Page 7 of Cross Check Christmas
"Perfect! Practice hasn't started yet." I pick up my pace. "I'll catch him before he gets the team on the ice."
"That's what we're trying to tell you!" Daisy's voice bounces off the trophy cases lining the walls. "Wade's not?—"
"Five years!" I call over my shoulder. "Five years I've put on this pageant. And every single year, something gets in the way. New hockey sticks, new uniforms, new nets?—"
"Colette, seriously, you need to?—"
But I'm already pushing open the doors to the practice rink, my perfectly crafted speech about arts funding and cultural enrichment ready to go.
The cold air hits my face. The familiar smell of Zamboni fuel and teenage desperation hits me, but I'm too worked up to care. A few players are on the ice, running drills and I stride toward the bench area where Wade usually preps his practice plans.
Only Wade isn't there.
Someone else is leaning against the boards, spinning a whistle around one finger and looking entirely too pleased with himself.
I’d recognize that smug face and backward baseball hat anywhere.
Hendrix Ellis.
My high school nemesis.
3
HENDRIX
News travels fast in a small town. Five minutes after I got off the phone with Grannie Bell, my old friend Tucker calls to beg me to fill in for the hockey coach at Brookking High until Christmas break. Apparently, the coach’s wife went into early labor and he’s taking an emergency paternity leave.
My first reaction was to say heck no, but Brookking High is my ala mater and I have fond memories of playing on the team with my brother. We were an unstoppable duo. The Ellis brothers. Liam on defense and me as the school’s star forward.
Good times.
So, after some bribery (all the coffee I can drink from Tucker’s shop) I agreed to fill in.
I’ve been on the job for twenty minutes, running the boys through passing drills when a blonde tornado bursts through the rink doors. My heart does this weird flutter thing because holy smokes - it's Colette McAllister. And she looks mad enough to melt the ice.
She storms across the ice in her high heels and there's this adorable little crease between her eyebrows that I remember from when we were younger.
"Why hello there, Professor!" The nickname slips out before I can stop it. Old habits die hard.
She skids to a halt, wobbling slightly on the ice. "Don't you ‘Professor’ me, Hendrix Ellis!"
I lean against the boards, drinking in the sight of her. Man, she's even prettier than I remember. She's traded in her teenage sweaters for a fitted blazer, but she's still got that pristine, perfect posture that used to drive me crazy. Her blonde hair's swept up in one of those messy-but-perfect buns, and she's got this whole sophisticated teacher vibe going that's doing things to my brain. My eyes dart to her left hand – no ring. Not that I'm checking or anything.
"Careful there. Ice is slippery." I hold out my hand to steady her.
She swats it away. "You- you-" She makes this squeaking noise that sounds like an angry mouse. "Do you have any idea what you've done?"
"Currently filling in for Wade while he figures out how to change diapers?" I flash her my best innocent grin. "Though if you're here to give me detention, I might not mind."
Another squeak, followed by what I can only describe as a growl. Her cheeks are flushed pink, either from anger or the cold, and all I can think about is how I used to doodle her name in my playbook during practice.
"You!" She points a finger at me. She's even prettier when she's angry, which probably isn't the thing I should be focusing on right now. "Do you have any idea what you've done?"
I raise my hands in surrender. "I literally just got here. Like, twenty minutes ago."
"You- the hockey uniforms-" She finally manages to sputter.
I blink at her. "What about them?"
