Page 47 of Holiday Hostilities

“You have a good Thanksgiving in the end?” he asks gruffly.

“Yes, sir. I had the whole team at my place for dinner. Jimmy called it ‘Teamsgiving’.”

“Checks out.” Coach just about rolls his eyes. “How are we looking for the game with New York tomorrow?”

“Team’s looking good. Morale is also good. I think everyone’s feeling pretty confident about our chances.”

“Glad to hear it,” Coach harrumphs. “I’m thinking we trash the ice and give the press something to talk about other than rogue puck bunnies creating trouble. Got it?”

“Got it,” I say, my hand automatically going to the bracelet on my wrist. I spin it around as I remember that I need to make sure Brandi doesn’t win a date with me at the Christmas auction in a couple weeks. Any time spent around that woman will surely just give her more ammunition to create stories about me that’ll send fricking Lieberman into revolt.

He nods brusquely. “Don’t let me down.”

My stomach clenches uncomfortably at his words. “I won’t.”

“Good. I’ll see you in the media room later, then.”

Coach leaves the kitchen and I sit back down, suddenly no longer all that hungry. My phone buzzes again.

I don’t know what I’ll do about Christmas. But I’ll figure something out.

And just like that, I have an idea.

A harebrained idea of Triple J proportions, maybe… but an idea nonetheless.

Before I can overthink it—and risk talking myself out of it—I forget all about my breakfast, dash out to the parkade, and get in my dented car.

Then, I drive straight back to Olivia Griswold’s apartment.

18

OLIVIA

I throw my phone down on my bed and groan.

I thought that if I texted Aaron this morning, things might go back to normal and restore our usual equilibrium. You know, the normal where I love to hate him and don’t feel like bursting into flames of confusing attraction when he’s near me.

Instead, he’s now asking about my Christmas plans—which are still derailed, by the way—and I’m really not sure how I feel about his concern.

Anyof his concern. Because he was acting strange last night. Almost… protective.

Probably just because I’m his best friend’s little sister. He simply felt a responsibility to get me home safe.

Thankfully, I managed to shut the door behind him quickly enough that he didn’t need to hear any more of Gregory’s bagpiping. Or Romy’s proclamation that her on-again, off-again boyfriend, Elliott, was in jail for liberating an entire turkey farm.

And by “liberating,” I mean that he drove to a farm on the outskirts of the city and opened every pen and gate door he could find, resulting in a stampede of cows, pigs, sheep, and indeed turkeys, on the I-75.

Then, I walked into my room to find Shannon, in my bed.

Wearing my underwear.

I had to thank my lucky stars that Aaron hadn’t insisted on coming inside.

Clambering out of bed, I pull on a black tank top and my favorite gray sweatpants that have lost all the elastic at the waist, and so need to be rolled over on top.

Ratty? Yes.

Comfy as all hell and therefore never going in the trash? Also, yes.

---