Mistletoe Face Off (Chicago Blizzard Hockey #1)

Chapter 1Harrison

Chapter One

Harrison

The roar of the home crowd is so loud it’s practically deafening, but it’s drowned out by the pounding of my own heart and the deep breaths of air I’m gulping in. Almost twenty thousand fans are on their feet, demanding victory from us, and the clock is ticking down.

This is it. Showtime.

The capital “C” on Captain Dan Roberts’s jersey gleams under the arena lights as he takes the face-off in this, the final period of our latest game, a grudge match against our nemesis, the Denver Thunderwolves. I can see the focus in Dan’s eyes, like a lion eyeing its prey. Focused. Driven. Determined.

Dan is at the top of his game, leading our team, the Chicago Blizzard, in a blistering season that seems like it could send us right to the Cup. He’s retiring at the end of it, and Coach Newton says I'm on the short list for his replacement.

I'm determined to make that happen. Tonight is just another game for me to prove I’m worthy of that “C.”

Being captain of the Blizzard would be the icing on the cake for a guy like me, coming from a less than perfect past, and overcoming it all to make it to the NHL.

That's the dream, people. And I’m not going to let anything get in my way.

The puck drops, and Dan is on it like a flash, sending it straight back to me. I quickly pivot, scanning the ice. Our forwards are already in motion, cutting through the Thunderwolves’ defense like butter. I tap the puck up to Fletcher Steele on the wing, and he’s off, skating hard and fast, nudging the puck with his famous steely control—pun intended. The guy’s not known as “The Steel” for nothing.

The Thunderwolves’ defense tries to close in, but Fletcher’s got this. He might be what the press loves to label “Wild Fletch” thanks to his bad boy reputation on the team, but he sure is a safe pair of hands on the ice—and that’s all that matters in a tight game like tonight’s.

Fletcher pulls a slick deke, one of his signature moves, sliding the puck over to winger Chase Robinson, and before the Thunderwolves’ goalie even knows what’s hit him, Chase slots the biscuit right past him as the goalie leaps in the wrong direction, legs and stick splaying.

It’s a goal, putting us in a 4-3 lead.

With victory in their sights, the crowd goes crazy as I skate over to the guys, a huge grin on my face. With only a minute and seven seconds left on the clock, that goal could have this game sewn up in our favor.

The captain’s the first to give Chase a rough pat on the helmet, shouting, “Nice shot!” over the noise of the crowd.

“Thanks, Cap’ain Dan,” he replies, using the Forrest Gump -inspired nickname we often throw Roberts’s way.

I’m not sure he loves it.

But you know what? Everyone on the team respects the guy—even Lorcan Stanbridge, a guy who rubs me up the wrong way at every turn, for more reasons than he wants the captaincy, too. Dan’s led us through some tough games. Him retiring at the end of the season may present an opportunity for me, but in his short tenure as captain, he’s helped make the Blizzard one of the strongest forces on the league, and the team won’t be the same without him.

We join Dan, our gloved hands making a series of thunks as we slap Chase on the back to congratulate him on his goal. He grins at us, lapping up the attention and waving at the crowd, just as he always does. I tell you, that guy is an attention junkie, but I don’t condemn him for it. We’ve each got our strengths, and our reasons why we play the game.

We may be total brutes on the ice—this is ice hockey, not lawn bowls, after all—but we're a pretty tight-knit team.

Well, mostly.

The energy’s high now, and I can feel the shift in attitude as we return to our starting positions. We’re in control now. The Thunderwolves are rattled, even though I know they’ll come back strong. Teams often do after a goal against them. Right now, it’s our time to drive it home, for us, and for all our fans who have come out to the barn in force tonight, wearing our jerseys, jumping out of their seats with each twist and turn of the plays.

I glance over at the bench, catching Coach Newton’s eye. He gives me a nod, and I know what’s coming next. It’s time to lock this game down and show him my leadership potential once more. It’s my time to prove to him and to everyone that I'm more than just the guy with the wicked slapshot and strong defense.

We line up for the face off, and as the biscuit drops, I spot the Thunderwolves’ star winger, Phil Channing, winding up for a rush. He may be fast, but I’ve already read his next move, and I’m ready for him. Skating backward, I keep up with him, allowing just enough space between us. As he tries to cut inside, I slide in, my shoulder connecting with his, throwing him off course. There’s no penalty, but any player will tell you it's a fine line when you're out on the ice. And besides, hockey is physical, and all the players know it. Channing throws some expletives my way, but I ignore him.

The puck flies loose and Dan is there to scoop it up, driving it forward. I hear the crowd cheer, and I glance at Coach once more. He catches my eye, giving me that subtle nod again. I’ve done my job, and Dan knows it, too. Leadership’s not just about the flashy plays. It’s about making the right plays, and I just made one that counts.

