Page 29 of The Hockey Grump Saves Christmas

The rest of the kids gave each other puzzled looks and shrugged, no idea who he is. To be fair, I would have been one of them if he hadn’t told me what he did for a living. And even then, I hadn’t realized his significance until my aunt went all lovesick teenager on the phone.

Anyway, where the hell is he? Before we left the theater, he said he had to go do something first and would meet us here. But we’ve been waiting about fifteen minutes and there’s no sign of him. The bastard had better not have snuck off to his home on the hill never to be seen again.

“Over here!” Grayson’s shout snaps me out of my reverie of fury.

Oh hell. The ten-year-old is scooting out across the ice, his sneakers slipping and sliding under him.

I race to the edge of the pond nearest this imminent catastrophe. “Grayson, get back here.”

Then out of nowhere, his best friend Kristopher is skidding out to meet him, shouting, “No. Itwould be better here.” And he heads off toward the end of the spit of land that protrudes into the pond. “Miss Bourne, wouldn’tthisbe the best spot for the mayor’s house?”

“The best spot for you both is on solid ground. Come back.”

Instead they both completely ignore me and move farther out on the ice, toward each other.

“It’d be better near the middle where everyone can see it,” Grayson says.

“No, it’d be better near the edge where people can hear what we’re saying.”

“Get off the ice right now.” Broken limbs and parents’ lawsuits and the banning of the Christmas play forever flash through my mind. That is not how I want to bow out of this job, as the one responsible for bringing a tragic end to a decades-old town tradition.

Now the boys are yelling at each other, having an actual full-blown argument on the ice about where the scenery of the mayor’s house should be.

“Putting it there is dumb. Why are you always dumb?” Kristopher shouts.

“Boys,” I yell through my cupped gloved hands. “We do not use words like that. You know better. Stop it. And get off the pond.”

“Yeah,” Grayson shouts at his friend. “Don’t fucking call me that.”

“And we definitely do not use words likethat,” I holler right as Grayson shoves Kristopher, who loses his balance, his feet flailing, even his winter boots unable to gain any traction on the slick surface.

He grabs onto Grayson for support. “Don’t be a dick,” he yells just before finally losing his fight with gravity andlanding hard on his butt and pulling Grayson down on top of him.

For a moment it looks like they might be laughing. But then I realize they’re wrestling, and not in a best friends kind of way. More in a mortal-enemies-fighting-to-the-death kind of way.

“Stop it,” I shout, helpless to do anything about two kids rolling around on the ice trying to smack each other completely out of my reach. I haven’t felt this out of control of a situation since my first day as a student teacher when a kid said he’d spotted a mouse and half the class ended up standing on their chairs squealing. A couple of them cried and one of them peed their pants. We never did find the mouse.

“Just stop it. Get up. And get to the side. Carefully.” No matter how loud I shout they probably can’t even hear me over whatever they’re yelling in each other’s faces.

“Yeah, pack it in,” a voice beside me cries. I look down to see little Abigail, brow screwed into a disapproving scowl, mittened hands curled into fists at her sides.

Nine-year-old Wesley appears next to her. “Nah, serves Grayson right for eating my last cookie.” He punches the air in front of his face to illustrate the scale of cookie-eating punishment he would like to see administered.

It would never have crossed my mind that this chess-loving kid would have an aggressive streak. “Wesley. That is not nice.”

“No.” Abigail turns to face him and stomps a foot into the snow to emphasize her point. “Violence is never the answer.”

And suddenly almost all the kids have gathered around to witness the scrap. Cries of “It’s not worthit” mingle with “Get him” and other shouts of encouragement and remonstration that I can’t make out because they’re all yelling on top of each other and because I’m absolutely terrified that one of those kids rolling around out there is about to crack their head open on the ice. Or maybe both of them.

“Hey!” a voice booms to my left.

Abigail gasps in wonder as we all turn to see Gabe appear out of nowhere, his long, powerful legs jogging across the snow toward the pond.

“That’s enough.” His gruff voice sends a shiver through me as he transitions from snow to ice without missing a step, in the same way an amphibious creature moves from land to water effortlessly because they’re equally at home on both.

Grayson and Kristopher pause mid-grapple and turn their heads to look at him—either that or they wondered what was making the ice under them shake. It’s like they’re in a video that’s been paused.

“Stop being idiots and get off each other before one of you smashes a skull,” Gabe says.

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