Page 4 of Santa's Pucking Hat Trick

“I don’t really see myself finding any good marketing or PR jobs here,” I commented idly, and it was a huge mistake. Bria’s face lit up.

“Well, if you need help job hunting, I’ve got you covered! You know I have more connections in this town than a game ofConnect Four. We’ll get you gainfully employed in no time, mark my words.”

It was true about her connections, and she also had an underlying need to be helpful all the time. That was exactly why I shouldn’t have said anything that might indicate I was a new project for her. I could see an idea hatch in Bria’s well-meaning, devious little brain—ways she could get me nice and settled in Mistletoe long term. Probably forever if I let her have her way.

That was decidedlynotwhat I wanted.

But I couldn’t exactly tell my pseudo-aunt who I loved that my goal was to move someplace far away—a big city like Los Angeles would be perfect for my career goals, and I had no particular desire to stay in the New England area where I was raised, especially after I’d been in a warmer climate for college.

“Thanks, Bria,” I said, trying not to sound as miserable as I felt.

All evening, my parents, brother, and whole host of family friends all expressed excitement about me being back home “for good.” It only made me feel guilty and trapped. People didn’t really leave Mistletoe—especially people like the Hennings, who were so interconnected with the community that we practically founded the town. Our family was so close to one another too, that it was practically unheard of for one of us to move away. I had a couple of cousins who had left Mistletoe, but they were still well within driving distance, and they still came back to our holiday mecca every single Christmas.

I didn’t have the heart to tell any of my party guests about my ambitions. Instead, I steered conversations toward lighter fare.

After a couple of beers had gone right through me, I was finally able to duck away to the bathroom, relieved to find that there wasn’t a line even though the scene around the narrow hallway had looked chaotic from the outside. Inside, I shoved past a group of women around my age, noticing as I sat in the stall that one of the voices was familiar.

“Oh, no doubt he’s just as big everywhere else,” purred Halley Jacobsen, the infamous puck bunny who’d drooled over my brother for all of our years of going to school together. “No way he’s not packing downstairs. Look at the size of his shoulders.”

“And his feet,” another one of them joked.

“And the way he could throw you around,” someone sighed.

“Plus he’s a goalie, right? So I bet he never misses his shot, if you know what I mean.”

Titters of scandalized laughter followed the joke. Clearly Sawyer Finnegan was their topic of conversation, and they were all lusting after him. I could understand it on a basic attractiveness level, but to be so shameless when he was just a room away? I almost had to admire the audacity.

“A friend of mine hooked up with him once, a year or so ago. Says he rocked her world.” The gossip was met with appropriate oohs and ahs.

“I don’t know how all of them get away with being so hot,” a different voice piped in. “Like, Roman is gorgeous and knows it, obviously. But even Wes Robbins has such humble big dick energy, and he might be the prettiest one.”

Their target quickly shifted as I tried my best not to listen to their insipid chatter, hoping to get out of this restroom as soon as possible. Unfortunately, I’d come in here in part for a moment of quiet and I couldn’t even have that.

“No way,” one of them scoffed. I didn’t hear the first part of her protest as I flushed, but when the sound died down andI came out of the stall, she was finishing up with a “I want to grab that hair and hang on for dear life,” so she was back on Finnegan, apparently. I refused to voice an opinion in either way.

It was hard not to roll my eyes as I mumbled a polite “excuse me” and passed one of the women on my way to the sink. The group of them kept up their catalog of hot hockey bros. I washed my hands and shook them dry to avoid asking one of them for a paper towel.

“Well, other than Roman, who I can confirm is just asbadin bed as he is on the ice”—a pretty blonde said in an almost orgasmic tone that told me “bad” meant “good,” and God, I wanted to gag—“I’m hoping to try out the other players sooner rather than later.”

“Amen,” Halley proclaimed, twirling her hair on a manicured finger in true nyny fashion. “That’smyChristmas wish.”

I couldn’t resist letting out a quiet snort, which should have alerted the group of four to the fact that I wasn’t one of them, but Halley was the only one who seemed to notice I even existed. Her eyes scanned over me, seemingly not even registering the fact that this wasmyparty and she knew me from high school way back when. There was no recognition in her gaze. She may have crashed this shindig, or more likely, my mom had just put up flyers in the town square. The party really wasn’t about me if Paula was letting in any old riffraff off the street.

It was a shitty timing thing, but despite my need to escape this nonsense as soon as possible, I ended up following the group of them out of the restroom like just another fish in their school. They snickered and whispered all the way into the hallway that was newly crowded, and the annoying sound surrounded me on all sides, blocking me in as surely as the bodies of all of my party guests.

They were still giggling when we approached the corner, rounding it into a wider space where I could finally breathe. But that was when I found none other than Sawyer Finnegan, leaning against the wall, his heavy brow set in a dark, disapproving line. The bathroom bimbos eyed him with obvious interest as we passed, apparently oblivious to his open disdain. I was at the back of the crowd and heard his half-growled “fucking puck bunnies,” internally agreeing with the sentiment until I saw that he was glaring at me.

“What?” I intoned dumbly. “Not me.”

“If it looks like a duck and quacks like a duck,” he shot back, and Jesus, what was his deal? Did he have no respect for the fact that I was his best buddy’s twin sister? If Michael was letting the guys think I was a hopeless hockey groupie like most other twenty-something women in this town, I’d kill him.

“Oh, please,” I fired back at him, startling him enough that he raised one of those thick brows. “What does it say about your profession thatthoseare the type of people you attract?”

I only stayed to watch his expression shift—he looked shocked, as if I’d slapped him. Then, anger and exhaustion propelling my feet, I stormed off.

I didn’t stop until I was outside in the chilly evening air, letting the bite of it cool my fiery rage. It felt like I could breathe now that I was out of that stuffy party, far from all of those stupid hockey players killing the vibe.Deep breaths, Rachel. Who cares what some Skatin’ Santas’ douchebag thinks of you?

“You know I can’t. I have practice,” a man’s voice broke through my quiet moment. It was familiar, but it took me another few seconds of accidental eavesdropping on his apparent phone call for me to place it, and then I was able to look around and confirm with my eyes that it was, in fact, Wes.

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