Page 2 of Puck Me for Christmas

Deciding to at least pretend I could enjoy myself, I freshened my makeup, smoothed my blouse, and headed downstairs again. There had to be an afternoon tea cart or something somewhere in this winter wonderland, and I could use something with enough sugar to numb the sourness of my thoughts.

Back in the lobby, I discovered that a cocoa and cookie station had indeed been set up near the lounge. I helped myself to a mug of steaming cocoa, marveling at the rich chocolatey scent, and took a walk on the wild side by adding a couple of marshmallows.

The other guests were clustered around the fireplace with glum looks on their faces. The influencer, whose name I learned was Sasha, was complaining about the lack of decent lighting for selfies to anyone who would listen, and the older couple, Pearl and Norman Fletcher, were busy fussing over how many cookies Norman had eaten. Scowling, he bit the head off another snowman-shaped cookie rather roughly, while his wife pinched the top of her nose between her thumb and forefinger and sighed loudly. The serious guy in the suit I’d noticed earlier had disappeared, and the young couple—apparently newlyweds—ignored the rest of us entirely and instead giggled over their plates of cookies, cooing at each other in the corner like a pair of lovebirds.

I found a seat near a smaller Christmas tree decorated with shiny ornaments and sipped my hot chocolate, figuring I’d give myself a few minutes to enjoy the treat before returning tomy room and prepping myself on background information for my next assignment.

When Logan strolled casually towards the cocoa station a few minutes later, I pretended to be utterly fascinated by a sparkly ornament shaped like tiny ice skates, even though I watched him out of the corner of my eye while he took his time collecting cookies and pouring himself a cup of hot chocolate.

Just as I took another sip, Logan approached me, as if he had a right to step into my personal space. “So,” he said softly, “how’ve you been?”

I raised a brow, meeting his gaze. I noticed the shadows under his eyes, the slight hesitation in his posture, like he expected me to bite his head off like Norman’s snowman cookie. Well, I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of knowing he rattled me, even though he did. “Oh, you know,” I said lightly. “Working. Traveling. Doing interviews and segments. The usual.”

“I’ve seen some of your work,” he offered, voice low. “You’ve come a long way.”

I searched his face for sarcasm but found only sincerity. That irritated me even more. I wanted him to be smug, or rude—something I could latch onto to justify my chilly demeanor.

“Thanks,” I said, tone clipped. “I guess you’ve come a long way too. Coaching the Warlords? Quite the step up.”

His gaze flickered, acknowledging the barb. “It’s been challenging. Rewarding too.”

“How nice,” I replied, stuffing my irritation behind a polite smile. The tension crackled between us like the logs in the fire.

Before he could say more, Sasha—trying to snap a photo of herself by the hearth—nearly bumped into him. He sidestepped, and I took the chance to get up, my pulse hammering as I slippedpast them and returned my mug—still half-full—to the cart and turned for the exit. Ignoring Logan’s glance in my direction, I made my way back up the grand staircase to my room, where once behind my locked door, I sank onto the bed and exhaled. The quilt was soft, patterned with snowflakes and pine trees, and suddenly I felt tired, which made sense since I’d been up since before dawn with the crew.

I located a room service menu on the small desk beside the entertainment center and after selecting a combination of soup and salad for dinner, I called the restaurant to place my order. Afterwards, I pulled my laptop out of my bag and hit the power button, determined to focus on work. But after twenty minutes, I found myself scrolling through funny cat videos on YouTube mindlessly as my thoughts again drifted to the past.

Seeing Logan again was like finding myself out on the rink, unsure if I’d slip on the ice. I tried to console myself with the thought that by tomorrow, the roads would be clear, and Logan and I would continue on our separate ways. And if the storm hadn’t passed, at least I’d be well-rested and in a better state of mind to prove that I was over him. Right?

Chapter Two

Logan

The first thing I noticed when I woke up was how quiet it was. Not the flat hush of an empty house, but a soft, muffled stillness that only deep snow can create. I lay there for a moment, staring at the wood-paneled ceiling of my small guest room at the North Star Chalet, listening to my own breathing. The old radiator hissed gently, giving off a steady warmth. Outside, the blizzard still had the world in a chokehold…

Perfect…

Just perfect.