It feels like the captaincy is within my grasp.

The final buzzer blares, signaling the end of the game, and we celebrate our victory on the ice with back slaps and air punches while the crowd in the bleachers scream and cheer for us, reveling in our victory.

Gusty the Snow Monster, our mascot, a big, fluffy, yeti-like creature with icy blue fur in a Blizzard jersey, keeps the crowd excitement going as we do a victory lap around the ice, waving at the fans and pumping the air, exhilarated.

I love it when a game goes our way, particularly against the Thunderwolves.

After we've acknowledged the fans, done the post-game video our social media manager insists we do, we hit the changing room, amped up by our win.

As I'm toweling myself off after a shower, Coach calls the team into a huddle.

“Great game, men. We showed real grit in the third period, especially on that power play. Clarke, nice assist on the game-winner,” he says, and I acknowledge the compliment with a nod.

“Thanks, Coach,” some of the guys murmur.

“But we can’t go getting comfortable. Our defensive zone coverage was sloppy at times in the second, and it costs us, giving them too many scoring chances. We need to work on quicker transitions. Centers need to put in extra time on the dot this week to improve faceoff wins. Goaltending was solid, but we're relying too heavily on last-minute heroics. I need you to take control of the game from the get go. Got it?”

“Got it,” me and some of the guys reply.

“On another topic, as you know, it's that time of year again, which means we've got a big charity drive for Christmas coming up. Those of you who've been around for a while will know the drill. We do a full month of charity work with lots of appearances.”

Dion O’Neill groans, and Coach gives him a glare.

“And every member of the team needs to step up, which includes you, Dion,” Coach continues.

“But, Coach, I don't like Christmas,” Dion complains.

“You're such a jerk, Celine,” Chase says with a shake of his head, using the nickname Dion was given at his very first practice with the team. Let's face it, with a name like Dion, the guys had no choice in the matter.

“Yeah, Celine,” Casey, our goalie, echoes. “Where’s your Christmas spirit, man?”

“It should go on and on,” Chase adds, quoting the famous Titanic song, and he and Casey grin as they high five one another.

“It's in the VIP section at Vinci’s,” Dion replies with a smarmy grin, naming a local nightclub, popular with the guys on the team. I might have been there once or twice myself, but that was before I got serious about wanting to be the new leader.

I can't say I like Dion all that much, but unlike Chase, I would never tell him he's a jerk. Not since I started my quest to be captain, anyway. No matter what my personal opinion of the guy is, he's a part of our team and deserves the same respect as everyone else.

“Whether or not you like Christmas is beside the point,” Coach says, “It's what we do here at the Blizzard. It’s been our tradition since before my tenure, and it’ll be our tradition long after I’m gone. I need all of you to front for whichever event you’re rostered on to. Got it?”

“Got it,” I reply along with the others.

Dion crosses his arms over his bare chest and harrumphs.

Coach ignores him. “The first event is at the Hawksworth Community Center. It’s an event for underprivileged kids, whose families can't afford to put on Christmas for them. I need you all there for this one, and that includes anyone who’s got it in their head that they don’t like Christmas.” He looks right at Dion. “It's Thursday afternoon, starting at 3:00PM sharp.”

“You can count on me, Coach,” Lorcan says in that creepy way he uses to suck up to management. “Personally, I love Christmas.”

I try not to roll my eyes. Fail. Lorcan Stanbridge always has that effect on me.

“Glad to hear it, Lorcan.” Coach dismisses the team and calls me and Lorcan over for a private chat, just the three of us.

“What's up, Coach?” I ask.

“I know you're both interested in leading the team next season,” he says, and Lorcan and I share a brief look.

There's no beating around the bush with Coach. He's a straight shooter, if ever there was one.

“What do you need?” I ask.

“Whatever it is, I'll do it, Coach,” Lorcan says eagerly.

Coach looks between us. “I need one of you to be Santa Claus for a few of the events over the next month.”

I blink at him in disbelief. I was not expecting that. “You need what now?” I ask.

“You know. Big guy, beard, slides down chimneys to deliver presents to kids on Christmas Eve?”

“We know who Santa is, but you want one of us to dress up as him?” I ask.

“Thursday night, the Christmas event at the Hawksworth Community Center. I need one of you in the red suit to hand out presents to the kids.”

“Has this got anything to do with the captaincy next season?” Lorcan asks.

“Of course not. That would be crazy. I'm not going to choose a captain based on whichever one of the two of you volunteers to dress up in a red suit, stuff a pillow down his pants, and say ‘ho ho ho’ to a bunch of kids, now, am I?” Coach has an unexpected sparkle in his eyes that suggests to me stepping up to be Santa for a bunch of kids could in fact help grease those captaincy decision-making wheels.

Lorcan pulls his lips into a line, shaking his head. He must have missed the Coach’s sparkle. “I can’t do it. I've got my image to uphold, Coach.”

