Page 5 of Cross Check Christmas
I laugh, but it sounds hollow even to me. "Hockey's all I know! What am I supposed to do, take up knitting?"
Being benched is bad enough, but not even getting to watch the games? That's just cruel and unusual punishment.
"Take some time away," Derek continues, straightening his tie. "Why don't you visit family for the holidays? Your dad's living in San Diego, right? Or your sister? You can work on your tan."
I picture Ingrid's perfect Instagram-worthy life and suppress a shudder. This year’s Christmas card came last week. Ingrid and her husband walking along the beach with their three kids. Hair purposely windswept. Forced smiles. Holding hands. All wearing beige linen.
Don't get me wrong, I love my sister, but I think I’ll pass. And Dad... well, watching hockey with a Hall of Famer means endless commentary on everything I could be doing better. Namely, being more like my brother Liam. The family’s golden boy, currently playing defense for the Nebraska Knights.
I tune out as Derek lists the benefits of California sunshine, my mind drifting to the dozens of voicemails from Grannie Bell asking when I'm coming home to Brookking Sound to visit. She's been calling weekly, threatening to send her famous fudge to the entire team if I don't show up soon. And Aunt Goldie's been texting photos of her new giant nutcrackers for her lawn display. Every year, her decorations get more and more competitive.
I suppose Brookking Sound doesn’t sound too bad… and it’s only three hours up north... close enough that I could technically sneak back for home games without anyone knowing.
"Hendrix? Are you even listening?" Derek waves his hand in front of my face.
"Hmm? Oh yeah, totally. Family time. Great idea."
I'm already planning my stealth mission to catch next week's game. Maybe I'll wear a fake mustache. Or a wig. Or both.
Unfortunately, fate has other plans.
2
COLETTE
Three days of being stuck in bed with the flu away from work and my perfectly organized schedule has crumbled faster than Christmas shortbread cookies.
The final bell rang fifteen minutes ago, the students are cleared out, and I'm arranging the last stack of essays on my desk when Daisy bursts through my classroom door, shaking a brown paper bag full of what I hope is her delicious baked goods.
"That man is going to be the death of my business!" She plunks the bag down next to my thermos of peppermint tea. "I brought you scones. Maple. The good kind. Not those pretentious things Tucker's selling."
Tucker’s Coffee, the shop across the street from Daisy’s Bakery sells packaged maple cookies—not freshly baked scones. But I’m not about to argue when my best friend brings me my favorite treat.
"Thank you." I peek inside the bag, inhaling the sweet, buttery aroma. "Though I'm sure your business is doing fine."
"Fine? He's got a line out the door every morning with his fancy pour-overs and single-origin whatever." Daisy paces between the student desks, her flour-dusted apron leaving a faint trail. "Yesterday he had the nerve to suggest I try his newroast. Like I need coffee advice from Mr. 'I studied brewing techniques in Seattle.'"
I nod sympathetically, though honestly, I don't see the conflict. Daisy's bakery serves straightforward drip coffee alongside her incredible pastries, while Tucker's place is... well, more specialized. But telling Daisy that would be like suggesting Romeo and Juliet is just a teenage romance gone wrong.
"And then he had the nerve—the absolute nerve—to put up a 'Best Coffee in Town' sign!"
"Mmhmm," I murmur, picking up my red pen again. Twenty-seven essays on "The Great Gatsby" won't grade themselves.
"Did you know he's offering pumpkin spice lattes in December? December! That's a fall drink!"
"Terrible," I say, though I secretly think serving whatever drinks people want to order seems perfectly reasonable. But Daisy's been my friend since high school, and friendship means supporting each other's completely irrational vendettas. Besides, I bring my own peppermint tea to work in my thermos. Seven dollars for hot water and a fancy name? No thank you.
"The Christmas pageant scripts are giving me that look," I say, gesturing to the untouched pile beside my computer. "Like they know I'm behind schedule."
"Oh please, you'll have everything perfect as always." Daisy drops into a student chair, making it creak ominously. "Unlike some people who think they can waltz into town with their fancy espresso machines and industrial grinders and—You're not even listening, are you?"
"I am! Tucker's foam art is pretentious, his prices are highway robbery, and his..." I trail off, trying to remember her previous complaints.
"His bean-sourcing philosophy is elitist!"
"It does seem excessive." I take a bite of the maple scone she brought me. So good!
"At least someone understands."
