Page 66 of Cross Check Christmas
We drift along in comfortable silence, the dim lighting casts everything in a dreamy glow, and with Hendrix's arms around me, I feel like we're floating in our own private snow globe. As we glide past the player's bench where I left my present, Hendrix spins me under his arm, pulling me back against his chest with practiced ease.
The ice feels magical beneath my feet as we glide together, his hands steady on my waist, and I can't remember the last time I felt this light, this free. The world has narrowed down to just us, the soft scrape of our blades against the ice, and the way my heart flutters every time he pulls me closer.
"Colette," Hendrix says, pulling me to a gentle stop. His expression turns serious, those dark eyes intense as they search mine. "There's something I need to tell you?—"
My heart skips. I know that tone, recognize the weight behind those words. The same tone that preceded heartfelt confessions in every romance novel I've ever read. But I can't bear to hear it, not when reality lurks just beyond these enchanted walls. Not when contract negotiations and trade rumors hover like storm clouds on the horizon.
So I rise on my toe picks and press my lips to his, silencing whatever beautiful, heartbreaking words were about to spill forth. His arms wrap around me instantly, his surprise melting into a groan as he presses me against him until there's no space left between us.
My fingers tangle in his hair as his hands slide down my back, pouring everything I'm feeling into it – all the years of longing, the electricity of tonight, the desperate wish to freeze this perfect moment in time. The ice beneath our feet, the world beyond this rink, the inevitable goodbye that waits somewhere in our future—none of it matters right now.
I don't want to hear what he was about to say, don't want to think about what comes next. Not when his arms feel so right around me, not when his kiss makes me forget everything else. Let me have this, just this, without thinking about tomorrow. Without counting down the days until he returns to Toronto or gets traded across the country. Tonight, in this magical bubble of Christmas lights and stolen kisses, I want to pretend that happy endings aren't just found between the pages of books.
20
HENDRIX
Istorm into Tucker's Coffee, my prized Boba Fett figurine clutched in my hand. The morning rush hasn't hit yet, and Tucker's wiping down the espresso machine with a microfiber cloth.
"Here." I slam the collectible on the counter. "You win."
"What's this about?" Tucker picks up the figurine, examining it with raised eyebrows.
"Take it. I'm out of the bet."
"Hold up." Tucker flings his cloth over his shoulder. "What happened?"
"You won the bet. I forfeit." I run my hands through my hair, still damp from my early morning run. "I brought this up from Toronto right after that Knights game. Been meaning to give it to you."
Tucker sets Boba Fett back down carefully. "You're giving up your mint condition, never-opened Star Wars collectible? The one you wouldn't even let me touch last year?"
"I can't do this anymore. The bet, the schemes—it's not right. Not with Colette."
"But you were winning! She's totally falling for?—"
"That's the problem." My voice catches. "I don't want whatever's happening between us to be because of some stupid bet."
Tucker studies me for a long moment, then picks up a rag and starts wiping down the already spotless counter. "Good for you, bro."
Something in his tone makes me pause. Tucker's usually quick with a joke or smart comment, but he's oddly subdued. He won't meet my eyes, focused intently on that same spot he's been cleaning for the past minute.
"You okay?" I ask.
"Yeah, man. Just tired. Early morning prep."
I'm about to press Tucker on what's really bothering him when the bell above the door chimes. The sound stops me mid-sentence, and I lean against the counter, waiting for Tucker to handle his customer who shuffles in, stamping snow from his boots onto the welcome mat.
"Good morning," Tucker calls out, his professional demeanor sliding back into place.
I scroll through my phone, half-listening to the transaction behind me, until something familiar catches my attention. A deep, jolly laugh. He's setting a bag of Tucker's signature Christmas blend on the counter, fishing in his pocket for his wallet.
"Just these today," the customer says, his voice warm and rich like hot cocoa.
Tucker rings him up while I stare, trying to place why this guy seems so familiar. And then I remember. He’s the same man from the toy drive, complete with his red plaid coat and perfectly groomed white beard. The man who donated those presents at Colette’s toy drive.
"That'll be eighteen-fifty," Tucker says.
The man pulls out crisp bills, and I swear the twinkle in his eye gets brighter when he catches me staring. He hands Tucker the money, picks up his beans, and winks at me before heading for the door.
