Page 5 of The Hockey Grump Saves Christmas

“How old is she?”

“Six.”

“You didn’t think she might be terrified?”

“Like you were, you mean?”

He lets out a loudhumph. “I wasn’t terrified. I was startled.”

“You always throw people to the ground out of startlement?”

“Startlement?”He rubs his forehead, pushing up his cap enough to allow the light to catch his lips. I swear to God they flick upward at the corners. “Did you not notice that this was not their car? And that I am not a six-year-old girl?”

I point at the bunny head at his feet that has quite a snow drift gathering around it. “Can’t see very clearly out of that.”

“Okay, well, look.” He picks it up and shakes off the snow. “You need to get all this shit off my house. But here’s the deal, as long as you tell me where to unplug it so I don’t have nightmares that I’m being invaded by a gang of glowing elves and a zebra in a sweater to a soundtrack of whatever the hideous din is that the monkey’s playing now?—”

“Good King Wenceslas.” To be fair, that is a fairly tricky one to figure out.

“If you say so. But as long as I can turn it all off, you have until tomorrow to make it disappear. Now, here.” He offers me his elbow. “I’ll help you to your car. Then you can go away. And I can go inside and try to avoid making my evening even worse by developing hypothermia.”

“Bike,” I say.

“What?”He sounds tetchy again.

“Bike. Not car. I rode up here.”

“You cycled up here. In this?” He throws his arms wide to indicate the general state of blizzardiness around us.

“It wasn’t like this earlier. And it wasn’tforecasted to be like this till much later tonight. I thought I’d be in and out before it started.”

He sighs again and looks around. “Where is it?”

“What?”

“Jesus Christ. Your fucking bike.”

“In the garage. With my coat.”

“And where do you live?”

“At the retirement home.”

“Oh my good God.” He turns away, plants his hands on his hips and throws his head back, his beard catching more snow. “I really have driven right into fucking Wonderland, haven’t I? Is there a Cheshire Cat and a Mad Hatter around here somewhere too?”

“With my aunt,” I offer by way of explanation. “She runs it. The Warm Springs Retirement Village, I mean.” He looks at me with a why-the-hell-are-you-telling-me-this expression. “Anyway, she lives in the manager’s cottage attached to it. And I’m staying with her.”

“And where is it?” He’s clearly a Just The Facts kind of guy.

“In town.”

“Okay. Get in my car. But take that suit off first so the snow doesn’t melt into the seats. You do have, like, clothes on under there, right?”

“Yes. I have clothes on under here. Do you think people are usually naked under these things?”

“Funnily enough,” he says, making full eye contact with me for the first time since he pulled off my bunny head. And it gives me the exact same feeling—one similar to the sensation right before you step out of the wings and onto the stage in front of a packed house. “I’ve never given a single second’s thought to what anyone might wear under an animal costume.”

“Jeans and a sweater. It’s surprisingly roomy in here.” I wiggle my hips to demonstrate.

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