Page 2 of Santa's Pucking Hat Trick

“Yeah, a hockey game is exactly the kind of rager I had in mind.”

“Maybe they’ll at least do you a favor and lose,” Bria said quietly enough that none of the Santas’ fans on the bleachers could overhear—covering her ass, likely, since that was the kind of sentiment that could get you drawn and quartered in Mistletoe even now.

“I’ll just be happy if it doesn’t go into overtime,” I said, and Bria and I both crossed ourselves as if in prayer.

Since the sports element didn’t interest me much, I found myself looking for other means of engaging with the fast-paced, sometimes brutal game in front of me. Namely by people-watching. It was, admittedly, harder to do when the players were all decked out in their pads and helmets, but I made do with what I had.

My twin was the clear star of the team, gliding around the ice like he owned it, but without the textbook arrogance I’d come to expect from a lot of hockey bros. His teammates all seemed to orbit around and react off of him, though there was one notable exception. A player who had an offensive position on the team, clearly, but who maybe was a little too aggressive with it, if such a thing existed in this very rough-and-tumble sport.

The player’s jersey declared his last name,Jett, in huge white letters across the back. It wasn’t a name I recognized, but it struck a chord regardless, and it seemed a fitting name from the quick, agile way he flitted about the ice, spraying snowy shavings under his skate blades and adding cocky flourishes to every movement of his stick. It was eye roll inducing, but something about that confidence was a little sexy too.

It was hard to see much of this Jett character’s looks with all of the gear in the way, but there was certainly a jawline that could cut glass and a dazzling white smile visible all the way across the rink. While the women in the stands seemed to swoon for him, the puck itself was almost afraid of this guy, it seemed. It cowered from his slapshot, and so did the players on the other team.

The goalie stood out to me too. The goofy announcer—an old man named Mervus who had done the job for decades—called him Finnegan, though I never saw it spelled out on the player’s broad back. He wore a caged mask over his face, of course, but it wasn’t hard to spot the strands of long, curly auburn hair that fell out of his helmet—or the matching beard that made him stand out from the rest of his teammates. Whereas Jett was a show-off, Finnegan moved with simple brute strength, stopping shots with ruthless efficiency. He was one of the bigger guys on the team too, his shoulder pads making his actual build seem almost inhumanly large. A silly, slightly horny thought struck me—I wondered what it’d be like to be thrown around by a man like that. I may not be a hockey girl, but I was still a red-blooded woman and, apparently, a sucker for masculine strength.

Speaking of strength—the only other player who caught my attention was one I already knew, though he’d physically filled out so much since I last knew him, he may as well have eaten his younger self. I didn’t even recognize him until Bria pointed himout, since the last name on his jersey was average enough that he didn’t immediately come to mind.

“No way that’s Wes,” I whispered to myself as I watched him move across the smooth, white ice.

Wes Robbins was my brother’s childhood best friend, a once-nerdy kid who, as far as I knew, still lived next door to the Henning house. His once-lanky form was now muscled, but still deliciously lean, giving his body that Captain America V-shaped torso effect that was my personal weakness. I remembered his eyes from all those years ago too. A piercing ocean blue that would devastate anyone who looked into them, the kindness behind his gaze a lovely bonus. He didn’t seem to need glasses like he used to either, so they’d be on full display if he didn’t have his stupid helmet in the way.

Talk about a glow-up.Good for him, I thought as the game continued to play out in front of me. He was a skilled player, unconcerned about his appearance or entertainment factor, just happy to support his other teammates on the ice without the need for personal glory. That Jett guy could stand to learn from some of that levelheadedness.

But it didn’t seem that Wes Robbins was rubbing off on his teammates when a fight broke out on the ice. That wasn’t unusual for hockey, of course, but Jesus, this was just a friendly. The referee’s sharp whistle cut through the room. Roman Jett—the apparent full name of the show-off guy, according to the excited commentator—was right in the thick of it.

