Page 12 of Cross Check Christmas
"Hey," Daisy appears beside me. Her hair's disheveled, and there's a torn pink pastry bag in her hands. "I got my sconesback! Did you see—" She stops, taking in my slumped posture. "What happened?"
“Well, I stood up to Hendrix."
“Good for you.”
“And it ended with me basically calling him a stupid jock.”
She shrugs, digging into the pastry bag for some crumbs. “So? Where’s the lie?”
I give her a look.
"Okay, but I'm sure it wasn't that bad."
I sink onto the folding chair behind the table. "When did I become such a..."
"Judgmental stress case?" Daisy offers helpfully.
"I was going to say terrible person."
"Oh, honey." She pats my shoulder. "You're not terrible. You're just... passionate. About everything. All the time. At maximum volume. Oh, wait. That's me, not you."
I glance at the torn bag in her hands. "Ya think?"
Daisy sets the bag on the table and rips the rest of it open until it sort of lies flat. "Deconstructed scone?" she offers.
I wrinkle my nose before looking across the square. I catch a final glimpse of Hendrix as he climbs into his ridiculously expensive truck. The engine revs—louder than necessary—and he peels away from the curb.
I slump forward, resting my forehead on the donation box. Now I feel awful AND I still have no idea how I'm going to run rehearsals with half my cast missing.
5
HENDRIX
Tuesday afternoon, I'm running the team through some off-ice exercises when the gym doors burst open. Colette storms in wearing a frown and a cardigan, her heels clicking against the floor with deadly precision.
"What do you think you're doing?" Her voice could freeze Hell itself.
"Teaching these fine young athletes the art of team bonding." I toss a tennis ball I've been using for hand-eye drills between my hands, refusing to back down from her icy glare. "What does it look like?"
"It looks like you're deliberately sabotaging my Christmas pageant rehearsal. Again." She crosses her arms, and I try not to notice how cute she looks when she's mad. "This space was booked weeks ago."
"Really? Because Coach Wade's calendar showed it was free." I pull out my phone, pretending to check. Truth is, I knew exactly when her rehearsal was scheduled. Maybe I'm being petty, but after overhearing her call me "that overgrown teenager with a stick" to another teacher Monday morning, I figured turnabout was fair play.
Her eyes narrow. "Get out."
"Make me. Professor."
The boys huddle together, watching us like it's center ice at playoff finals. One of them whispers something that makes the others snicker.
She takes a step closer. "Boys," she addresses the team, completely ignoring me, "practice is canceled. Your coach needs a lesson in professional courtesy."
"Actually," I bounce the tennis ball off the wall and catch it, "they're staying. We've got plays to review. Want to join us? Might help you loosen up that perfectly starched collar."
Her cheeks flush that adorable shade of pink I remember from high school, the one that used to appear whenever I'd lean over her desk and deliberately mispronounce the fancy authors she was reading.
"You're unbelievable." She crosses her arms. "First the budget cuts, then stealing my students for extra practice, and now this?"
"Stealing is a strong word."
