Page 58 of Mistlefoe
CHAPTER 20
SIERRA
Am I worth keeping around?
This question has plagued me since the catering tasting yesterday. I’m pretty sure my eye bags reach my chin after a whole night of tossing and turning in bed, the question running circles in my head.
Two months ago, when I was still acting like a tool to him, I’d have said yes. Absolutely. I wouldn’t know anyone more worthy—or so would my pride have led me to believe.
My answer right now is no.
I’ve been horrible to Conor for two years, just a nightmare to work with. And last night, under the suffocating weight of my conscience, I realized I’ve never properly apologized. I’ve acknowledged my behavior, but never said I was sorry and that I won’t do it again. Except an apology now is going to look so self serving when what’s behind it is that I want to go out with him.
I don’t want to pretend to do couple stuff with him like we did in front of my school tormentor. I want the real thing. The drives around town together, but holding hands while no one’s watching. Eating together with his grandfather. Talking abouthorrible exes. Going shopping for stuff that isn’t work related. Kissing well outside of the range of mistletoe.
But I don’t deserve any of that.
I drag my feet into the premises of Conrad’s Rink. My backpack is loaded with masking tape to mark the spots where the booths will go. It bounces against my back as I walk through the entrance and the small concessions area loaded with vending machines and a fountain for drinks, before heading over to the wide hallway by the seats.
Faint swooshing and slapping sounds echo along with different voices, some children’s squeals and adult laughter. I pause to check the time, and only now figure out I’m too early and Conor’s still in the middle of class. I take the nearest seat I can find at the top, far from the moms watching the session.
“Did you see that?” One of them points toward a toddler at the front. “That’s my son. Future McDavid right there.”
I slide my hand into the pocket of my coat and use my phone to look up the name. All I glean is that this McDavid guy is some one-of-a-kind talent, so I guess the mother’s comment now makes sense. This must be how all of them see their offspring even though to me they’re little balls of chaos on the ice. There’s a cluster of like five kids smacking their sticks against the ice, I assume looking for a puck… except the rubber disc is actually clear across the ice.
Conor is in the middle of that, wearing black training clothes for winter, and hockey gloves to carry his stick with. He glides smoothly between the future superstars, voicing instructions that go completely unheard. I stifle a chuckle against my fist.
If it were me, I’d have lost my patience already but not Conor. He stops for a moment to explain something to one kid, who then takes off skating with difficulty in his oversized padding. Then Conor sees another kid making snow angels, except there’s no snow. I can tell by how his chest rises thatConor sighs in a what-can-you-do way, but he bends down and picks the kid up by the jersey with one hand, until the kid’s skates find the ice again and off he goes.
Something happens then. The world tilts off its axis and sends me hurtling down in free fall into a void. I put a hand on my chest, willing it to calm down the frenetic beat of my heart. With the other hand I grab onto my seat’s armrest tight, needing a reminder that I’m not actually falling down a cliff. I’m still sitting here, watching Conor show the patience of a saint among a gaggle of unruly kiddies.
Except, this is the moment I know for a fact… that I’ve fallen in love with my former foe.
I don’t just like him. I love everything about him from the way he’s no nonsense at work, to how sweet he is with his grandfather and these kids, to the way he looks at me when I say something important—like there’s nowhere else he’d rather be than listening to me. Including how he seems to know what I need without me even saying it.
Conor Mahoney is such a good person, and I’ve been such a fool.
I exhale a shaky breath. This can’t be happening. We haven’t even gone on a date. We just kissed once and it wasn’t even organic, we wouldn’t have kissed if there had been no mistletoe above us. I all but hated him until just a few weeks ago.
And yet right now, he’s all I can see. He keeps me awake at night and makes me dream during the day. He’s been the sole topic of every conversation I’ve had with Grammie the past few days. I even wish the company event would never come—even if it means no ten-thousand check or promotion—just so I can keep working closely with him every day including weekends.
“Ugh.” I drop my face into my hands and groan. I’m so screwed. The event’s in seven days. I can’t undo two yearsworth of acting like a turd in seven days. I should just start by genuinely apologizing today.
But then it’ll be Christmas break and new year’s. Should I wait until January to see if the feelings are still there? If these strange past few weeks haven’t played games with my forever-alone heart?
Except, what if the distance from the holidays makes him even less eager to give me a chance?
What then? What do I do with myself?
Obviously… I won’t insist. I’m not entitled to him. But something deep inside tells me that I won’t find anyone better than Conor. The loss would be entirely mine.
He blows the whistle twice, it’s as much as it takes for the toddlers to roll and tumble around him. I can’t hear what Conor is telling them between the animated chatter of the moms and my own furiously beating heart. I just glean that it’s the end of the class because Conor claps his gloved hands and some of the moms start getting up.
A few give me curious glances and one of them giggles at me. Like maybe I already have a giant billboard over my head advertising that I have the hots for the hockey instructor.
I wait until every single person has filed out, sinking in my seat in hopes that Conor won’t notice me yet. We’re still fifteen minutes from the time we agreed to meet here, and Conor hasn’t seen me from the stands. The benches are opposite of me, and he skates toward one of them to drop off his gloves and replace his stick with something that looks like the cousin of a broom. While skating, he uses that thing to collect the pucks scattered here and there.
It’s when he skates by my side that my ruse is up. Conor brakes hard enough to splash the boards, and as the slush slides down the glass, I see a smile stretching his lips in a way that makes my heart lurch toward him.
