Page 49 of The Kiss Class

I can almost hear him say,What’s it goin’ be, pardner?To which I’d reply,How are you going to play it, player?

Vohn, the assistant coach, confers with Pierre for a moment and then they both beeline for my dad and me. The gears in my typically supercharged brain slow and I’m torn between Plan A: pretending to dislike him while he pines over me with one-sided love. And Plan B: throwing myself at him like a common puck bunny and making my father flinch in his fleece.

Vohn says, “We need to circle the wagons to discuss travel plans. Looks like we have more than a few last-minute itinerary changes.”

“Not unusual this time of year,” my father replies with ease, as if nothing surprises him this far along in his career.

Oh, except the baby of the family liking the one guy he asked her to stay away from.

With a smirk on his lips, Pierre says, “Cara, thanks for cheering me on earlier.”

My father’s expression sharpens.

“I always root for the Knights,” I reply stiffly.

“In such festive spirit wear?” he asks, referring to the ugly sweater.

My cheeks now match the garish red yarn. But I rally and swing my arm like a team player. “’Tis the ho, ho holiday season.”

His smirky smile reaches his flirty eyes. “I can’t decide which I like better, seeing you in my jersey or the sweater.”

“Don’t get used to it,” I stammer, doing my best to feign dislike for my supposed ex purely for my father and Pierre’s benefit.

“Too late for that,” he says warmly.

I thought he was supposed to be the Frenchman, the flirt who went through women like hockey socks. Actually,Dad told me a story about a superstitious player who insisted on wearing the same pair an entire season. Grody.

Giving my head a little shake, Pierre winks at me. I belatedly realize that I’ve been staring. No, gazing like I’m the one who’s been pining after him and not the other way around.

Get it together, Badaszek.

Turning to my father, Pierre says, “Sir, you wanted to see me?”

While I waffle between my various devious and nefarious plans and then get sidetracked by some old friends of the family, Dadaszek calls for everyone’s attention to get started with the Secret Santa gift exchange. I’d picked up something to donate to the pile from the market when I got Pierre the tree. He’s nowhere in sight.

Then the jolly old elf in the red suit waltzes in to the song “I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus.” He waves at everyone and winks at me.

Despite the white beard, I’d recognize those flirty eyes anywhere. To my shock, this year’s Claus is none other than my kiss class professor. My father picked Pierre, after all?

The puck bunnies line up, all too eager to sit on his lap and tell him whether they’ve been naughty or nice.

My heart craters as he makes merry with what seems like an endless supply of attractive female hockey fans who don’t even have to try hard to get his attention by wearing a silly outfit.

I watch as he passes out gifts, feeling foolish in his sweater. It’ll look like I want to be his Mrs. Claus. I don’t. He’s just teaching me how to kiss. It’s that simple.

My stomach clenches when Pierre’s laughter mingles with a woman’s high-pitched crow as she gets her photo snapped with him.

I pace, my feet aching in Anna’s high-heeled boots. Insteadof joining in, I need a moment to breathe. I pass the gear manager and his wife in the hall, which makes me think of the closet outside the locker room. I hurry in that direction.

Soon, the sounds of the party fade as I go deeper into the labyrinth of the arena. What was I thinking, wearing this getup and then adding the ugly Christmas sweater to it?

This is not my lane. I’m the brainy one. Not the flirty one. I don’t feel like a bunny, not even an elf. More like a fool.

As I pass the trophy room with its cases and photos on the walls, I remember how much awe I felt when coming here as a kid. Hockey was the center of our family’s world. But what is it for me now? School? Graphic design? Like this outfit, none of it feels like it quite fits. When did I last feel most like myself?

The arena doesn’t host public skates the same way regular rinks do, but they do offer periodic events, especially for schools and organizations . . . and the head coach’s daughters had special privileges.

When we were younger and Dad got called in or couldn’t find someone to look after us, we’d play “office” with Helen’s supplies. She’d ask what I wanted to be when I grew up. My answer vacillated between,You,meaning having her job because I liked that she got to spend all day with my dad, and a Zamboni driver because the few times I got up there felt so cool. That was on par with the times my sisters and I got lucky and were here outside practice times and had free rein over the ice.

---