Page 44 of The Hockey Grump Saves Christmas

“That sounds more like a children’s birthday party than the classy luxury cruise I thought I’d sent you on.” And I bet the kids from Natalie’s play would love it.

“Oh, the food is top-notch,” Mom says. “It’s like going to an exclusive restaurant every day for breakfast, lunch and dinner.”

“And snacks in between.” Dad adjusts his belt.

“This is just a fun, one-off thing,” Mom reassures me. “It’s most definitely the super-classy cruise you promised. Don’t worry about that.”

“Any shoulder news?” Dad asks.

“I can lift it to here without it hurting.” I raise my drink-shaking arm, slowly, above my head.

“Excellent progress,” he says.

“Yes, it looks like that rehab center was a great decision,” Mom adds. “I’m sad not to see you at Christmas, but it’ll be worth you spending the holidays there if it’s working so well.”

My stomach and heart clench at the same time, paining me as punishment for the way I’ve misled my parents.

Mom approaches her phone, picks it up and scrutinizesme. “Obviously doing you the power of good. You look different already.”

“You can only see my face. Myfacelooks different? I’m here to fix my shoulder. This isn’t a cover for a nose job.”

“Less tension,” she says. “A mother can always tell. Whatever they’re doing to you up there has already made you less crinkly.”

“Crinkly?”

“Yes. Most of the tension you hold around your eyes and mouth is gone.”

“You can’t even see around my mouth. It’s covered with beard.”

“I can see your lips, and I can see they’re not as tense.” She taps her phone, presumably right where my usually crinkly mouth is. “And you’re smiling way more than usual. Like, a real smile. One that lights up your eyes.”

“Are you saying I don’t usually smi?—”

“Time to go, Deb,” Dad calls, swishing a plastic sword behind Mom’s back. At least I hope it’s plastic.

“Speak soon.” Mom blows a kiss. “Just keep doing whatever it is you’re doing. Because it’s working.”

And my screen goes dark.

I definitely donotneed to keep doing what I’m doing.

I do not need to keep hanging around Natalie Bourne and risk kissing her again.

What I need to do is what I came here to do—get some festivity-free peace and quiet, work on my shoulder rehab, and not get involved with anyone or anything.

But there’s this nagging feeling of responsibility I can’t shake off. Probably from years of conditioning to never let a teammate down. I did say I’d help with the scenery painting. And all the other volunteers have abandoned Natalie with alot still to do.

I put my phone on the kitchen counter and unscrew the bottle cap.

As I take a glug of the blueberry drink, my gaze drifts to the keys next to my phone. Along with the car fob and house keys there’s a larger, chunky old one that the theater custodian gave me as I was leaving yesterday.

He said he doesn’t work Mondays, but since I scored in overtime two years ago to beat the Sabres, who he loathes, I could let myself in today to continue working if I wanted.

I didn’t think I would want to. I only took it to be polite.

But if he doesn’t work Mondays that probably means the theater is empty. So if I headed there now, I could finish my tree-painting obligations and clear my conscience without the awkwardness of being around an incredibly attractive woman who I kissed yesterday and can never kiss again.

Yup. Great idea.

---