Page 32 of The Hockey Grump Saves Christmas

CHAPTER 11

GABE

I hear Natalie’s voice before I see her. It’s hushed, and I can’t quite make out what she’s saying.

Having entered the theater by the rear door, the only way onto the stage is via the backstage area and the wings.

Not wanting to deal with meeting another local, I pause, hoping the conversation is wrapping up and whoever she’s talking to is about to leave.

Standing silently behind the curtain, I can just about make out what she’s saying.

“We can do it. We can make this happen. Wehaveto make this happen.” Her voice is quiet, but determined.

Is she talking toherself?

I lean around the curtain. Thankfully she’s facing away from me, unloading things from a large box with the wordsWarm Springs Hardwareon the side.

She’s wearing different jeans today, looser and paint-stained, and her large gray sweatshirt looks like it belongsto someone more my size than hers. Disappointingly, it hangs low enough to cover her spectacular ass.

A blond ponytail hangs down the back of it, flowing from under the same green beanie she was wearing yesterday.

“It’s all for the kids,” she mutters, pulling a large can of paint from the box. “We can do it.”

She is definitely giving herself a pep talk. And it’s fucking adorable.

I’m no stranger to self-talk. In fact, one of our coaches actively encourages it, along with visualization before games. But having only experienced it in a world where millions of dollars are at stake, seeing a small-town drama teacher hyping herself up over some paint, pieces of plywood, and costumes made from old curtains, is kinda heartwarming.

And it felt good to have Natalie’s gratitude for breaking up the scrap yesterday. Oh, the irony of me stopping a fight on the ice rather than being involved in one.

I couldn’t get her smile out of my head as I made my way home for my PT session. Or as I cooked dinner, then ate two of her Christmas cookies. Or as I watched a show about the elaborate courtship rituals of the South American red-capped manakin. Or as I lay in bed, uncharacteristically unable to nod off.

I cough and make deliberately loud footsteps onto the stage.

“Oh, hi.” She turns to face me with a three-pack of paintbrushes in one hand and a roll of green masking tape in the other.

Her cheeks are pink, and it turns out that the oversized sweatshirt has the wordsDrama Teachers Do It On Stageacross her breasts.

“Have you?” I ask.

“Have I what?” The question crinkles her nose.

I point at her chest. “Done it on stage?”

She shakes her head and rolls her eyes. “Oh, for goodness’ sake.”

“Well, you can’t wear a shirt like that and not expect the question.”

“I can’t wear this around the kids because they ask what it means. And I guess I can’t wear it around this particular adult because he can’t resist the obvious unfunny joke.”

“Then why wear it at all?” I intend that to meanwhy not wear something different that doesn’t have a double entendre on the front. But as the words leave my mouth, I’m instantly aware it also sounds like I’m sayingmaybe you should take it off. Which I definitely am not.

Well, obviously, I’m only human and wouldn’t say no to a peek at what’s under there, especially because I’m certain it would be breathtaking. But I don’t mean she should actually do it. And I certainly don’t want her to think that’s what I mean. Or that I’ve come here to hit on her. Which I definitely haven’t.

Although it probably does sound like I’m hitting on her.

Am I hitting on her?

I need to not hit on her.

---