Mistletoe Face Off (Chicago Blizzard Hockey #1)

Chapter 4Holly

Chapter Four

Holly

I must have previously-undetected daddy issues or something because I have not been able to get Santa Claus out of my head for the past few days.

Well, the guy playing Santa Claus, anyway.

Not that I could see all that much of him around his beard and wig and that pillow-stuffed suit of his. But I did manage to snap that shot of him shirtless before he donned his jacket, and I admit, I've looked at the photo more than once.

Okay, I’ve looked at it a whole bunch. So much so I could practically draw every well-defined muscle on that perfectly formed torso of his.

Can you blame me? That body is totally at odds with his fatherly Santa disguise.

But I'm doing him a disservice if all I think about are those perfectly sculpted abs of his—as spectacular as they were. He was easy to talk to. Fun. Sure, he couldn't sing to save his life, but he didn't let that stop him giving his all up there at the microphone.

And the way he was with Macy? That's what really got me. He somehow coaxed her out of her shell, picking her up and encouraging her to be part of the Christmas songs. Maybe it was the Santa suit? But then again, maybe it was just him, a good guy, someone to be a positive role model for kids.

Really, despite looking like Santa Claus, he’s the best guy I’ve met in a long, long time. And you know what the sad thing is? I'll never know who he was. He got whisked away by the event convener and I had to get back to my job, tracking down some more of the Blizzard players to interview before collecting Macy from the colouring station and heading home for some late dinner.

Heck, I didn't even catch his name. All he called himself was Santa, and call me cynical, but I'm fairly sure “Santa” isn't his real name.

I guess he'll have to remain this weirdly hot, sweet, kind guy in my head, and nothing more than that.

And right now, I've got another Blizzard Christmas event to cover, this time at the arena where both figure skaters and hockey players will be showing off their moves on the ice for a crowd of ecstatic fans.

If I had any moment in which I thought I could get away with going to this event without Macy tagging along, I was wrong. The moment she found out figure skating was in the program, she was all over it like a rash.

So, here I am at my second Blizzard Christmas event in a week with my daughter in tow, hoping to get an interview with the elusive Harrison Clarke, who I have on good authority, never turned up to the last event where I played Mrs. Claus to hot Santa.

Actually, I need to stop saying that, even if it's just in my head. Santa is not hot.

Or he shouldn't be, anyway.

Man, if this got out I'll get known as the journalist with daddy issues for sure.

“Will Ingrid Seymour be performing?” Macy asks as I park the car outside the arena.

“I don't know, honey.”

“What about Kayla Cushen? Or Felicia Gomez? Are they performing?”

I pop open the glove box and rifle through the stack of papers stuffed haphazardly inside. After finding receipts and fliers for new dry cleaners opening up, I find the program for tonight's event. I run my eyes over it. “Okay, let me see. We've got the Blizzard showing off how they can hit a little black thing into a net with a stick first.”

Macy giggles. “It's a puck, Mommy.”

“I know. I'm being facetious,” I reply, hoping she doesn't know what facetious means. “Here it is. Performing tonight is Caleb Franklin and Felicia Gomez. Happy?”

“I would prefer if Ingrid Seymour was performing, but they're both pretty good.”

“I'm glad they pass muster with you. Right, we'd better get in there. Mommy's got to work, remember? Just like last time. I've got to interview a bunch of Neanderthal men who think the sun goes out when they sit down.”

Macy looks at me as though I’m speaking in a foreign language. “What are you talking about, Mommy?”

I shoot her a smile. “Mommy’s just being silly.”

We climb out of the car and trudge across the sludge-smeared parking lot and into the arena. The place is thumping with pop music playing over the sound system and a crowd abuzz with excitement in the bleachers. I flash my press pass at a security guard, who waves me through to a cordoned off area next to the plexiglass—a perfect view of the ice for my wannabe figure skater daughter. A wannabe figure skater daughter who is too scared to get on the ice herself, that is.

