Page 25 of The Kiss Class

Yes, THE Frenchman.

I only know about the fandom fiasco because my sisters woke me at zero dark thirty, preparing to ship me out of the country in the cover of darkness to save me from Dadaszek. They received repeated and increasingly frantic social media alerts from friends and colleagues asking if one of them had kissed Pierre Arsenault, known in certain circles merely as “The Frenchman,” and not because he’s French and a defenseman. No, it has everything to do with his reputation for locking lips with women. Thankfully, when it came to their attention that I didn’t tell them the entire tale of what transpired at the Fish Bowl, they didn’t throw me to the Big Bad Dadaszek wolf down the hall, but they did want answers . . . in exacting detail.

Clearing my throat, I say, “Um, Pierre and I met when the team was last in Los Angeles playing the Lions.”

“I thought you had to study?” Turns out my dad has questions, too.

Shifting uncomfortably, I answer, “I did . . . brought my work with me.”

“Why weren’t you in the VIP box?”

My tone rises a few octaves. “You know me, never want tomake a fuss. No special treatment. And, uh, I figured I wouldn’t be able to write my essay and make conversation with Helen and whoever else was in the box.”

It’s official. I’ll be getting a dump truck full of coal in my stocking this year.

Pierre nods slowly. “That’s right. We met, and I fell head over, um, skates.”

If this weren’t such an intense moment, I’d giggle at the expression. “But I can’t be in a relationship with my studies.”

“Amour, I told you we can figure out a way to make it work,” Pierre says, hamming it up, which doesn’t help, given the stone-cold killer hockey mask my father wears right now.

The truth is, Tommy Badaszek is a big ’ole teddy bear with us girls, but we’re probably the only three people on the planet who’ve seen that side of him.

Thanks to my sisters, I learned a lot about Pierre Arsenault in the early dawn hours. The guy is a great hockey defenseman but is on thin ice, and Dadaszek has no problem letting it crack and watchingplayersfall through. Or, more accurately, pushing them if they don’t meet his expectations.

Turning to Pierre, I intend to fix this and save his career and my father’s respect lest he find out I kissed a perfect stranger in public. Remember, I’m the baby, the innocent one.

Turning to number seventy-four, I say, “I told you that’s not happening. I figured you understood since I saw you all over social media in the last month with, well, I doubt you even remember their names.”

His shoulders sag. “I can’t control what the puck bunnies do.”

“And that’s just it. You’re not ready to be in a relationship, and neither am I. How can I be your girlfriend if you have loads of women hanging all over you like fleas?”

He shudders and then rubs his hand on the back of his neck. “Do bunnies have fleas?”

“How would I know?”

“I told you, they don’t mean anything.”

“Then find an alternative form of entertainment. Don’t go to the Fish Bowl or wherever else you lurk to get attention.”

Pierre’s expression flashes with a mixture of relief and amusement, but he quickly conceals it. “When I heard you were going to be there last night, I thought maybe you’d give me another chance.”

He’s the master of the flirtatiously arched eyebrow, and it slices right through my defenses.

A little flutter rises inside and sends color to my cheeks. I have the sudden urge to move closer. Maybe it’s not entirely his fault women flock to him. The real question is, how can they not? I tell myself to resist his pull.

“I’m trying to move on, Pierre. Don’t you understand?” Yes, I’ll accept that golden statue for my outstanding performance. Actually, we make a pretty good team because it looks like Dadaszek is buying the story.

“Amour, our feelings for each other are real. You know that. I know that. How can we let such a good thing go?”

Remembering my father is looming over us with thinly veiled rage, I say, “I’m trying to get over you?—”

Pierre interrupts, “I never will. You’re so beautiful, smart, funny . . . I know I don’t deserve you, but you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me.” The depths in his tone match his eyes which cling to me.

I slide my head from side to side dramatically, caught up in this fake soap opera. “Pierre, I have to finish school without any distractions. And given how distracted you get, ahem, by other women, I’m afraid we’re not right for each other.”

Dad sits back down and lifts his chin. “That’s right.Badaszek is going to be a lawyer, and you’re going to need one if you don’t get the message.”

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