overcome with the desire to comfort him. Wishing I could somehow make things better, but all I can offer is, “Of course not.”

“I took time off for the funeral and to help my mom out, but when I got back to Atlanta and started playing again, I wasn’t in a great place.” He sets his jaw. “My dad and hockey were, like, linked in my brain. I’d never known one without the other. My dad taught me to skate, he bought me my first hockey stick, and after he died, I’d get anxious every time I stepped on the ice.Felt like something bad was going to happen.” His brows furrow together. “It messed with my head, and it began messing with my game, too.”

“That’s completely understandable.” I’m surprised that he’s sharing all of this with me, but I’m glad that he feels he can. I like seeing this more vulnerable side of him, even though I’m sad to learn what he went through. I have a few vague memories of Aaron’s parents from high school—mostly seeing them at hockey games. They seemed so different from mine; always smiling, always looking happy together.

They looked like a unit.

I’m upset for his, and his mom’s, loss.

“Understandable personally, yes,” Aaron says with a shrug. “But not professionally. If I wanted a career playing hockey, I had to get my head back in the game and stop associating stepping out on the ice with my dad dying.”

“How’d you do that?”

Aaron’s lips tip up slightly at the corner. “My whole career, he had these little leather notebooks where he’d jot stuff down while I was playing. After my games, he’d call me and talk me through his thoughts. The good, the bad, and the ugly. We’d review it all together.”

He pushes back his sleeve and holds up his hand to show me the black leather bracelet looped around his thick wrist.

“I missed talking to him so much after my games, and I couldn’t exactly carry his notebooks around with me. So, I had this bracelet made from the cover of his last notebook, and now, it’s like my dad’s with me every time I skate.” He fingers the bracelet absentmindedly. “While I couldn’t change what happened, I didn’t have to be stuck in that moment forever. Instead, I could carry the past with me and honor his memory, while moving forward and making new memories with hockey that he would be proud of.”

“Aaron, that’s… beautiful.” He’s talking about his grief so candidly. Who knew that, under that confident, unruffled exterior, there was such a strong, yet soft, man. Masculinity at its finest—being unafraid to be vulnerable, and understanding that vulnerability can be a strength in itself. “Thank you for sharing that with me.”

His small smile shows a mixture of hesitancy and hope. “I thought, maybe, we could do the same tonight. Or a version of it, at least. You can’t undo the past, or change it, or make those memories of Christmas any less real or painful. And you don’t have to forget them and how they shaped you. But you can add to them. Create new memories of this holiday that are happy and peaceful.” He reaches for my hands, wrapping them in his. “They can exist together, the before and the after, and both be equally true. It’s okay to have complicated, mixed feelings.”

I stare at him for a moment as his words sink in. I can hardly believe the extent of his thoughtfulness and care.

“You are an amazing man, Aaron Marino,” I say quietly.

“Nah.” He scuffs the toe of his boot on the sidewalk. “I just want you to be happy.”

“I am.” I suddenly realize how true this is and have to swallow a lump in my throat.

Seeing how overcome I am, Aaron gently smiles and points towards the Christmas market at the end of the street, redirecting the conversation. “And food would make you happier right now, no?”

The mood lightens and I grin. “What are we waiting for?”

And so, we walk through the market, hand in hand, as crowds of happy, laughing people surround us. We stop to watch carolers sing, and to purchase spiked hot chocolates and Bavarian pretzels. And to buy a handmade tree ornament from a craft store—a single skate, to remember this night, and to markhonoring the past while still moving forward. I plan to hang it on the tree in the living room the second we get home.

My heart feels heavy, but in a good way. Full of happiness and joy and memories in the making.

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