Page 33 of The Crush of Christmas Past
Mind fried, I’m suddenly all out of smart-ass retorts.
“But just so you don’t think I’m a complete beast,” he says, pulling back, “I’ll grace you with my partnership for the rest of the hunt.”
“I thought you said this game was ridiculous,” I point out, recalling how he’d scowled at Asher earlier when his brother announced we were signed up for the hunt. “And that you had a full day of work ahead.”
“It’s painfully ridiculous. And yes, I’m drowning in emails. But clearly, you’re in need of a second, so I might as well collect a prize while I’m at it.”
“Tacky trophies are your thing now?”
“Of course not. But there may be other prizes I can claim along the way.” He holds my gaze for a beat before turning away. “Come on, Sunshine,” he calls over his shoulder, an all-too-familiar hint of challenge lacing through his words. “Let’s play.”
I hate that I follow. I despise how eagerly I do it.
But most of all, I worry that this thing—whateveritmay be—is quickly turning into a game with no rules.
Twelve
Isla
TheoandIconquerthree challenges before landing on Sugarpine Springs High’s frozen football field. My legs ache from trekking across town, my fingers are stiff with frost, and my face? Flushed as fuck. Partly from the wind. Mostly from the six-foot-four furnace beside me.
For someone who dismissed the game as a town-wide joke, Theo turned out to be a shockingly engaged teammate. Somewhere between the first challenge and now, his detached indifference has morphed into full-blown alpha-level competitiveness. It’s unsettling. Also…a little thrilling. Which is, frankly, a concerning turn ofturn-onevents.
“Welcome to the Snow School Showdown!” a cheery voice calls out from center line.
Mr. Price, our high school's longest-reigning principal, stands beside a lineup of ice sculptures made to resemble snow people. A little redundant—but points for skill. Each holds a sign with different subjects and phrases scribbled on them. Some sayMath,History, orScience, while others readGo Team!andSugarpine Springs High Forever!It’s a slapdash display, but it fits the spirit of the day.
“The goal is simple,” the gray-haired man declares. “Hit the marks using snowballs lovingly crafted by our student elves. Every strike reveals a trivia question. Get ten right to win your next clue!”
I glance at my impromptu partner. He’s already analyzing our targets like we’re facing a matter of life or death. Jaw set. Shoulders pulled back. Fingers flexing. Classic Theo in pre-battle mode. Annoyingly, it’s just as captivating now as it was all those years ago. He has this infuriating ability to make everything look effortless. Conquerable.
“Ready?” I ask, wiggling my fingers to help boost some blood circulation.
How am I supposed to throw when I’m working with actual icicle appendages?
“Ready,” he replies, his focus sharp as ever.
Evidently, his fingers are doing just fine.
I snatch a snowball from the nearest basket. Weapon secured and target locked, I aim forHistoryand let it fly. It smacks the top-left corner of the mark, exploding in a spray of snow shrapnel.
Theo lets out a soft whistle. “Nice arm.”
Mr. Price beams. “All right, first question! What year was Sugarpine Springs founded?”
“1885!” My voice echoes across the field.
“Correct!” he calls back. “Well done, Miss Greene!”
Theo’s throw comes out of nowhere. It’s hard and fast, nailingMathdead in the center with almost obnoxious precision.
Mr. Price squints at the card in his hand. “Here comes a tricky one! If a train traveling 60 miles per hour leaves Sugarpine Springs at 7:00 a.m., and another train—”
“No trains run through this town,” Theo cuts in, deadpan. “Moot question.”
I gape at him. “It’s ahypotheticalone, you control freak. Would it have hurt to let the poor man finish?”
“Oh.” Mr. Price blinks. “Uhh…” He checks the card again, then breaks into laugher. “Well, I suppose you bested our seniors on this one, young man! Free pass for your team.”