“As an underwear model?” Coach asks, referring to the reportedly lucrative deal Lorcan signed a few months back—which has meant I’ve had to suffer his shirtless, grinning image on a billboard on my way home from the arena for the past week.

I get enough of the guy on the team. I don’t need his shirtless, grinning image invading my personal time, too.

“I’m proud of it, Coach. I don't think it's a good idea for me to go prancing around in a big ole red suit,” Lorcan replies. “That’s way more Clarke’s speed. Isn’t that right, Clarke?”

“I'll do it,” I say.

“You will?” Lorcan scoffs. “You know what? Now that I think about it, I bet you'd make an excellent Santa.” Lorcan slaps his hand against my bare abs.

I shoot him a look. What does he think he's trying to say? That I've got a Santa belly?

“That's good news, Harrison. The kids will really appreciate it,” Coach replies. “I've got a suit, a wig and beard, and this prosthetic nose you can wear, too. It’s in a bag at my place, along with some other Christmas costumes.”

Lorcan’s eyes are alight. “A prosthetic nose? You’ll be fighting the hot babes off with that on your face, Clarke.”

I don't look at him.

“It's actually quite life-like,” Coach replies, and Lorcan snorts. He is so enjoying this. But I don't care. Whatever it takes to secure the captaincy. And if that means throwing on a red suit, stuffing a pillow down my pants, and wearing a life-like prosthetic nose, then I’ll do it.

“You got it, Coach. Whatever you need for the team,” I say. Because we all know nothing says “captain material” quite like a six-foot-five defenseman crammed into a Santa suit, right?

It’s Coach’s turn to slap me on the back, although he does it a lot more gently than Lorcan. “Great attitude, Harrison. That's what we need on this team: a great attitude and a willingness to step up when it counts.”

Lorcan throws his hands in the air. “Ask me to do anything else and I will. Just not the red suit.”

I grab onto an idea. “Coach, shouldn't Santa have an elf helper?” I ask.

“An elf? I hadn’t thought about that, but it's a great idea,” Coach replies.

“Lorcan the Elf. I can see it now, although you’ll have to wear more clothes than you do in those underwear ads,” I say, loving the way I'm making Lorcan squirm.

He opens his mouth to protest, and I can almost see the cogs in his brain whirring to life, trying to work out how he can avoid being seen dressed as an elf, helping me as Santa, his boss.

Huh. His boss. I like the sound of that.

Coach lets out a laugh. “We don’t need an elf, Lorcan. You can relax.”

Lorcan’s face morphs into his billboard smirk. “I knew you were. But even if I'm not Santa, you can count on me to be there Thursday night. I'll even bring some toys for the kids.”

“That would be great,” Coach replies.

“I'll bring some, too,” I add, winning a smirk from Lorcan.

“Oh, you'll have a whole sack of gifts when you come crashing down the chimney,” Lorcan says, laughing at his own joke.

All I do is smile benevolently. I've got the moral high ground over this guy. Sure, it might be in a fur-trimmed red suit with a thick prickly beard and a surprisingly life-like fake nose, but it's high ground all the same.

It’s Thursday afternoon and I trudge through a fresh coating of snow into the Hawksworth Community Center, the bag of Santa gear from Coach Newton slung over my shoulder along with a sack full of kids’ toys I ordered online. ‘Tis the season of giving, as they say, and what’s more deserving than a community center full of underprivileged kids?

A short, middle-aged woman with cropped gray hair and bright pink rimmed glasses bustles over to me, greeting me with a wide grin. “I know you. You're Harrison Clarke,” she says, her eyes dancing.

“I sure am, ma’am,” I reply. “Pleased to meet you.”

“We are so excited to have you here, Mr. Clarke. The kids have been going crazy for the idea of the whole team coming tonight. The Blizzard are quite popular around here, you know.”

“I hope to put on a good show for them, ma’am. And it's Harrison.”

“I'm Daphne. It's great to meet you, Harrison.” She eyes my bags. “Are those for the kids?”

“One of the bags is. The other is my costume.”

“Do you mean your hockey costume?” she asks.

“We don't usually call that a costume,” I reply with a smile. Daphne is clearly not an ice hockey fan, even if many of the attendees here are. “I'm Santa tonight.”

“You’re Santa?” she asks dubiously, eyeing me up.

“That’s me. Your six foot five guy in a red suit.”

Her face lights up in a smile as she claps her hands together. “Oh, goodie! The kids do so love a Santa. Although I have to say, you don't look much like him.”

I pat the bag. “That's what this is for, and there seem to be some other costumes in there, too. An elf, and some other stuff.”

I think of the missed opportunity for Lorcan to be my elf helper, or better yet, wear the short red dress in the bag, playing my Mrs. Claus. But I guess I’ll just have to store that image away for when he next says something that riles me up. So yeah, probably when I see him later today.