Looking around, it's as though I've stumbled into a parallel universe where all its inhabitants are freakishly tall with impossibly broad shoulders and good looks. Several of them look me up and down, grinning, and I do my best to hold my head high and smile pleasantly but not encouragingly. I've got a job to do today, and sadly for me, that job includes not only talking with these man-apes, but tracking down the elusive Harrison Clarke to probe him about his past so I can dazzle my boss with my journalistic skills—and secure that promotion to the National News team.

Of course I've got no idea what skeletons Harrison has lurking in his closet, but then I guess a lot of water has passed under the bridge since we were at high school together. Twelve years, to be precise. Who knows what he could have got up to in that time?

Tonight I intend to find out.

And, if I'm completely honest with myself, it would be nice to see the guy I used to crush on once more, even if it's only to ask him questions he won't want to answer.

“Well, hello again,” Lorcan Stanbridge says as he sidles up next to us.

I thought I sensed slime nearby.

“What happened to your costume? You made one sexy Mrs. Claus, you know. I liked it a lot,” he says with more than a hint of lasciviousness.

“Did you meet my daughter, Lorcan?” I ask pointedly. Coming onto me in front of my daughter? If I didn’t already dislike the guy, I sure would now.

Lorcan’s eyes flick to Macy briefly. “Hey there, kid. You a fan of ice hockey?”

“No. I’m a fan of figure skating,” she replies, and I can't help but smile. Atta girl, Macy.

“Ice hockey’s way cooler, you know. I could get you one of my jerseys, and one for your mom,” he replies but Macy just looks at him blankly.

“Thanks but no thanks,” I reply.

Lorcan shrugs. “Your loss, baby.”

“Is Harrison Clarke here today?” I ask, not thinking it’s either my or Macy’s loss in the slightest. I look around. I might not have seen him in person since we were at high school, but he's a well-known face in this city. I'm sure to recognize him if he were here.

“What do you want with Clarke?” Lorcan drawls.

“I'm a journalist, remember? I'm going to ask him some questions.”

“I’ll answer any question you want. Why not ask me?”

I plaster on my sweetest smile. “Because you're not Harrison Clarke.”

The smarmy look on his face drops briefly before he pulls it back together. “He'll be here later,” he sniffs before he turns to leave, clearly giving up on flirting with me.

Thank goodness for that.

Lorcan Stanbridge is the kind of guy who makes my skin crawl.

After a while, and no sign of Harrison Clarke, the VIP area all but empties out of oversized men, and I'm not surprised when someone announces that the Blizzard are about to take to the ice.

Macy and I find a couple of seats, and with their theme song playing, and the announcer calling out each player’s name as though they're about to play an actual game, they sail out one at a time onto the ice to rapturous applause from the audience, many of whom are wearing their numbers on their jerseys.

I watch with interest as Dan Roberts, the team captain, slides across the ice, grinning and waving at everyone. He's quickly followed by Fletcher “The Steel” Steele, then Liam Carruthers, Lorcan the Slime—not his actual name, just the one I’m using in my head—Dion O’Neill, Chase Robinson, Hunter “The Enforcer” Adams, and their goalie, Casey Phillips.

Just as I'm beginning to wonder whether Harrison Clarke has left the team altogether, out he comes onto the ice as his name is called and the assembled masses clap and cheer and call his name, as though he just hit the winning goal in a Stanley Cup match.

He stops and waves at the crowd, his handsome face lifted in a confident smile that lights up his features, just as it did back in high school. His green eyes sparkle with mischief, and his strong jaw and dark groomed hair make him look rugged, athletic, and refined at the same time.

He looks my way and entirely against my will, my belly does a flip.

Wait. I cannot still have a crush on this guy! It’s been over a decade.

But still, as he skates over toward me, my heart rate kicks up a notch or two, and I find it’s him I watch as the players move around the ice, waving at the fans as music blares.

Him and no one else.

Just like back in high school, he has this presence that draws me in, the kind of magnetism you either have or you don't. Harrison Clarke has it in spades, from the top of his head to his wide shoulders and all the way down his long, muscular legs to the very tips of his toes.

“And now your Blizzard team is going to show you what makes them the best this state has to offer!” the announcer says, to huge cheers from the crowd.

