Page 52 of Offside for Christmas
Ellie's head snapped up. "Oh, Cole—"
"It was sudden. Heart attack. I was at practice - Christmas morning practice because I was so focused on making the playoffs that I couldn't take one day off." The words were coming faster now, things he'd never said out loud. "She'd asked me to come over Christmas Eve. Said she was making my favorite cookies, wanted to watch our tradition Christmas movies. I told her I couldn't. Said I had to stay focused, couldn't afford the distraction."
"Cole, you couldn't have known—"
"She sent me a text that said 'Leaving the light on for you, just in case.' I didn't even respond." He laughed bitterly. "I was too busy being a professional athlete to spend one evening with the woman who raised me."
Ellie set down the photo and moved to him, but he stepped back slightly, not ready for comfort. "That's not your fault."
"Isn't it? She died alone on Christmas morning because I was at a rink, practicing slap shots that didn't matter. By the time the hospital called, she was already gone." Cole's jaw tightened. "Didn't get to say goodbye. Didn't get to tell her..." He stopped himself, shaking his head. "Doesn't matter now."
"Is that why you hate Christmas?"
"I don't hate Christmas. I just don't see the point of pretending it's magical when it's just another day people use to make you feel like shit for your choices." He shoved his hands in his pockets. "Every decoration, every carol, every person being happy with their families - it's just a reminder that I picked wrong. And now she's gone, and I can't fix it."
"She wouldn't want you to punish yourself."
"Yeah, well, she's not here to tell me that, is she?" The words came out harsher than he intended. He rubbed his face. "Sorry. I just... Last Christmas I spent alone in a hotel room, avoiding the entire day. Thought that was rock bottom. Then I end up in Christmas Town USA, and it's worse. Every time I see those lights or hear that music, all I can think about is that text. 'Leaving the light on for you.' And I just... didn't come."
Ellie moved closer, carefully, like approaching a wounded animal. "Cole—"
"Don't." He held up a hand. "Don't tell me it'll get better or that she understood or any of that. I know what I did. I know what I chose. And I have to live with it."
But Ellie ignored his warning and pulled him into her arms anyway.
And Cole let her, hating how much he needed it. They stood like that for a long moment, the only sound the wind outside.
"She would've liked you," he muttered into her hair. "She was always saying I needed someone who wouldn't put up with my bullshit."
"Smart woman," Ellie said softly.
"Yeah." His arms tightened around her. "She was."
He didn't say the rest of it - that his grandmother would've told him to stop running, to let himself care about someone, to build something that mattered more than hockey. He didn't say that standing here with Ellie felt like the first time in three years he'd wanted to try.
Some things were still too dangerous to say out loud.
They stood there for a moment, close enough that Cole could smell whatever vanilla-scented thing she used in her hair, far enough that he could still claim this was professional. Appropriate. Not at all what he'd been thinking about for the past twenty-four hours.
"So," Ellie said, breaking the moment. "What kind of magical pasta are you making? It smells incredible."
"The Hansen special." Cole led her to the kitchen area—really just a corner of the main room with a stove and counter. "Bolognese. My grandmother's recipe."
"You really cook." She said it like she was discovering he had a secret superpower.
"Surprised?"
"Kind of." Ellie leaned against the counter, watching him work. "I assumed you survived on protein shakes and takeout. Like most hockey players I've known."
"That was the old me." Cole stirred the sauce, checking the pasta water. "Turns out, cooking is... calming. Gives me something to do with my hands when my brain won't shut up."
"Can I help?"
"You can keep me company." He gestured to the wine bottles. "And open one of those. Your choice."
Ellie chose the red, using the corkscrew he'd bought specifically for tonight. She poured two glasses, handed him one, and settled against the counter to watch him work.
It should have made him nervous—her watching, her being in his space. But somehow it didn't. Somehow it felt natural, like they'd done this a hundred times before.
