Page 39 of The Hockey Grump Saves Christmas

“But it’s good you’ve stayed to see the play through,” he says. “It obviously makes the kids happy.”

That’s observant. And kind of…sweet?

“Thank you. I love seeing them happy.” I let out a deep sigh and stare down at my fingers as I lace them together.

“It sounds like that makes you sad. Why would making them happy make you sad?”

Jesus.Ishe being sweet? Are the tabloid stories bullshit?

“My aunt says I try too hard to make people happy.” I wouldn’t usually share something like that with someone I’ve known for such a short time—or who’d thrown me to the ground—but hey, I just pounced on him and smashed my lips against his, so I guess I’m not feeling myself today.

“Is that possible?” He sounds surprised. And a little concerned. And twists more, so as much of his body as the theater seat allows is facing me. “For it to be a bad thing to make people happy, I mean.”

Fuck. He needs to stop being kind and thoughtful. He needs to stay irritating. Irritating is way easier to cope with.

Maybe I should just leave. This is a pointless conversation.

But not one cell of my body wants to move.

So instead, I stay where I am and focus on rubbing my thumbs together. “Why do you want to know?”

There’s a slight pause before he replies.

“I’m not entirely sure.” His tone suggests he’s as baffled as to why we’re having this conversation as I am. “You’re kind of interesting though. Like a newly discoveredrainforest species that scientists are studying to try to figure out why it’s moving leaves from one side of the forest to the other for no apparent reason.”

“Thank you for likening me to a dung beetle.”

“Actually more likely to be some kind of monkey.”

“How would you know that?”

He’s silent for a moment and, out of the corner of my eye, I catch him tugging on his top lip with his teeth, like one of the kids would do if they were weighing whether to tell me a deep dark secret.

“I watch a lot of National Geographic,” he says.

“Oh.”That’swhat he treats like a deep, dark secret? Are big, manly hockey players not allowed to like the animals without seeming too soft? “Any particular reason?”

“Long story.” He rests his forearm along the back of his seat. If he moved his hand about two inches, it would be resting on my shoulder. And that would be nice. “I’d prefer to know why your aunt would say you try too hard to make people happy.”

There he goes. Doing that sweet thing again.

Which kind of makes me want to tell him.

And we did just kiss. Which makes us not strangers anymore.

So maybe it’s okay for me to want to respond to his seeming interest in me.

My heart quickens with the unexpected eagerness to share a part of myself with him.

“She says I do it at the expense of my own happiness because I’m so desperate for approval and to be liked.” Actually, that makes my aunt sound bad. “She says it in a good way. I mean, I knowsheloves me and just wants the best for me.”

Now his hand does touch my shoulder.Gently. The barest of touches. Almost like his fingers are hovering over it, their warmth radiating through my sweatshirt, sending a tingle racing down my side to my fingertips.

“You knowsheloves you?” He sounds shocked. “But you don’t know if anyone else does?” And appalled.

I glance up at him and have little choice but to sink into the deep green eyes that sit under his furrowed brow.

I shrug the shoulder he’s touching, pressing it up into his hand. His hand accepts the invitation and comes to rest on it fully.

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