Page 33 of The Hockey Grump Saves Christmas

Even if she is incredibly attractive, she’s also totally maddening, could not be more opposite of me, and is moving to New Orleans in a few weeks. Anyway, there’s no space in my life for a woman. Particularly after what happened with the last one.

For fuck’s sake, why is my brain spiraling out of control? I haven’t lost my grip on itsince that time a Bruins defenseman thought it would be fun to slug it out on center ice after I might’ve suggested his mom was overly friendly with his teammates.

“It’s my set-painting top,” Natalie clarifies. “When the kids aren’t around helping, that is. I like to think ruining it with paint splatters is exactly what the asshole who gave it to me deserves.”

“Oooh, a glimpse into Natalie’s love life. Tell me more.” And for some reason I want to know every minute detail of this story.

Who was he? What made him an asshole? Why aren’t they still together? Does he live in town? What does he do for a living? And what did he do to her to make her hate him?

“I’m telling you nothing.” She puts the pack of brushes on top of the can of paint. “And you might not want to open the subject of relationships.” She straightens and yanks the sweatshirt down at the sides. “Because of course I’ve looked you up. And your history in that department isn’t exactly stellar.”

And there we have it. The internet history that’s impossible to erase. “That is a load of old sh?—”

“Don’t want to hear it.” She holds her palms up to me. “You’re here to help the show go on. Nothing more. We don’t have to like each other. We don’t even have to get along. We just have to remake the scenery and use your muscles to move stuff.”

Great. Now that she’s read all that shit, she’s going to think I’m even more of a dick than she did before.

Since I’ll never see her again after this whole play thing is over, that shouldn’t bother me.

But it does. It gnaws at my stomach like a rottweiler grinding its teeth on an indestructible bone.

She strides past me to a pile of new two-dimensional trees. A waft of something faintly floral follows her—not that old lady, gives-you-a-headache floral, more light and fresh.

“We’re too short of time to cut out the shapes for the scenery ourselves, so I had the hardware store do it.” Her tone is all back-to-business again. “They remade the forest and the front of the mayor’s house from the same designs as before. They even screwed bases on them so they’ll stand up on the ice and didn’t charge because they feel sorry for the kids.”

This town seems to be riddled with compassioneven when it comes to fake trees.

“You can line these up along the back wall and get to work.” She grabs a plywood tree and carries it to the back of the stage to indicate exactly where I should form my line of forest.

I pick up another and follow her.

She puts hers down and spins around without realizing I’m right behind her.

“And then—” Whatever she’s starting to say ends in a muffledoomphas she face-plants straight into my left pec.

“Sorry,” I say as she rubs the tip of her nose. “Thought you knew I was here.”

Peeping over her hand are eyes as blue as this town’s vast winter sky.

She stills, hand frozen mid-rub.

And in an instant the atmosphere changes.

The air between us is no longer ordinary theater air that smells of stale dust and fire smoke.

It’s alive.

A whole living being with a heartbeat all its own.

It crackles with how much we irritateeach other. How opposite we are. And how damn fucking attracted I am to her.

Something inside me shifts, moving to a place it knows better than to shift to.

“My fault,” she says, her voice the softest I’ve heard it. “Didn’t hear you follow me.”

Thirty seconds ago, my instinct would have been to tell her that of course she didn’t hear me, she was too busy yakking about how to lay out the trees in a military row.

But not now.

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