Page 18 of Mr. Mistletoe
I grimace. “Sorry, Coach.”
He groans and gets to his feet. “I need your help.”
“Uh, maybe you need a chiropractor?”
“Not that kind of help.” He reaches into a cabinet and pulls out a red velvet bag. “I need you to be Santa.”
I stare at it like it’s radioactive. “Not Santa.”
“Yes,” Mike says flatly. “Skating Santa, to be precise.”
“Absolutely not.”
He tosses the bag at my feet. “Suit up. Make sure it fits.”
“Suit up?” I echo. “Oh, come on. You can’t be serious.”
“As a lump of coal in your nephew’s stocking.”
A fake white beard tumbles out. “I don’t think I’m cut out to be Santa.”
“The kids have been looking forward to this since July,” Mike says, guilt thick in his voice.
“So find a volunteer. A mall Santa. Literally anyone else.”
He smirks. “You’re perfect for the role. Grumpy exterior, soft heart buried deep inside. Just like Santa.”
“Santa’s supposed to be jolly, not—whatever this is.”
“Clark.” His tone drops into that no-nonsense coach voice I know too well. “It’s for the kids. Don’t make me beg.”
I groan, drag a hand down my face, and grab the bag like it wronged me personally. “Fine. But I’m not ho-ho-ho-ing. Don’t even ask.”
“Try it on,” Mike says, grinning.
“What? Right now?”
“Right now.”
Five minutes later, I’m glaring at my reflection. The pants are two sizes too small, seams straining around my thighs, hems three inches short. I look like the Hulk mid-transformation.
The coat smells like mothballs. The beard’s elastic strap snaps against my head like it’s trying to take me out.
Mike’s doubled over laughing, clutching his bad back.
“Perfect,” he wheezes. “Santa’s been hitting the weight room.”
“Santa looks like he lost a bet,” I mutter, tugging the beard, which snaps back to bite my chin.
The hat slides over one eye. I shove it back up.
Mike slaps my thigh, still howling, then wincing.
I close my eyes, resigned to humiliation. “I hate you, Mike.”
“Ho-ho-ho.”
Chapter Nine
