Page 54 of The Kiss Class

So I do. “It’s almost a new year. Maybe that’ll change.”

“I hope so,” our team captain mutters.

Redd ruffles my hair. “I think our boy is about done getting his jollies.”

I’m not sure if he’s referring to how Coach conceded and let me wear the Santa suit or that the last few years of me playing the field, er, ice, as it were, is coming to a close.

What do they put in the water here? Could be in the air. No, it’s the ice. The sweater.

We play hard and hold each other accountable. My lifestyle hasn’t been conducive to team culture.

That changes now.

Then I get hit in the head with what feels like a cold brick—figuratively not literally, though I wouldn’t be entirely surprised because the girl I have an arena-sized crush on is off-limits.

“What are you doing tonight?” Ted asks.

“Oh, um, probably hanging out,” I say vaguely, not yet wanting to reveal the truth.

“It’s Christmas Eve.”

“You’re welcome to hang with the Lemon fam,” Micah says.

“Thanks. I’ll text you.”

They exchange a look, then drift to the hallway as I scramble to gather the rest of my gear and get ready to see Cara.

Thirty minutes later, I pull down Golden Bantam Lane to scope out Cara’s house and to make sure Coach Badaszek’s truck isn’t in the driveway. Only an old minivan sits parked in front of the garage. Just in case Cara’s father has a tracker onmy rig and turns the airplane around when he senses my proximity to his daughter, I park one street over and walk up to the brick colonial festooned with wreaths tied with red bows in every window, twinkling white lights, and a glowing family of reindeer grazing in the front yard.

A twitchy kind of nervousness creeps in. Should I use the front door or the one on the side? Do I ring the doorbell? Does Cara’s father have an attack dog? Poison darts with their targets set on young men who show interest in his daughters?

But the big red front door opens, and Cara appears wearing a creamy cable-knit sweater, jeans that hug her curves, and socks with a candy cane heart print. Swaths of evergreen swag and glowing white lights—my favorite—frame her.

I’m dead.

Scrape me off the sidewalk. The story of Pierre Arsenault has reached its conclusion. My breath puffs in the air as my jaw lowers and I breathe my last. Must be my heart because it aches for her in a way that I’ve never experienced.

Cara. Is. Radiant.

“Merry Christmas,” she calls.

I walk up the path, keenly aware of my stride, of the swing of my arms—do they normally do this?—and my massive smile that just won’t quit.

“Merry Christmas,” I repeat when we meet on the stoop. “Your house looks beautiful.”

“My mom grew up in a tiny apartment. When she and Dadaszek bought this place, their first Christmas here, she went, and I quote, ‘Christmas crazy.’ My father, sisters, and I carry on the tradition, even when they’re not going to be here to enjoy it.”

I gather that Mrs. Badaszek is no longer with us in a permanent kind of way, but instead of offering words of consolation that Cara has probably heard a thousand times, with anod at the glowing white lights, I say, “Your mom had good taste.”

Cara beams a smile. “She would’ve liked you.”

“Wish I could’ve met her.”

With a little shiver, she ushers me inside, closing the door.

Its thud jolts me slightly, but mostly because I am in my coach’s house with his daughter. “On the other hand, your father’s appreciation of me is questionable.” Don’t be fooled; I’m questioning my sanity right now.

“Give him a chance.”

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