Page 47 of The Kiss Class

She says, “I got them for everyone.”

My sister goes suddenly, concerningly still like there’s a bear behind me. I hear a grunt and turn slowly.

“Someone put that elf back on the shelf,” my father mutters, eyes wide with shock or horror. “A sweater, a jersey, anything.” He glances around for an assist, but everyone remains stationary.

I freeze, mortified, well, and I’m super cold.

Ilsa huffs. “Dadaszek, Cara is an adult woman. She can wear a dress to a hockey game if she wants.”

He shields his eyes. “You call that a dress? I’ve never in my life seen her in something so—” He shakes his head, at a loss for words.

“Yes, you have. It’s my dress. I wore it two years ago on Christmas Eve.”

Anna also comes to my defense, “Dadaszek, we’ve gone over this. Just because you want us to go around wearing burlap sacks doesn’t mean we will.”

“I don’t want guys like—” Unable to articulate what he wants to say to us in front of a crowd, my father’s face matches the Christmas stockings strung above the windows overlooking the rink.

Just then, Pierre appears in the doorway to the VIP box, full gear, stick in hand. His gaze locks on me and that chiseled jaw slowly lowers. “Whoa.”

I can’t tell if it’s a double-take styleWhoalikeHubba Hubbaor a rubberneckerWhoalike what is that hot mess doing in the VIP box? And this is why I’ve never been kissed. I’m an overthinker and a nerd. A lethal combo. I’m the dorky sister. Not the gorgeous and sophisticated one like Ilsa and not the adorable and independent one like Anna.

I’m basically a shrunken Buddy the Elf if he had nearly three collegiate degrees.

With a pair of bullets for eyes, my father stares down Pierre.

“Coach, Vohn wanted me to grab you. Says it’s urgent.”

My father grunts again, puckers his lips like he wants to say something to me, and then turns toward the door. “Kids these days.” Pointing to Pierre, he says, “Arsenault, eyes—and hands—off her.”

If only he knew about the first Kiss Class.

“Good luck!” I holler.

The room is relatively quiet after that scene.

I mutter, “That’s not how I meant for that to go.”

Nope. My plan has been foiled because not only did Pierre see me in my bunny elf costume—which, let’s be real, I look more like a clown—my father simultaneously insulted and infuriated me.

As soon as he’s down the hall, I enact plan B. Slightly flustered, Dadaszek’s assistant Helen proffers an apologetic smile.

Not giving myself a moment to talk myself out of what I’m about to do, I take a page from Ilsa’s book and ask, “Is that the new mascot?”

Helen turns, and from her black blazer, I discreetly unclip her ID badge with a bar code that grants employees access to otherwise secure doors. No sense in stopping now. Just heap on the coal for Christmas.

“Looks the same to me,” she says.

I smile. “I guess it’s been a while.”

Hurrying toward the locker room, I dip into the gear supply closet, waiting for the buzzer to signal the start of the period. When I’m in the clear, I sneak across the hallway and slide into the locker room just as so many puck bunnies used to do, snagging their favorite player’s jerseys.

The story goes like this, when I was a kid, the Knights were a little looser, a little wild, you might say. When my sisters and I started to reach maturity—around the same time the burlap sack suggestion was made—my father started to encourage the team to be more family-oriented, to settle down, and to commit. It took half a decade with player turnover, but not only is there less puck bunny player drama, the team is a well-oiled machine and the top in the league.

But before that, the tradition was a puck bunny would sneak into the locker room, nab the jersey of the player she had her eyes on, and wear it during the game with the prospect of a post-win meetup.

I’m on a slightly different but adjacent mission.

When I find the locker markedArsenault, I peer around, making sure that I’m alone. It opens with a squeak. Inside, I find exactly what I’m looking for.

---