There was an arrogance to his behavior that really rubbed me the wrong way, even from afar. He dodged a punch from the player he’d clearly antagonized with a shit-eating grin on his face, and he even took off his helmet and shook out his shiny dark hair after the ref put a stop to the brawl. Putting on a show. He wasn’t phased in the slightest when, after presumably giving some smart-ass remark to the referee, he got thrown outof the game entirely. Roman Jett smiled and waved like a royal, blowing kisses to the crowd as he took his seat on the bench, his well-earned throne.

Yeah, I wasn’t impressed. In fact, I kinda immediately hated this guy. The arrogant asshole had been through this song and dance a few times before, clearly, and anyone who went through the world that way wasn’t for me. At least it shouldn’t be too hard to avoid him from now on. I didn’t see myself hanging out at the ice center while I was slumming it here in Mistletoe. Or the local jail, for that matter.

It wasn’t long after the fight incident that the match wrapped up with the Skatin’ Santas clinching a win. It was a good omen for the coming season, which still wouldn’t start for a few weeks. All of the players rushed off the ice, shedding their skates and hugging friends and fans in celebration of this meaningless but morale-boosting win. This moment of camaraderie I could get behind, at least. And soon, my twin was grinning hugely and coming to pull me in for yet another hug, shoulder pads and all.

“Rach! You came!” He was laughing in my ear as he lifted me up and spun me around, which I normally hated, but it was so good to be reunited with my twin that I let it slide. It was a struggle to let go once he put me back on my feet, but I did, grinning all the while as I looked up into his familiar face—eerily similar to my own even after all these years. Same gray-blue eyes, same dark hair.

“I had no choice,” I joked. “Figures I’d have to come watch you play hockey the second I’m back in town. You owe me a reality TV marathon.”

“Hey, but we won!” he beamed. “Maybe you’re our lucky charm,” he added, shoving me a little even as he said something nice. Typical big brother, even if he was only about three minutes older than me.

“Well, don’t get used to it,” I grumbled.

“I’ve got a feeling I’ll make a Santas’ fan out of you yet,” he threatened. “I can’t wait for you to meet all the guys. Sawyer, Wes, over here!”

He turned over his shoulder to gesture to two of his teammates, and I felt my whole body flush as they approached as if in slow motion. If they’d been sexy on the ice, in their helmets and all their gear, they were downright sinful up close.

“Sawyer, this is my twin sister, Rachel,” Michael said, and the man himself stared me down just as surely as I was staring at him.

“A pleasure,” he said gruffly. It annoyed me that I found it a little sexy.

There was something lumberjacky about him. Maybe that was why the unrefined manners had a certain kind of effect on my lady bits. Sawyer’s long, curly red hair looked touchably soft now that it was free from his gear, and I had the chance to see that his hazel eyes were golden-hued and captivating too. An earthy hue—perfect for a mountain man. The strong features of his face stood in perfect contrast to his sensually curved mouth—those lips were kissable even though he was practically scowling at me as I gave him a reluctant, “Yeah, likewise.”

“And you remember Rachel, right Wes?” Michael spoke up again, gesturing to the man who could not possibly be the same Wes Robbins I’d known as a kid, even though I knew he was. With his helmet finally off, I could see his hair, that familiar dishwater color between blond and light brown, was buzzed in a way that highlighted the strong masculine bone structure he’d grown into. Hard, crisp lines rather than the smooth lushness of Sawyer’s face, but Wes was no less gorgeous for it.

“Yeah,” Wes answered with only a smidge less gruffness than his goalie. “Nice to see you again.”

“You too,” I said again, my tone coming out a little starstruck in a way that was almost embarrassing. Since when was I thetype to fawn over hot hockey bros? I should really look into getting a fucking grip.

But it seemed that none of the Henning women had access to such a thing, because then Paula was rounding on us like a freight train. Or maybe a fast-moving Zamboni.

“What a great game!” my mom exclaimed as she moved in to hug my brother with the same amount of enthusiasm she’d used to hug me, her wayward prodigal daughter. You would think she would be able to hide the fact that Michael was her favorite child, but I didn’t hold it against either of them. Even if it did feel unfair for her to be just as excited to see her son, who she saw every day, as she was to see her daughter who had been gone for the better part of four years.

---