“All righty. Come this way, Harrison. Let's get you fixed right up before the kids get here. We need to keep the magic of Christmas alive, don't we?” Daphne says.

“We sure do,” I reply as she leads me to a small room at the back of the hall. As she pushes the door open, I notice it's filled with boxes and plastic tubs, with only a small floor space for where I can transform into Mr. Claus.

“It's not much, but it's the only privacy we've got here,” she explains. “Other than the front office, that is. But that's full of people working, and I'm sure you don't want to get changed in front of them.”

“This is just great,” I tell her as I scan the small room, wondering if there is even enough room for a guy my size to get changed without knocking stacks of boxes over.

I guess I'm about to find out.

“All righty. In that case, I'll leave you to it. The rest of your team should be here soon and then the kids are set to arrive in about fifteen or twenty minutes. Should I knock on the door when we're ready for you to come out?”

“Sure. Sounds good.”

“All righty,” she says once more before she closes the door of the room behind her.

Immediately, I get to work, unzipping the bag and pulling out of the first red thing I find. Only, it’s not the suit. It’s a Mrs. Claus dress. A sexy Mrs. Claus dress with straps and a short skirt, at that.

Huh . No wonder Santa looks so dang happy all the time.

I reach in and pull out a plastic bag filled with white hair. That must be the wig and beard. I slip them on, trying not to think about who wore them last as I breathe in their mustiness.

There’s no mirror in the room, so I pull my phone from my back pocket and switch on the camera. Peering back at me is the most ridiculous version of myself I’ve seen since I last dressed up for one of Chase’s legendary Halloween parties a couple years back. He got the whole team to go as 70’s disco dancers, complete with bell bottom pants, medallions, and curly wigs and handle-bar mustaches.

This? This is a whole other level.

I remember the prosthetic nose and find it in a plastic box, which I snap open to reveal the creepy sight of a very realistic looking human nose. Pushing thoughts of Mafia-style horses heads from my mind, I fit the fake nose over my own, smoothing out the edges, and am surprised to see that I look nothing like me—other than my green eyes, peeking out from under the curly white wig.

I can hear voices and the sound of scampering feet coming from out in the hall. The kids must be arriving. Better hurry it up.

Next: the suit.

I rummage around some more and find the jacket and pants. They’re bright red with white fur trim, just as you'd expect them to be, and it has a belt with an oversized gold buckle, and a pair of black boots Coach assured me would fit my oversized feet.

I look doubtfully from my sneaker-clad size 15s to the boots that look more like they’d fit an elf. Or, you know, a more regular sized guy.

Holding the pants up I see they’re Santa sized, and I’m glad I threw a pillow into the bag for belly padding.

I slip off my own jacket, sweater, and T-shirt, then my jeans and shoes, so I’m standing in the tiny room, freezing my butt off in just my boxers and a pair of socks. Quickly, to avoid frostbite, I pull the pants up, the elastic at my waist snapping into place.

With my skin threatening to turn into permanent goose flesh, I unbutton the Santa jacket. Just as I’m about to slide an arm inside, the door to my little changing room flies open. Standing in the doorway are Chase, Hunter, and Casey, all staring at me as though… well, as though I’m standing in a box room in a pair of Santa pants, a beard, wig, and fake nose, and not a lot else.

“Is that you, Harrison?” Casey asks, his brows pulled together as he stares at me.

“Can’t you tell?” I reply, peering over their shoulders at the gathering crowd in the hall.

“What the heck happened to your nose?” Chase says. “You meet an angry Thunderwolf after the game last night or something?”

“It’s a good look, man,” Casey says with his characteristic laugh.

“Is this shirtless thing a new spin on Santa? I’d say a sexy spin, but by the looks of that nose…” Chase says, and Casey laughs once more.

“Yeah. What is that?” he asks, reaching toward my face.

I bat his hand away before he gets the chance to touch my new fake nose, or worse yet, pull it off.

“Now, remember, Harrison. Wobble your belly like a bowlful of jelly,” Chase says, laughing at his own joke.

“Leave the guy alone,” Hunter grumps as he herds the guys from the room.

“Thanks,” I say.

He lifts his chin. “See you out there. Santa.” The corners of his lips twitch.

Was that… a smile ? Fletcher isn’t exactly known for his easy, breezy disposition, and he sure as heck doesn’t throw too many smiles around.

That’s when I see her. A pretty woman with long dark hair, in a white bobble hat and matching scarf, and a dark blue overcoat. She looks my way, and I see something cross her face. Immediately, she picks up the camera that’s hanging around her neck, aims it right at me, and snaps my picture, half-dressed in my Santa suit and half… well, half not.

Quickly, I reach for the door and slam it shut, hoping she didn’t get her shot, and wondering who the beautiful woman behind the lens is.