The puck is dropped and the team theme song blares once more. The players’ skates cut arcs into the ice as they practice tight turns, passes, and precise shots at the goal. Each player performs the drills with fluid precision, from speed drills to puck handling and breakaways.

It’s a display of talent, and I watch in awe, captivated despite myself. I might have had a rocky love affair with the game, thanks in no small part to my ex, but watching these guys—particularly Harrison Clarke—is nothing short of magic.

Of course this is a showcase for the fans, not a real game. They would have practiced these moves, knowing the crowd will lap them right up. But nevertheless they're impressive, and despite my distaste for pro hockey players, I can't help but admire them.

And then it's Macy's turn to be thrilled as the team leaves the ice, a couple of Zambonis do their thing, and then the figure skaters finally arrive. She leans forward in her seat, glued to their every move. I watch her, wishing she had the confidence to try skating, or even to simply get on the ice. But whenever we’ve gone to a rink, she looks like she's going to give it a shot and then chickens out at the last minute. I know she finds it hard. I know she suffers with her worries. But I wish, I hope, one day that will change and she’ll be able to do the things she loves, no longer held back by fear.

Once the figure skaters have finished their impressive routine, they smile and wave at the crowd as they leave the ice.

“Did you like that, honey?” I ask.

She looks at me, her eyes as large as saucers, her face lifted in a grin. “It was so amazing! Did you see that triple axel? And the death turn? They were so good, Mommy. So good!”

I beam at her, caught up in her happiness. “They were amazing, honey.” I plant a kiss on her warm, soft cheek. “Do you think you want to come skating with me at the rink this weekend?”

She nods, grinning.

I don't get my hopes up. She’s gone to the rink a bunch of times intending to skate, and it hasn't happened yet.

“Let's do it then. This Saturday.”

“But Daddy's meant to take me out on Saturday. He promised. Remember?”

I hold my smile in place, my heart breaking for what feels almost an inevitability. He’s been in town, playing for his team, but he hasn’t once come to see his daughter. I’d put money on the fact he’ll let her down once again this Saturday with some lame excuse.

“Sunday then,” I say with a bright smile as a Christmas song begins to play.

“Look, Mommy!” she says excitedly, pointing out to the ice. “It’s Santa!”

I look back to see Santa on a pair of skates, sailing across the ice as effortlessly as the professionals before him. He waves at everybody, patting his large belly as the song Santa Claus is Coming to Town plays over the loudspeaker.

I watch, trying to work out whether it's the same guy who played Santa at the Community Center—and hoping it is. He sure is as tall as that guy, and he's in the same suit, but then don't Santa impersonators always wear a red suit with white fur trim?

People begin to clap along as Santa glides across the ice. He turns and pivots, and before too long, he leaps off the ice in a turn, landing back on his skates, gliding backwards. The crowd goes crazy, and Santa moves into another turn, looking almost as polished as the professional figure skaters before him.

Macy and I clap along with everyone else, enjoying ourselves, and when the song comes to an end people burst into applause, and Santa gives a bow before he skates off the ice.

We were so riveted by Santa’s unexpectedly expert performance that I hadn't noticed a bunch of hockey players have returned to the area we’re seated in.

“Mommy needs to go do her job for a bit. Will you be okay sitting here for a while and color, honey?” I ask.

“I will,” she tells me, and as I pull out her coloring book and pens from my purse I thank my lucky stars she's the kind of kid that doesn't simply wander off. If she says she’ll stay then I know she'll stay.

I bounce up and begin to chat with the players, avoiding Lorcan the Slime as best I can. I ask them about their charity events and a couple of them seem quite happy to talk to me.

“Onto hockey, word on the street is that you’re retiring soon, Dan,” I say to the team captain. “Who will be your replacement?”

“That's not up to me to decide, Ms. Coleman,” he replies smoothly.

“Surely you have your own thoughts on who should take over from you? Someone with leadership qualities?” I prod and he smiles.

“There are a couple candidates but I'm not at liberty to say who right now. I suggest you ask Coach Newton that question toward the end of the season.”

He's not giving anything away. I try a different tact. “Can I ask you another question, Dan?”

“Shoot.”

