Page 59 of Pucking my Enemy Boss

As we work together, hanging lights, straightening ornaments, there’s a warmth between us that seems to grow with each passing moment. Every so often, our fingers brush, sending a spark through me, like there’s some magnetic pull thatkeeps drawing us closer in a tight knot that doesn’t give you the chance to pull away.

There’s something about watching him decorate that sends little sparks of joy flickering through my chest. Maybe it’s the way his brow furrows in concentration or how his hands move so confidently, like he’s done this a million times before. Or maybe it’s just the simple fact that he’s here, in this moment, with me.

“We should go on a Christmas date.”

The words are sudden, completely unplanned, and I could’ve argued they didn’t come from me.

Ethan raises an eyebrow, a smirk playing on his lips. “A what?”

“A Christmas date. You know ... a Christmas market, or something corny and festive.”

He laughs, that low, warm sound that makes my heart skip. “Sounds ridiculously cheesy.”

“Yeah, well, I like cheesy. And I think we could use a little cheesy if you’re up for it,” a grin breaks across my face. “You think you’re the Christmas market type?”

His gaze drops to my mouth, lingering for a second longer than necessary, and my stomach does a little flip. “No,” he murmurs slowly. “But I think I’m the ‘do whatever makes Holly happy’ type.”

My breath catches, and I’m about to say something—anything—but the words disappear as he reaches out, his hand brushing against mine, fingers tangling together in a soft, unspoken promise.

The moment stretches, warm and electric, and everything around us fades away. He moves closer, his face mere inches from mine, his gaze intense, focused only on me.

“Lucky me,” he murmurs, his voice so soft I barely catch it.

When I lean in to kiss him, it’s not just a kiss. It’s like every bit of tension, every lingering glance, every brush of fingershas led to this, and for the first time, I feel like I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be. His arms pull me closer, his warmth surrounding me, and everything else fades away. It’s just us, tangled in the glow of Christmas lights and the heady feeling that maybe this could be the beginning of something big.

When we finally pull apart, breathless, I grin, unable to hide the warmth flooding my chest. “So, does that count as cheesy?” I whisper.

He chuckles, his forehead resting against mine. “If it does, I think I could get used to it.”

The Chicago Blizzardslocker room might have seen some things: sweaty post-game brawls, dubious pranks involving glitter bombs, and other stuff, but right now it’s hosting an epic, borderline chaotic, TikTok live session of some of the toughest men on the planet struggling to gift-wrap scented candles and plushies.

Oh yeah, this is going viral.

"Alright, guys, you're live in 3… 2… 1!" Lauren’s voice rings through the room as she points at the camera, her finger like a conductor setting off a symphony of wrapping paper carnage.

Liam, bless his heart, is already tangled in a ribbon that could rival Rapunzel’s hair. “This—” he growls, yanking at the knot like it’s a defensive line he’s about to bulldoze through, “is why I hire people for Christmas.”

Standing on the sidelines, watching the chaos unfold with barely contained amusement, I can hardly hold in the laughter. In front of me, burly hockey players are fumbling with gift bows and tape as if they've been tasked with disarming a bomb, not sending holiday gifts to fans.

Ethan, for once, looks like he’s holding it together—cool, collected, wrapping paper folded with precision. Because of course, he’s good at this. Probably uses some secret hockey strategy on how to fold corners at 90-degree angles or something. The man is perfection even when dealing with cartoon reindeer wrapping paper.

From across the room, our eyes meet. His signature brooding glare softens, just for a second, a flicker of something playful sparking beneath the surface. I feel the heat rising in my cheeks as I flash him a grin. He returns the tiniest smirk before flicking his gaze back to the task at hand, but not before texting me under the table.

Ethan: I can tell you’re thinking dirty thoughts while I’m over here folding like a pro.

I choke on air, discreetly glancing down at my phone and biting back a laugh. I type furiously.

Me: Please, you look like a Martha Stewart wannabe. Very cute, though.

From my peripheral, I see his shoulders tense, the same way they do before he skates into a game-winning shot, and then—bam! —he’s back to acting like the perfect, unbothered player.

Ryan, the team’s captain, is a few feet away, making what can only be described as a “tape monster” with Christmas tape. “Yo, Ethan, how do you make this stuff stick? I swear, this tape has a personal vendetta against me.”

“Ryan, you’re using double-sided tape,” Ethan replies, his voice dripping with calm.

Ryan blinks down at his tangled creation, realization dawning slowly. “Oh … right.”

I barely keep it together. The boys are ridiculous, but somehow, it just makes them all the more endearing. I sneak another glance at Ethan, my heart doing a somersault in my chest when our hands brush against each other under the table. It’s such a subtle touch, but it feels electric. Like our skin is magnetic and the whole universe just conspired to bring us together in this very moment.

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