Page 5 of The Kiss Class

From time to time, he gets on the ice with us. There is no denying he was formidable in his day. Still is. He’s one of those people who demands respect and age has gifted him with wisdom, making him more dangerous than anyone on the rink side of the arena with our blades and sticks.

He gazes at the ceiling and mutters, “Kathleen, why was I fated to deal with adult children?”

At least, that’s what I think he says. Surreptitiously looking from side to side, then up and down, I’m not at all sure who he’s talking to.

“Arsenault. How old are you?” Badaszek asks.

“Twenty-six, sir.”

“When are you going to grow up?”

I fight the urge to look around, hoping someone has an answer, but it’s just this brute of a man and me.

“Could you please define ‘Grow up?’”

“You might say two out of three isn’t bad. Maybe she gets it fromme. But instead of being a workaholic, she’s a study-a-holic. I just don’t know, Arsenault. I just don’t know.”

Confused but certain a woman got the wrong idea about me, I say, “Sir, I know I get a lot of attention from female fans, but I’ve never intentionally misled them. I don’t know if it’s my personality—Lemon says I’m charming. Savage claims I make the ladies feel like they’re the only person in the room. Powell says I’m too friendly. Redd thinks I need to take a break. Beau, well, you know how he is.”

“Beau?”

Remembering that Badaszek only refers to people by their last name, I clarify, “Beaumont Hammer, the goalie.”

Coach drops his fists onto the desk and leans forward, reminding me of a gorilla—the kind you don’t want to face off with in the jungle. “Arsenault, did it ever occur to you that not everything is about you?”

Clearing my throat, I reply, “You did call me into your office, sir.”

He remains silent, leaving me with an awkwardly long time to try to figure out why I’m here as hot sweat travels along my hairline.

Scrambling like this is a game show, and I’ll win if I figure out the right answer, a jumble of thoughts form fictional words and tumble from my mouth, “It’s true. I’ve gone through a lot of women. Kimmy, Catie, Karly, but I’ve found the one, and the shame of it is she doesn’t feel the same way, so I’ve been trying to compensate. It’s all wrong. I know. If only she felt the same way as I do. I’m sorry, Coach.”

There are two lies and one truth embedded in the rambling statement I made up on the spot.

His left eyebrow shoots up like a steeple piercing the sky.

Don’t hate me, but Badaszek lays on the heat. Being under pressure in his presence is no joke.

The first part of what I blurted is verifiable. The puck bunnies have plenty to say about me. The last two are patently false. But I am from Canada, home to Niagara Falls, so I can fall back on the “imaginary girl I met while vacationing” story for now. But this also means I may have to find someone to pose as my unrequited love.

Game on . . . because there’s no backing out now.

With an appraising look, Badaszek drops back into his office chair and drums his fingers on the desk.

Leaning forward, I add, “I assure you, nothing that goes on in my personal life affects my play on the team.”

He’s lectured me about how the Nebraska Knights are a family organization. We’re tough on the ice, but off, we keep our noses clean, our shoulders back, and give to the community.

Also, there are weekly game nights, pizza parties, and an assortment of family-friendly activities on the regular. Not all the guys are married with kids, but that’s the goal, according to Badaszek.

Personally, I think he has a master plan for us pros to spawn in order to fill the future ranks of the team, but what do I know? Apparently, not a lot because I cannot figure out what he’s thinking or his angle as his silence continues.

Resting on his elbows, Coach says, “Arsenault, I was going to ask you to be our Santa Claus at the annual party, but I think I’ll ask Hammer instead.” He wears a conniving smile I’ve never before seen.

My stomach does a roller coaster drop, flop, loop-the-loop.

Sure, he, assistant coach Vohn Brant, and the team captain figure out the plays, but right now, I can’t help but feel like a pawn. Like he’s orchestrating a strategy that’s bigger than the game played on the ice.

The quiet in the room pushes against whatever oxygenremains because I don’t think the question of me dressing up as Santa is the entire story.

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