I rolled my shoulders and swung my legs over the bed, feeling a familiar twinge in my knee. Once upon a time, that knee had been a piece of machinery tuned for professional hockey—now it was a reminder of what I’d lost and left behind. Today, it was just another ache, a dull whisper that I’d learned to live with.

I stood and padded to the window, pushing aside the thick curtains. Snow blanketed the landscape, turning Pine Ridge into a silent, pristine world. Evergreens bowed under heavy drifts, and the sky was a pale gray, hinting that the storm hadn’t finished its assault. From here, the North Star Chalet looked snug and self-contained, a holiday postcard made real. Inside, I imagined guests stirring, staff shuffling about, and the scent of coffee drifting through the halls.

Coffee. That thought spurred me into action. A quick, hot shower helped clear my mind. I dressed in comfortable jeans, a navy henley, and wool socks that reminded me of days off-season spent in other small mountain towns—times before I’d made it big, before I’d crashed down hard. Even though I’d returned to the game I loved and was now making a name for myself again as the coach of the Denver Warlords, I still had more to accomplish. And being snowed-in wasn’t part of my original plan. I was supposed to finalize talks with the owners about hosting off-season hockey clinics. There was grant money at stake, a chance to help young players train without the glaring spotlight of professional arenas. Now all that was on hold, trapped under layers of snowfall.

And Emberleigh Quinn. Just the thought of her name made my chest feel tight. I had no idea she’d be staying at the chalet; no clue I’d run into the one person whose eyes I avoided watching on TV interviews and highlight reels. She’d been furious—well, maybe not furious, but she definitely hadn’t looked happy to see me. Could I really blame her though? After all, I’d disappeared on her years ago after my injury. I never explained, never reached out. Shame had done that to me. It felt easier to vanish than to show my weakness, to let her see me broken. Now, I had no choice but to face the consequencesof that choice with her closed-off body language and snarky comments.

I shook my head at myself, raking a hand through my hair, and left the room. The hallway smelled faintly of lemon polish and pine. A few doors down, I heard muffled laughter—sounded like the newlyweds I’d been introduced to last night. Jenna and Tyrese, if I recalled correctly. Holly Joy, the sprightly front desk manager who was as perky as a Christmas elf, had introduced them. They were probably still wrapped up in each other’s arms underneath the covers. Envy suddenly washed over me like the Grinch had tipped a bucket of the nasty green stuff over my head.

Trying to shake it off, I continued on my way through the building. Descending the main staircase, I took in the chalet’s cozy grandeur: high ceilings, wooden beams, a chandelier decorated with pinecones and ribbons. The lounge area off the main lobby was busier this morning. I smelled coffee before I saw it, and that alone lifted my spirits. A self-serve breakfast station had been set up near a window showcasing a panoramic view of snow-capped mountains. I poured a mug of brew, black and strong, and sipped carefully. It was decent coffee, not the watery stuff I sometimes got on the road.

After grabbing a giant peach-walnut muffin and a banana, I found a seat at a nearby table and scanned the room, recognizing a few faces from last night. Pearl and Norman Fletcher were nestled into armchairs. She had a ball of soft-looking emerald green yarn in her lap and the knitting needles between her fingers clicked rhythmically, weaving together what looked to be a scarf that trailed inch by inch closer to the floor as I watched. Her husband glanced up at me over the rims of his glasses from the large book he was reading—a thriller—and smiled in greeting. Nearby, a glamorous woman wearing afaux-fur vest—Sasha Kim, the influencer—stood by the window, phone in hand, tapping her screen with a bright red nail. The newlyweds wandered in as I ate the last bite of muffin. Sure enough, they looked young, in love, and blissfully out of touch—Must be nice.

No Emberleigh yet. A mix of relief and disappointment stirred in my gut. Part of me wanted to see her immediately, while another part dreaded her glare. Well, she couldn’t hide forever, and this chalet wasn’t large enough for real hiding anyway.

I took another sip of coffee, savoring the warmth, when a voice sang out, “Logan!”

I glanced up to watch Sasha saunter over, a dazzling smile on her face, her phone clasped tightly in her fingers. Her long dark hair cascaded over her shoulders, and her makeup was as heavy as if she were about to perform on a theater stage.

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