Page 8 of The Hockey Grump Saves Christmas

“Now who’s making assumptions? I’m only staying with my aunt until I start a new job in New Orleans in January. Running a theater staffed almost entirely by volunteers.”

“You have quite the community spirit.”

“And what do you do?” she asks. “Something that makes piles of cash, obviously.”

Dammit, I wasn’t ready to cut her off that time. I was too busy thinking about my shoulder and the deceptively sharp bend somewhere up ahead that I recall from my drive up.

“I’m in athletics.”

She looks like she probably wouldn’t know a hockey stick from a badminton racket, so hopefully that will shut down my leastfavorite question.

“From the SUV and the house and, presumably, the place in the city, I assume not as a teacher,” she says.

“God, no.” The words are out of my mouth with a tone that clearly offends her. Even with all my attention on the road, it’s impossible not to sense her recoil. “I just mean I’m not good with kids.” That’s a more socially acceptable answer than saying they’re generally exhausting.

“Is your athletics thing how you hurt your shoulder?”

She noticed that? “How do you know I hurt my shoulder?”

“You made a noise when you slammed on the brake for the fox. Then you rubbed it. And you were vaguely sympathetic about my ankle, when I imagine you don’t have a lot of sympathetic tendencies.”

“Again, fifteen minutes.”

“Got to be closer to twenty-five at this point.” She grips the edge of the seat as we take a corner faster than I’d intended. “Why is the athletics thing a secret?”

I’ll give her points for persistence.

“It’s not a secret.” I could continue to give non-answers till I get her home. Something I usually do when pressed by strangers. But something niggling inside me says that wouldn’t be fair to Natalie. Even if she has covered my house in a bunch of Christmas shit.

“I play for the New York Apollos.” I tap my cap.

“Oh.” Her head snaps to look at me. “That’s hockey, right? Not football? Or…something? Oh, actually I think that’s the team my aunt watches, so it’s hockey.”

“Sports fan, then?” That’s something of a relief. At least she won’t ask one of those infuriating questions like why did I make such-and-such a move against the such-and-such a team whatever number of years ago.

“It just explains the”—she gestures at my general presence—“muscles and…stuff.”

The instant I sense my lips involuntarily curling up at the corners I draw them together to bring them under control. “Thank you for appreciating my lifetime of training.”

Pressing the brake gently, I inch us around the bend I’d been nervous about.

“Oh, and it’s a coincidence,” she chatters. “Because my cous?—”

“What the fuck?” I shout for the second time tonight.

Natalie jumps and turns her attention from me to the road ahead.

“Oh, shit,” she says.

And we stare at the tree blocking our way.

Its giant root ball has flattened the bushes on one side of the road and the trunk, which has a diameter of about four feet, has flattened everything on the other. It’s impossible to see the top in the dark, so Christ knows where the thing ends.

“Okay,” I put the vehicle in reverse to start the process of turning around, which will obviously take a while since the road is barely the width of two cars. “If we go back past my house, can we get down the hill on the other side?”

“Nope.” She pops the P.

“No?” My eyes meet hers as she shakes her head slowly. “What do you mean, no?”

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