Page 4 of The Kiss Class

I’m notsure what to say. It’s not that I don’t want to find someone special and get married like Ilsa and Anna, but there are a few hurdles to cross, namely that I’ve never been kissed.

Anna is the oldest of our trio, makes friends wherever she goes, is extremely thoughtful, and is happily married to her childhood best friend, who became her high school sweetheart, aka Calvin Bannanna.

Ilsa is independent and gorgeous, a talented musician, andhad an instant love connection with Jack McMann that she then spread out over a year before they took things to the next level.

Then there’s me, who is flirtatiously challenged, introverted, does not make friends wherever I go, whose childhood best friends were books, and is not overly independent even though I try to be.

The truth is, after nearly eight years of post-secondary schooling, I miss home. I miss the rest of my family, who are all based in or around Omaha.

I’m plain, brainy, awkward, and have never been kissed.

Unless I can send Santa a letter with that last wish on it, I don’t expect to find a handsome guy who wants to be my first under the Christmas tree this year.

As well-meaning as my sisters are, their suggestions so far have been misses. Not one hit—as in, we hit it off and want to meet again for a second date.

For example, there was Bruce, who had a wardrobe malfunction. Claude had a distracting amount of sleep crust in his eyes. Then there was Chuck, who repeatedly called mebroanddude.

The pee-yew guy need not apply. A girl has to have some standards, which also means I won’t be “checking out” any hockey players either. This is no small feat when my hometown is also known as Hockey Town.

CHAPTER TWO

It’s beenzero days since I’ve been spared the doomsday call into Coach’s office for some infraction, penalty, or pep talk—that last one comes from me, assuring Badaszek that he didn’t make the wrong decision, putting me on the defensive line.

I’m starting to think he secretly wants to be friends rather than ream me out.

Today, when I enter the head coach’s office, overlooking our training arena with a big window on what may as well be the center of the world, he’s on the phone and signals me with the one-minute finger.

I drop into the leather upholstered office chair. As my mind begins to wander to last night’s flirtations and shenanigans, something Tommy Badaszek says to the caller draws my attention.

“Well, of course you can, but I don’t understand what that has to do with the law.”

My stomach clenches because whatever it is, I didn’t do it. Well, there was the karaoke incident, but I swear, it wasn’t indecent. However, the wedding reception in Cabo wasdepending on who you ask. The mile-high dare most recently was all in good fun. It involved skydiving, so get your head out of the gutter.

“It’s my job to take these things seriously and I assure you that I am,” Badaszek says in a grim tone into the phone.

I fear he’s speaking with the commissioner, and this means I’m off the team. Time to put on the charm and assure him I’m an asset to the Nebraska Knights and that whatever I do off the ice doesn’t impact my play on it.

While he continues the phone conversation, I come up with examples of guys who’ve been in way worse trouble than me and still got to wear the jersey.

Plus, it’s not like I get into real trouble. Unless you count Cecilia breaking into my condo and throwing all my worldly belongings off the balcony. Then there was Leilani, who spray-painted my Land Cruiser with a word that I won’t repeat in the coach’s office. Oh, and Arya, who wasn’t pleased I was out to dinner with Catalina when I made it clear that we weren’t exclusive. It was a big public blowout caught on camera by no less than fifteen fellow patrons and employees at the restaurant.

It wouldn’t be accurate to call me a bad boy, and I despise the connotations of the termplayerto refer to a guy who plays the romance field because I save that for the glorious game of hockey. My reputation is less of a merit situation that I earned and more of something that happened by accident. One that I’ve taken full advantage of, but I can’t seem to escape it or say no.

Like it or not, my nickname from the female fans is the “Frenchman.” More accurately, I’m French Canadian, but they don’t care about that detail.

“Safe travels. See you soon.” Coach pauses, then says, “I love you too, Badaszek.”

My head involuntarily shakes from side to side. I must havemisheard. Tommy Badaszek loves nothing and no one other than the very game he coaches. He still wears a wedding ring, and rumors abound that his wife walked out on him because hockey came first. I’m not sure I believe that, though. Despite our “meetings,” Badaszek is an upstanding guy. He kind of reminds me of my dad.

After hanging up, Coach lets out a long breath before leveling me with his penetrating, all-knowing, paternal stare.

Anticipating what he’s going to say, I blurt, “It’s not my fault women flock to me.”

He tilts his head as if the words don’t readily compute before rubbing his temples.

“Coach, I assure you that even though I haven’t committed to a relationship, I am committed to this team.”

The man gets out of his commanding leather office chair and paces in front of the windows.

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