Page 120 of The Hockey Grump Saves Christmas

In spite of that, yesterday, when I spewed all my thoughts at the council members about exactly how I felt about Divina and got it all off my chest without giving a rat’s ass what they thought about me, it felt good. So fucking good. Adrenaline-spikedblood thundered through my veins, firing me up, filling me with confidence and the belief I was doing exactly the right thing.

Usually I would have truly believed I had no power to change anything and just stored all those thoughts inside.

But Gabe was right. Of course he was, damn him. He’s had a whole lifetime of standing up for himself no matter what—on and off the rink. In a sport like that, if you show a single sign you might cave, a single chink in your armor, you’re dead meat.

I’ve spent my whole life displaying my chinks for all to see, even pointing them out when people miss them. He’s spent his whole life doing the opposite.

And right now he’s on the screen in the living room, doing what he does best. Belting the hell out of a puck and his opponents.

But I need to stop thinking about him, because no one needs to think about an assface man who gives them several screaming orgasms then vanishes and says goodbye in a letter.

Another good reason to go to New Orleans. No danger of bumping into him when he’s in town.

“It’s a great game,” Aunt Lou calls. “You really should come watch.”

Pretty sure I wouldn’t be able to tell a good game from one of Divina’s operas.

“Gabe looks great. So handsome,” she says, her last word muffled by the sound of popcorn being shoved into her mouth.

I roll over onto my back and stare at a cobweb hanging from the Tiffany-style light fixture. I should get up there and dust it off before I go.

So I’m going then? Am I?

Fuck, this is hard.

I continue the rollover until I’m on my stomach.

“Nat,” Aunt Lou shouts.

I ignore it.

“Nat!” It’s louder the second time.

I put my hands over my ears.

“Naaat!”

“I’m not watching.” She probably can’t hear me though since my voice is deadened by the covers my face is buried in.

“Seriously,” Lou shouts back, “you have to. It’s Gabe.”

And suddenly I’m sitting bolt upright. There’s no sound of a cheering crowd or a goal horn, so he can’t have scored.

Plus Aunt Lou’s voice doesn’t sound even remotely celebratory. It sounds more worried, or maybe even shocked.

“I’ll come and drag you out of there if you don’t get in here right now,” she says.

“Why?” The pit of my stomach already knows the answer. It rolls and twists and sends a cold shiver up my spine.

“He’s hurt.” Her voice is deadpan, giving nothing away. It’s impossible to tell from her tone whether he’s just bruised an elbow or broken both legs.

My eyes land on the Apollos T-shirt again and despite knowing I shouldn’t give a shit about a man who’d run away after leaving only a note, a surge of worry carries me to the door.

Just as my fingers touch the handle, Aunt Lou yanks it open from the other side. “I know you’re crazy about him. And he’s likely crazy about you. And you’re probably both being idiots. So get your sweet ass in there andwatch the replay.”

She follows me into the living room, herding me along from behind.

In an effort to kid myself that I’m not staying, that maybe I don’t carethatmuch, I don’t sit down. I just stand in front of the sofa.

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