Page 65 of Cross Check Christmas
"If you're thinking we're going to make out in the locker room, Coach Ellis, I'm afraid that's against school policy." I cross my arms, trying to look stern despite the smile tugging at my lips.
"As tempting as that sounds..." He leads me to the player's bench and reaches underneath, pulling out a wrapped package with a red bow. "I got you something."
"Hendrix..." My protest dies as I take in the familiar shape. It's a book, but not just any book. When I tear open the wrapping paper, my hands freeze.It’s a leather-bound copy of Shakespeare's collected works. My fingers trace the gold embossing on the cover.
"Open it," he says softly.
Inside the cover, I find an old, wrinkled piece of paper. My hands shake as I recognize it – a note passed to me in social studies class, covered in his messy teenage scrawl: Hey Shakespeare. You. Me. Pizza?
"How did you...?"
"I found it when I was cleaning out my old room at my parents' house. You crumpled it in a ball and threw it at me, remember?"
His eyes meet mine. "I've been carrying it around ever since, waiting for the right moment to give it back."
My throat tightens as I run my fingers over the worn creases of the paper. "You kept this all these years?"
"Some things are worth holding onto." His hand finds mine in the dim light. "Even if they take seven years to get right."
I am done for. Somebody write my eulogy, because I am deceased.
I stare at his impossibly beautiful face, my heart hammering against my ribs, as Hendrix cups my face in his calloused hands. His thumb traces my cheekbone, and my silly heart is screaming for him to kiss me already.
"Colette," he whispers, and my name has never sounded so perfect, and his finger tilts my chin up.
When his lips meet mine, they're impossibly warm. The kiss is achingly tender at first, just the softest brush of his mouth against mine. But then his hand slides into my hair, angling my head to deepen the kiss, and something inside me ignites. I melt against him, becoming hungry and desperate. My fingers curling into the fabric of his suit jacket. His other hand finds my waist, pulling me closer until I'm practically in his lap on the player's bench.
His mouth is hot against mine, tasting of the candy canes he'd been sneaking from the refreshment table all evening, and a feral sound escapes me when his tongue traces my bottom lip.
Heat blooms everywhere we touch. I press closer, wanting more, needing more. Both his arms now wrap around my waist, strong and steady, holding me like I'm precious. Like I'm everything.
This is a man who knows exactly what he wants, and right now, incredibly, that's me. Yet there's still that trace of sweetness, that hint of vulnerability that makes my heart ache.
When we finally break apart, we're both breathing hard. Hendrix rests his forehead against mine, his thumb brushing my now-swollen lips. I keep my eyes closed, savoring the moment, afraid that if I open them, this will all dissolve like a dream.
"Still want to run?" he murmurs against my temple.
I shake my head, finally looking up at him. "No running. Not this time."
“What about skating?” His eyes light up as he reaches under the bench again, producing two pairs of skates. The first are his well-worn hockey skates, and the second... I blink in surprise at the explosion of colors before me.
"Are those tie-dyed ice skates?"
"Aunt Goldie's." Hendrix grins, holding them up. "She begged for them, swore up and down she needed them for exercise. Wore them exactly once. You're a size seven and a half, right?"
I eye the rainbow swirls dubiously. "How did you know that?"
"And you just happen to have them here?" I raise an eyebrow.
"Maybe I was hoping for this moment." He kneels before me, skates in hand. "Here, let me help you."
"I’ve skated before," I say. But I sit still anyway, letting him slip off my heels. His fingers brush against my ankle as he slides the first skate on, lingering perhaps longer than necessary.
Once we're both laced up, Hendrix takes my hand and guides me onto the smooth surface. The ice gleams beneath us likepolished silver. His palm is warm against mine as we glide forward together. We make lazy circles around the rink, our blades cutting gentle patterns into the pristine ice. The only sound is our steady breathing and the soft swish of our skates. Every few strokes, Hendrix's hand tightens on mine, keeping me balanced, though I suspect he's using it as an excuse to pull me closer.
"You're not half bad," he murmurs, as his hands find my waist, guiding me from behind.
"Don't sound so surprised." I lean into him, enjoying the solid warmth of his chest against my back. "I grew up in Canada too, you know."
