Page 5 of Mr. Mistletoe
We slide into our seats. Hers right next to mine. Ingrid gives me a look like who’s this chick, but thanks for the nachos, and I ignore her.
“Another hazard to being tall,” the woman says, trying to figure out where to put her legs.
Our calves brush together as we get our long legs arranged in the tight space. A tingle of awareness races through me as our legs touch. My imagination runs away, picturing how we might fit together, legs entwined.
The home team scores, and the announcer stretches out every syllable in dramatic fashion. Ingrid jumps up from her seat and pumps her fist in the air as her favorite player preens for the fans. Her eyes are bright with excitement and her short hair bobs around her flushed cheeks.
It’s just like old times. Only it’s not.
“Is that your sister?”
“Yep,” I say, family pride ringing in my voice as Ingrid yells obscenities at the opposing team.
The woman’s laugh bubbles out again, and I’m struck by how easy it is, talking to her. Like we’ve known each other longer than five minutes. But we don’t even know each other’s names.
The minutes tick by, and her date still hasn’t shown up. I can’t help hoping he fell into the toilet.
And it hits me—something my dad used to say.The best part of the game isn’t on the court. It’s who you end up sitting next to.
Back then, it meant being crammed between him and my sister, the three of us yelling until our voices cracked. Tonight…it feels like it means something entirely new.
Chapter Three
Jess
A cheer thundersthrough the arena as the Stingers sink a three-pointer. I clap along automatically. The overhead lights wash the court in gold, fans stomping and chanting in unison, but beside me, Kyle’s face is lit only by the pale blue glow of his screen.
Kyle is a drag. I could have stayed home and had the same conversation with the wall.
The only saving grace? The stranger sitting beside me.
He’s not just good-looking—he’s good. Warm, genuine. I nearly teared up when he talked about his dad, and the way he jokes with his sister makes something twist in my chest. He’s everything Kyle isn’t tonight—present.
When his knee brushes mine, it’s almost impossible to hear the crowd over the rush in my ears. Each accidental touch has heat inching up my center.
I try not to notice his every move, concentrating hard on the game.
The squeak of sneakers on the court and the buzz of the scoreboard blend together as I force myself to pay attention.
I can’t help but appreciate his passion for the game. He sighs in disappointment when a shot misses, and when the home team scores, he erupts in a cheer with so much enthusiasim, he nearly spills his drink.
When our player scores a three, he and his sister perform a complicated handshake that looks decades old.
“Kyle?” I try.
Nothing.
I poke his arm.
“Yeah?” His eyes never leave his phone.
“I’m gonna get a Diet Coke.”
I stand, and the soles of my shoes stick to the floor, making me wobble. Kyle grabs my elbow and scowls up at me.
“I’ll go,” he says. “Don’t want you spilling again.”
Heat crawls up my neck. Is that why he’s been ignoring me? Because of one clumsy moment?
