Page 43 of The Hockey Grump Saves Christmas

And even if I were open to having a thing with someone, which I am not, a Christmas-obsessed, people pleasing, sociable and community-involved extrovert is definitely not my type.

Plus, she’s on the verge of moving more than a thousand miles away from where my life is centered. And who knows if I’ll stay with the Apollos? I could end up getting traded even farther away from New Orleans than I am now.

Anyway, even if she checked all the boxes, there’s no space in my life for a relationship—I’m all hockey, all the time. I have nothing else to give to anyone or anything. I can barely fit in my parents, and that’s it.

At twenty-eight, I’ve probably only got about five years left in this game—seven if I’m lucky—and I need to use that time to build as much success and as much of a great reputation as I can to set myself up for a future beyond hockey. I don’t plan to be a washed-up thirty-five-year-old with nothing to get up forin the mornings.

This is where my focus needs to be. I can’t let myself be distracted.

I mean, look what happened last time—I vowed after that disaster not to let a woman into my life again until I can give her enough brain space to spot any sign of betrayal coming.

So, yeah, even if the kid with the missing glove hadn’t interrupted, we’d probably have jumped apart anyway—realized it was a terrible idea and backed off. Yeah, that’s what would have happened. It certainly wouldn’t have gone any further regardless.

“What’s wrong with you?” I say out loud to myself, running my fingers through my hair and holding on tight to my head, which clearly needs some sense shaken into it.

Why am I thinking about this so much? I don’t even give game strategy this much thought.

For Christ’s sake, it was a one-off kiss. That we didn’t even get to complete. It doesn’t mean anything. It’s done and gone. It should be taking up no room in my head.

But there it sits, right alongside the story of how her mom would return from her travels and tell her all about the exciting places she’d seen but never took Natalie to any of them. I mean, telling a kid about the best ice cream in the world that they will never taste—how shitty is that, for fuck’s sake?

I swing my legs off the couch and push myself up to sitting.

Jesus, it’s dark out. It’s amazing how most of a day can sink into oblivion when my brain insists on trying to process an amazing kiss that was on the brink of becoming sensational—even if I didn’t want it or the woman attached to it.

I need something to pour cold water on these ridiculousthoughts, and there’s one thing that will do that for sure.

I pick up my phone from the coffee table and cross the room to the kitchen while video-calling my parents.

“Well, ahoy there, me hearty.” Mom’s wearing an eye patch when she pops on screen.

Dad appears behind her. “Shiver me timbers, it’s the landlubber.” There’s a plastic parrot on his shoulder.

Yup, these two are exactly the cheery distraction I needed. “I know I’ll regret this, but what are you doing?”

“It’s Pirate Party night,” Mom declares as if of course I should know that. “Hold on a second, let’s show you our full outfits.”

There’s enough camera wobble to make me feel seasick before she puts me down and stands back next to Dad.

“Wow, never thought I’d see the day when you wore a frilly shirt, Dad.” He lifts a leg. “Oh, and pants. Red and black stripesandfrills on them too. Guess it’s not possible to overdo the pirate theme.”

“Doesn’t he look handsome?” Mom says, draping herself down one side of him and swooshing her layered skirt back and forth.

“I guess beauty is in the unpatched eye of the beholder. Where exactly did you acquire these delightful garments?”

“There’s a whole room of costumes,” Mom says. “All included,” she adds, never one to waste a penny, even though I can give them anything they want.

“Lucky you caught us before we head off to the ballroom,” Dad says.

“Very.” I open the fridge and pull out a protein drink. “Wouldn’t have missed this sight for the world.”

“There’s a whole pirate-themed buffet, and games, and a band called the JollyRoger Jamboree.”

“Pray tell, what exactly makes up a pirate-themed buffet?” I ask, shaking the drink. “Does everything have to completely lack vitamin C for the authentic scurvy experience?”

“I think it’s more the shapes of the food than the contents,” Mom clarifies. “Like pineapples cut out like ships, cheese on cocktail sticks like flags, that sort of thing.”

“Someone showed me their photos from last year and there were pizzas with the toppings laid out like a treasure map.” Dad sounds in awe of such a culinary feat.

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