Page 126 of Shut Up and Jingle Me
No hiding. No pretending. Just us.
I glance around at our friends laughing: Todd smiling in a way I haven’t seen before, Luke and Daniel twirling like they own the place, and Peter trying and failing not to have fun.
It’s loud. It’s messy. It’s perfect.
And when Max kisses me there in the middle of it all, I know—this is home.
Later, when we spill out into the cold night, snow dusting down in lazy flakes, Max tucks me close against his side to keep me warm. The streetlights glow gold around us, soft and hazy, catching in his hair. And for a heartbeat, I think about the photo I gave Max last Christmas—the two of us laughing like we had the whole world ahead of us at that Christmas Market.
We didn’t know it then, but we were right.
Because this—him beside me, our friends ahead of us, laughter echoing down the street—is exactly what that picture promised.
We became it.
Max
4 years later
The ice looks the same everywhere—cold, bright, endless—but this one hums a little louder. The logo at center ice is the Carolina Hurricanes, the same one stitched across Eli’s brand-new jersey.
He’s standing at the far end of the rink now, helmet off, grin wide enough to light the place. Cameras flash, staff mill around, and someone’s already posting clips of the team’s new rookie goalie.Mygoalie.
I lean on the boards, clipboard tucked under my arm, pretending I’m here strictly in my official capacity as assistant athletic trainer. The gold band on my left hand catches the light and blows my cover.
Coach walks by and claps my shoulder. “Looks like we made a good call, Calder. He’s gonna be a wall for us.”
“Always has been,” I say.
The coach nods and moves on, leaving me watching Eli through the glass. He’s in his element—focused, loose, alive. Every time he drops into position, I can feel that same ache I had the first time I saw him on the ice at school. Pride, awe, love—it all blends together until I can’t tell the difference anymore.
He skates toward me between drills, flipping his mask up. “How’s my form?” he calls.
“Textbook,” I say. “Show-off.”
He grins. “You love it.”
“I married it,” I remind him, holding up my hand, so he can see the ring glint again.
He laughs, that same bright sound that’s been home for years, and taps the glass with his stick before skating back to the crease.
My contract says I’m not to cross professional lines, but it also says—thanks to a very persistent lawyer and one hell of an HR meeting—that my marriage to Eli Starling-Calder doesn’tviolate team policy. We keep it professional at work, personal everywhere else. It’s a balance we’ve perfected.
When practice ends, the arena empties out to the hum of compressors and the scrape of the Zamboni. Eli’s the last off the ice, as always. He unlatches the gate, helmet under his arm, cheeks red from working hard.
I hand him a towel. “You look good out there.”
“Good?” he echoes, mock-offended. “You mean phenomenal.”
“Arrogant,” I counter, smiling.
He leans in, drops his voice. “You love that, too.”
He’s right. I do.
He slings an arm around my shoulders as we walk down the tunnel together, his skates clacking against the mat. The sound echoes, steady, familiar, like a heartbeat.
Four years, and somehow, it still feels new.
