Page 105 of The Hockey Grump Saves Christmas

NATALIE

Well, shit.

My heart wobbles before it sinks at the sight of Gabe’s empty driveway.

Despite my nerves about just showing up on his doorstep after seventeen hours of silence—not that I’ve counted—it’s only the thought of seeing him that kept me together on the drive from the pond. Imagining burying my face in the wall of muscle that is his chest, inhaling the spicy orange scent of his skin, and feeling the tickle of his beard against my cheek.

I know he’ll tell me everything will be okay. That they’re a bunch of asshole losers who don’t appreciate how lucky they’ve been to have me. And now that he’s been around the kids for a bit, I’m certain he’ll know that they don’t deserve to be treated like this either, don’t deserve to have their teacher snatched away at the last moment and have a new person take charge just before their biggest, most anticipated performance of the year.

But he’s not here. And I can’t even think where he might be. Maybe getting groceries? It’s not like he knows anyone else in town.

Or maybe he just put his SUV in the garage.

I bring my Jeep to a stop on his driveway and turn off the engine. In one motion I unclick the seat belt with one hand and swing open the door with the other.

My foot slips as soon as I step out, the snow on the driveway having turned to thick ice.

“Jesus.” I grab the open car door to steady myself before swinging it shut, and take more care with my footing as I make my way to the porch.

The house feels empty, no signs of life, and despite losing hope that there’s any chance he might be here, I ring the bell anyway.

Nothing.

I cup my hands against the frosted glass panel alongside the door. Not even the slightest movement inside.

Fuck.

My sleeve catches on something as I pull back, and a piece of white paper flutters to the doormat.

An envelope.

It must have been wedged in the door and I hadn’t noticed in my frantic effort to find Gabe.

I pick it up and turn it over.

Natalie.

What the hell?

I yank off a glove with my teeth and rip open the envelope.

A piece of paper folded into three.

With writing on one side.

Dear Natalie,

I’m so sorry to say goodbye this way. But you’re right. I don’t have the courage to tell my parents I don’t like Christmas. And I don’t have the courage to tell you that I’ve had to go back to New York.

My head spins, the words in front of me blur, and I have to lean back against the door to keep myself upright.

My eyes strain through the haze to make out the next part.

I’ve been given a clean bill of health to rejoin the team. They want me back for the game on Wednesday.

I came to see you yesterday evening to tell you. But I saw you outside the theater and you looked so happy. So full of that joy you have for life and the kids and the Christmas play. And I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t look into your beautiful eyes and tell you this is over. That whatever this thing is that we had, this thing that’s made me feel even more alive than I do on game days, has to be over.

I’m too weak to be able to watch my words hurt you.

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