Page 21 of The Kiss Class

I pick through the fridge, looking for a snack, but there are only old takeout containers. I flick on the light in the living room, but it’s too bright, like I’m standing alone and naked under a spotlight. Like one of those dreams when I had to deliver a presentation to my high school class but lost my voice.

Flicking on my phone, I watch some sports highlights. My phone beeps with a text.

Before I read it, I snap my fingers. “Ah ha! I get it now.”

Even though I was a season starter with the Knights, the entire day has been a delayed initiation. They wanted to see if I made it through the first few months as a team player. Now, they’re springing some kind of rite of passage on me when I least expect it. The text is probably a cryptic message with instructions to meet them on a rooftop or in an alley with a pizza, a cape, and something else so random it’ll only make sense after the fact. A surge of excitement rushes through me. Finally, answers!

Maybe.

Or not. This is even better. It’s been a long time since I communicated with a woman without subtext and expectations. It’s my text pal.

Girl of My Dreams: I had the strangest night.

Me: You’re not the only one. Do tell . . .

Girl of My Dreams: I won’t bore you with the details, but I was expecting to return home to the house lit up with decorations and my family inside doing Christmassy things. Instead, they went to do the lights drive through Groveland Park. That’s my favorite. Well, one of the holiday activities I love and they know it.

Me: Traitors.

Girl of My Dreams: Our Elf on the Shelf got revenge for me.

Me: My sister’s kids love that tradition.

We exchange a long thread about all sorts of elf shenanigans ranging from the Elf covering the toilet in wrapping paper to making snow angels with powdered sugar to taking a bath with mini marshmallows in the sink.

I only realize I’m smiling wide when I see my reflection in the glass window of my high-rise condo.

Girl of My Dreams: Thanks for the comic relief. Goodnight, Nolan.

I send the sleepyhead emoji and set down my phone. On a yawn, I can’t ignore how refreshing it is to chat with a woman in a friendly way and not have it be a thing. Then I trip over thenameNolan. It’s relatively unique yet familiar. After today, I’m too tired to analyze it. Must’ve been an odd autocorrect. She probably meant Knight or something.

I have to be up early in the morning for practice. I’ll bring my all, not that I ever leave anything on the ice. Despite my reputation, I give the team everything.

As I drift off to sleep, the woman whose lips I kissed earlier floats into my mind. Unlike the other women I’ve hooked up with, I don’t want her image to leave.

The next morning, I’m up with the buzzer, which sounds exactly like the one that lights up the arena when we score. I tap the button on the blinds and they lift, revealing a cloudy morning that washes out the surrounding buildings.

Still in a sleepy haze, the coffee timer turns on and starts percolating. The scent gets me motivated. While the coffee brews, I shower. The day before slides back to me as bubbles form from my body wash. With a chuckle, I let it rinse off because stranger things have happened.

But not better kisses.

That heady feeling I got when kissingmy girlfriendmakes me dizzy. I must have the water up too hot and turn the knob slightly.

After putting on my workout clothes, I pull out my container of cereal milk—don’t knock it until you try it. Plus, our team nutritionist approved a splash of it in my coffee, so I have Nat’s backing.

I down my first cup of coffee before I take the second cup to go. Ted thinks cereal milk is vile, and I may as well slug slush—not to be confused with a Slushie. Every time I’ve tried to keep it in the team galley fridge, I find it dumped down the sink. At first, I thought it was Nat, but my fellow defenseman was the guilty party. Usually, I check my email and scroll through social media, but my mom calls just before I exit.

“Bonjour,” I say, switching to French even though my mother is also fluent in English. She prefers we keep our heritage alive, and I honor that.

In French, she asks how I’m doing, but worry filters into her tone. We chat for a few minutes, and she gives me updates on our family farm, when my siblings and their families are arriving for Christmas, and how she laments I can’t make it this year. She saves the pressure of me finding someone to settle down with for another time because one guilt trip is enough.

Merci, Maman.

Checking the time, I say, “I have to get going.”

It’s not because I want to get off the call. Rather, I’ll drop it in the elevator, and I’ve learned that my mother doesn’t stop talking when I tell her to hold for a minute while I head downstairs, resulting in missing half of what she says—including my brother’s thirtieth birthday plans. Thankfully, he forgave me.

“I hope you have a great day,” she says in French.

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