Page 42 of The Kiss Class

“Have you ever heard about parents who don’t let their kids eat junk food or drink soda, then they go on to binge the stuff when they’re on their own?”

She points to herself. “Freshman year of college, I developed a cherry cola addiction. I was up to a case a day. When I was jonesing, I’d get a jumbo size from the sketchy gas station near campus.”

I laugh inwardly, imagining tiny Cara chugging a giant soda. “Exactly. That was me. When I got here, suddenly I was popular, wanted, and got a lot of attention—not just for hockey, in case that wasn’t clear.”

“You mean attention from women.”

It’s as if turbid water churns around me. I’ve never admitted this to anyone. I clutch the cookie like a life-ring preserver. “Like soda, it’s addicting. Most of what you see is just for social media. I get a hit, a thrill when I see all those likes and comments.”

“You are a chick magnet.”

My eyebrow arches.

“Sorry. That was Ilsa.”

I tilt my head. “Is that a triplet thing?”

“No, a sisters-gossiping-about-you thing. She said that you’re a chick magnet.”

I chuckle. “Thank you for your candor.”

“It was accidental.”

Like an itch that must be scratched, my mind won’t let me forget what I was going to say. “Anyway, at first, it was cool to receive so much attention. Not going to lie about that. But now, it’s just . . .”

“No matter how many cans of soda I drank, it just didn’t satisfy after a while?—”

“Exactly. It makes me feel empty now, hollow.” I peer up at Cara. “I want something meaningful.”

“Maybe my sisters can help you find the perfect match. They’re good at nosing into people’s business.”

I laugh, but my heart isn’t in it. That’s not what I want. Not who I want. The problem is, I can’t have Cara. She’s completely off-limits.

“I’m not sure I trust their character judgment. Richard was playing a game of ‘Pass the Puck Bunny.’ Nolan is cool, but unless you’re really into ferrets, I’d steer clear.” I tell her about his “babies.”

“Should we finish decorating?” Cara asks after we share another laugh.

I stuff the cookie in my mouth and hop to my feet. “It’s the Most Wonderful Time of the Year” choruses in the background, and I have to agree, even though it’s been ages since I’ve paid much attention to anything other than winning and women.

Cara and I add the variety pack of ornaments to the tree, and a thought slips into my mind as I envision a day when there will only be one of these balls left—the rest broken or lost—and it’ll hold this memory with her. She drapes tinsel on the branches and then tosses a chunk at me.

I chuckle and tickle it under her nose. She grabs it along with my hand.

Once more, my vision fixes on her hazel eyes. Her cheeks lift with a smile, and I can’t help but wonder what she’s not saying. What she’s thinking. How I’m feeling.

But the moment passes, playing hide and seek.

We step back and admire our work. Cara holds her hand up for a high five. I meet her palm and fold myfingers over hers. The duet, “Baby It’s Cold Outside,” plays through the sound system.

Her breath catches. “I should probably head home.”

“Please, don’t go.”

“No?” Her eyes sparkle in the glowing light from the tree.

I turn to face her.

She clears her throat and lengthens her spine. “Well, if we were to have Kiss Class, what would that look like? Maybe you could create a syllabus.”

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