Page 9 of The Kiss Class

I snap my fingers, remembering that I’d turned on the Knights-Lions game when I was packing but didn’t have time to see the results. “Oh, I know. You won.”

“We did. Looks like we’re heading to the playoffs.” His strained excitement never gets old.

“That’s reason to celebrate, and maybe this summer . . .” I press my lips together because, for years now, Ilsa, Anna, and I have been urging him to take a vacation. To travel. Well, he does regularly, but only for away games. He doesn’t lounge on a beach, trek on foreign trails, or visit famous museums. Nope. It’s all hockey all the time.

Our encouragement for him to take some time off is constant, but my sisters and I finally decided to do something about it. We planned a family summer vacation to Europe, complete with my sisters’ spouses, leaving our father and me as the fifth and sixth wheels, but that’s okay. While the couples are off doing coupley things, I can listen to Dadaszek remind me how to safely operate a pilot light and what to do in the event of a grease fire.

Like I said, hyper-protective.

He tells me all about the Knights-Lions game and his keyplayers. When he gets to number seventy-four, a defenseman, he grunts.

“Let me guess, he’s a troublemaker.”

“A player.”

“Right, a hockey player.”

“No, a hot-headed, hot shot who uses a different stick every game and is a little too casual with the rotating cast of puck bunnies afterward. The only thing that’s saving him is that he’s got game.”

“On the ice?”

He follows up with a few choice words muttered under his breath.

I gasp, then scold my father. “Dadaszek.”

He arches an eyebrow. “I spend an inordinate amount of time in a locker room. I’ve heard worse.”

That means he’s probably said worse. I wince, thankful it’s never directed at me.

“I thought I’d chased all those fervid female fans back into their warrens, but with no thanks to Arsenault, the Frenchman, they’ve multiplied and returned in droves.” He rants about how he worked hard to clean up the team’s reputation and make it more family-oriented. But now, according to my father, the French Canadian defensive player lured them out of the woodwork.

When we pull onto Main Street in Cobbiton, Dadaszek runs out of grumbly gas just as “I’ll be Home for Christmas” choruses through the truck’s speakers.

The activities commission decorates the town center every year, and it’s one of the best things about coming home. Feeling the warm fuzzies, I’m convinced one of the CAC members is a former set dresser for a Hallmark movie.

The shops on Main Street outdo themselves with frosted glass window displays, festive wreaths, and icicle garlands. Thelight-wrapped street lamps, big red bows, and gold bells are perfectly classic. Choirs of light-up wire angels span the road, trumpets lifted.

It all leads to the Christmas Market, which is a winter wonderland of vendors selling everything from handcrafted ornaments to mulled cider. We have horse-drawn carriage rides, a parade, and a gingerbread house contest. Plus, there are breakfasts with Santa, photos with him and Mrs. Claus, and the lighting of the big tree on December first.

As we pass the town’s living advent calendar Christmas countdown, today’s window glows icy blue with 3D paper snowflakes. Each year, it’s different and draws people from all over the country.

I miss home with a longing that makes me feel like I’m far away rather than right here in the midst of it.

Letting out a breath because I haven’t yet gone shopping or done any of the many traditions we used to start as soon as the town tree was lit, I say, “With only twelve days until Christmas, I’d better get busy.”

“Hope to see you in the box, too.” My dad gives me the game schedule.

I promise to go to all the home games.

“Just stay away from Arsenault.”

I roll my eyes. “As if.”

My father had an unspoken rule that his daughters weren’t to date hockey players. Then, in high school, I foolishly fell for Ricky Koch. He then had the pleasure of hearing me say,Dadaszek, you were right.

We pull up to the pale yellow brick colonial house I grew up in on Golden Bantam Lane. Shutters on every window border wreaths and the red front door and entry are bedecked in white lights.

I look up and down the sidewalk for the Victorian carolerswho canvas town. They make their way through the various neighborhoods one night at a time.

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