Page 24 of The Kiss Class

Her jaw lowers.

His tightens.

“I knew you wouldn’t approve. I’m sorry. I let you down.” I’m letting myself down by lying, but it all pours out with nowhere to go but down like a big puddle of drool because Coach Badaszek’s daughter is beautiful. I’m not too far gone along the proverbial player road to know she’s entirely off-limits, but if last night offers me an assist to not lose this game, I’ll take it.

However, I send any desire, inclination, or even an itch in my hockey skates—to repeat the kiss from last night straight into the penalty box.

In other words, I’m going to save my spot on the team even if it means using the coach’s daughter as cover, but I can’t let there be a repeat kiss—a repeat of anything—even though I want to see her in my jersey again more than anything.

CHAPTER FIVE

I have a kiss hangover.Is that normal for the first time?

I also have to admit I haven’t entirely been in my right mind this morning, but Pierre Arsenault’s comment sobers me up.

Either he had his prefrontal cortex replaced with a hockey puck or he’s working an angle. But why me? Why this?

First, he called me his girlfriend when we were at the Fish Bowl. Now, it sounds like he claims I’m his unrequited love. I’ve never had requited love, no less the unrequited kind.

Oh, and let’s not forget that he kissed me like it alone would single-handedly save the world. Or rescue me from Chard. Not that I was in too much distress. I totally could’ve handled the drunk loser—by running out the back door.

But the kiss, my official first kiss, has me in the best kind of distress because I want to do it again . . . with him. Even though that breaks all my rules since he’s a hockey player. Another point against the notion is that he’s on my dad’s team. Kissing Pierre is probably also against federal law . . . because it was sogood.

Casting me a flirty gaze, he says, “Amour, I thought we were cool since you were wearing my jersey last night.”

I start to explain the leak in the sunroof when I feel like I’ve been splashed by water a second time. Does he want me to pretend to be his girlfriend? If so, why?

“We need to get you a new car,” he says simply.

Blinking a few times, I process this information. At a crossroads, I can come clean or muster some of Anna’s way with words and Ilsa’s independence.

Let’s just say I skip the paved streets altogether and go offroad when I say, “I’m not looking for a sugar daddy.”

Not missing a beat, he replies, “I want to make sure you’re safe whether you’re driving in bad weather here or in LA traffic.”

My father ping-pongs his attention between us.

Mine is on the Frenchman and his stylish stubble and tousled hair instead of the long hair like other guys on the team. The way his massive hands dwarfs the Christmas doughnut. How his lips are so nicely proportioned.

I fan myself with a folder from my father’s desk.

He says, “Amour, we can make this work. I believe in us.”

How am I letting him get away with this? To answer that, I’d need to rewind to the kiss last night. Considering the present company, that’s a terrible idea. Now, I need an industrial-sized fan.

Dadaszek gets up from his chair and paces in front of the broad window overlooking the arena. This is never a good sign. Gazing up at the ceiling, he’s wishing Mom were still around to help him deal with this. That means he’s at the end of his tether.

I was too young to remember my father during his hockey glory days, but I’ve heard stories. They called him by a namethat sounds sort of like our last name but contains a word not used in polite company unless referring to a donkey.

Let’s just say that even now, Tom Badaszek is an imposing man.

Of course, my allegiance belongs to him, but whether my knight in an ugly Christmas sweater has real feelings for me or not, he did help me out of an uncomfortable situation at the Fish Bowl.

And I’ll never be able to wipe that kiss from my memory.

“Dadaszek, I’m sorry about the social media storm after last night. It’s true, um?—”

“What social media storm?” the Frenchman asks.

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