Page 66 of The Kiss Class

Anna Bannanna: When you kiss, you know.

Me: Is it really that simple?

Kangaroo Ilsa: When it comes to love, it’s a lot more straightforward than we try to make it out to be. Despite knowing Kangaroo Jack was the one, I resisted for a full year and wish I could get that time with him back. A lifetime won’t be enough for us.

Me: You guys are so sweet.

Anna Bannanna: Does this mean what I think it does?

Kangaroo Ilsa: I cannot wait to start making the roast video for your wedding!

Despite their support and encouragement, I have cookies for dinner and polish off the rest of the Christmas treats for dessert.

After Dadaszek returns from Denver, the guys don’t so much as have their feet on the ground when they immediately jump right back into practice. I drag myself to the arena to finish my assignment, but my heart isn’t in it.

No, it’s on ice with number seventy-four.

Forcing my pencil across the page to sketch the live-action when I’d much rather be drawing Pierre feels as difficult as resisting the last piece of Christmas fudge. I failed, by the way.

The guys gather around the player’s bench, likely for a word from my father, when my phone beeps. I changed Pierre’s contact information from Knight in Shining Armor to Professor Frenchman. Now, he’s Mr. Arsenault.

Mr. Arsenault: What are you doing?

Me: Doodling

Mr. Arsenault: You mean sketching. Making art.

Me: Trying to finish the storyboards for my professor.

Mr. Arsenault: So you’re at the arena. Me too. But you probably knew that. We just finished up.

Me: My father is cutting practice short?

Mr. Arsenault: He said he’s been a bit of a Grinch and told us to go home to be with our families and loved ones.

Me: He said that? Doesn’t sound like Dadaszek.

Mr. Arsenault: I think he misses his family. Also, he has a meeting with his assistant about New Year’s which means we could steal some time and sneak off before he heads home . . .

Me: I don’t think we should be seen together.

Mr. Arsenault: Meet me in the gear closet in ten minutes.

With zero chill, I pop out of my seat and then remind myself to act casual even though I’m craving the Frenchman. Maybe that’s what had me in a bad mood—I was experiencing withdrawals from his lips.

But it’s not only that. I also like his hands and the way he flirts with his eyes. How, under the initial bravado, is a soulful person who thinks about more than hockey and puck bunnies. A man who knows how to run a farm business, win a game, and make blueberry jam.

When I reach the hallway, my father’s voice booms from the other end. Before I can turn around and scurry back the way I came, he calls, “Badaszek!”

“Hey, Dadaszek. Good game, er, practice. The Colorado game, too. I watched it on television.” My tone refuses to modulate itself as it trips over timbres.

“Missed you being there but glad you kept safe from the storm.”

“Held down the fort at home.”

“What did I miss?”

“Oh, um, you know, the usual. Cider, carols, cookies . . .” I don’t addkisses.

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