Page 65 of The Kiss Class

I drop onto my bed, head spinning as the pre-sleep comment comes back to me. Drawing a deep breath, I ask myself what this means. I’m not sure, other than one simple fact. Pierre Arsenault has my heart. I love him, too.

I should be elated. But my overactive mind makes a list of unknowns.

There’s the matter of my father, Pierre’s coach. Even if a second miracle occurred and my father is okay with me dating one of his players—which he’d never go for—is it a conflict of interest or some kind of human resources violation?

Then there’s the issue of Pierre’s puck bunny past. It shouldn’t bother me, but I hate the idea of them swarming him. And what if he’s tempted by some gorgeous fan girl? I tried to dress up sexy like them and looked like abelf—a bunny elf whoembarrassed herself. The memory makes me want to barf. Could I get over that?

Then, the fact that I live in another state presents a problem. College, too, because for the first time in my life, I dread going back.

I didn’t want Pierre to see the doodle I did of him during Kiss Class #3 in case he saw the others. The last week or so, while at the arena, instead of completing Professor Fujiyama’s assignment to sketch live-action, I doodled number seventy-four, who I was pretending not to like. But if I’m no longer in the graphic art program, what will I do?

Not knowing who I am other than a student bums me out. I remain on the couch for the better part of the day, watching theHome Alonemovies.

Just like there’s Christmas Eve, there should be a name for the day after Christmas. I scroll through my mental thesaurus.

Christmas Later?

Christmas Beyond?

Christmas Morrow?

I vaguely recall something about Boxing Day in the UK.

But nothing bolsters my spirits. I feel myself slipping into the blues that sometimes happen to people post-merriment and pre-New Year’s. That reminds me of my father’s annual party that’s just for the team, which means Pierre will be there. I’m expected to go as well. But unlike the Team Christmas party, this one is a more intimate affair, usually held here at home or in a private room at a restaurant.

According to Helen, it’s going to be here. Either way, there’s no escape.

Pierre and I pretended to have known each other and broke up with me disinterested and with him pining. Can I fake not liking him now?

Before I can come up with a plan to deke this love story—aclever feint move in hockey—the Nebraska Knights vs the Denver Blizzard comes on.

The Blizzard start the game hot with two points scored against us, which makes me wonder if Beaumont Hammer is asleep at the wheel—it’s hard to tell under all the goalie gear. He could still be recovering from food poisoning. Hayden and Teddy both spend time in the penalty box—unfair calls if you ask me, but I’m not the one holding the whistle.

Redd offers a neat little assist, and Micah gives us a sizzling slapshot goal. Then the Blizzard fires off one more before they lose steam partway through the second period.

The rest of the game is breezy with the Knights building momentum, leaving our net empty while the Blizzard’s goalie has his hands full. Their defense is a pair of pylons which can sometimes be favorable, but not tonight. Ted and Pierre are on a tear, enforcers who are somehow everywhere all at once.

During the breaks between the periods, I doodle. Instead of drawing the action for my assignment, I capture Pierre and me last night in front of the tree by the fire. My thoughts drift. I don’t know what else to do with my life. I like to draw, but that’s more of a hobby. I fear making it a profession will rob me of the way it tends to settle my active mind with a singular focus that’s all mine—not me creating an image, writing an essay, or giving a presentation based on someone else’s information.

Back on the ice, our guys work together like a well-oiled machine thanks to plentiful assists, saves, and tying up the game. The front line sweeps up during overtime.

Even though the Knights win handily with a final five to three score, I fall into a funk. Don’t worry, I’m still bathing, unlike Richy, but I’m sincerely at a loss for what to do with myself. The situation between Pierre and me (and my dad) and my future.

I text my sisters, who’re living their best lives in the Caribbean.

Me: SOS

Anna Bannanna: I’m in the jacuzzi. Would you rather I call?

Kangaroo Ilsa: What? Where? When? I’ll be there.

Me: It’s not that urgent. I’m just wondering if twelve days is too short of a time to fall in love with someone.

Anna Bannanna: Then I’d have to ask if twelve years is too long.

Kangaroo Ilsa: With Jack, it was love at first sight.

I don’t hate their answers, but they don’t exactly help because I’m feeling slightly overwhelmed and not sure what to do because there’s no class plan for life. For love. However, Pierre’s kissing lessons were exceptional.

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