“Will Harrison Clarke be joining us here today?”

Dan looks over my head—which, let's face it, isn't hard for a guy his size—and smiles. “How about you go ask Santa that?”

“The Santa from the ice?” I ask, my pulse quickening, right on cue. I’m pretty sure he’s the same guy from the Community Center, and the figure skating sure would explain all those muscles I caught on camera. Even though he was wearing his Santa costume the whole time and I didn’t get to see what he looks like under the wig and beard, I know I’d like to get to know him better.

“Not a bad figure skater, huh? Did you catch his moves?” Dan says.

“I sure did.” I swivel around and catch Santa’s eye, and his fluffy white beard lifts into a smile. I know it's all kinds of wrong to feel things for Santa, but a bunch of butterflies begin to flap their wings in my belly as our eyes meet.

“Who is that Santa?” I ask Dan.

He smiles at me and says, “Why don't you go work it out for yourself? You’re a journalist, right?”

“Sure, but that doesn't mean I can work out who the figure skater in the Santa suit is.”

Dan laughs. “Are we done here?”

I notice he has yet to answer my question.

“Sure. Thanks.”

“Good luck with your article,” he says before he makes his way over to a pretty blonde girl and greets her with a kiss.

That must be the small-town girl he's dating. Keira, I think her name is? But it doesn't matter. There's no story there—other than a love story, and readers tend to be a lot less interested in happily ever afters than scandals. It’s a sad indictment on our culture.

I need to find Harrison Clarke and ask him some uncomfortable questions, but right now, Santa is making a beeline for me, and those dang belly-dwelling butterflies begin to flap their wings once more.

“Fancy meeting you here,” I say.

“Well, it is a Christmas event, and I am Santa Claus,” he replies with a chuckle, his green eyes sparkling.

“A figure skating Santa Claus by the looks of things. Where did you get those skills?”

“From a long time ago. I'm a little rusty, as you could probably tell, and this belly?” He pats what I know to be padding around his mid rift. “It tends to be more of a hindrance than anything else.”

“I bet. But seriously, where did you learn to skate like that?”

“I learned it as a kid back in Portland. That’s where I grew up, before my mom and me moved to Chicago.”

“Is your mom still here?”

“Yup. She lives not too far from me, in fact. I see her all the time.”

Even though half his face is obscured by a white beard, I can tell he loves his mom. A guy who loves his mom and isn't afraid to say so? I think I just swooned. Seriously. Could this guy get any more perfect? Now, if only I could see beneath that beard…

“That's sweet,” I say, trying to get a hold on myself. I can't go swooning over guys when I'm working, especially not ones dressed as Santa. It’s all kinds of wrong.

“How did you enjoy the show?” he asks.

“It was fantastic. Macy loved the figure skaters in particular.”

“Your daughter’s here?”

I gesture with my thumb over to the seats behind us. “She's right there, coloring.”

Without another word, Santa—I really have to find out this guy’s name—makes his way over to Macy. She turns to look at him and her eyes light right up.

“Santa!” she exclaims and immediately jumps out of her seat and gives him a hug.

I smile, warmed by the scene. Macy usually hangs back from people, always wary of them, her anxiety keeping her from too much connection. But with this guy, she's quite the opposite, and it warms my heart to see. It gives me hope that someday, hopefully, she can overcome her anxieties and do the things she wants to do so much.

“You are such a good skater,” she says as I join their little group.

“It was a lot of fun. Not quite as much fun as singing karaoke with you and your mom last week, though.” His eyes capture mine for a moment, and it's like they have an electric current that connects me to him.

“I think figure skating is a hundred times better than singing Christmas songs,” Macy says.

I place my arm around Macy's shoulders. “My daughter wants to be a figure skater someday. Isn't that right, honey?”

Macy gives a solemn nod. “I do. So much.”

“Well, let me give you some advice. Don't do it in a Santa suit. It makes it way harder,” he replies, winning a giggle from Macy.

“But Santa, that's what you wear every day, isn't it?” I say.

“Don't worry, Mommy. I know this isn't the real Santa,” Macy replies.

I blink at her. “How do you know that for sure?”

“Santa can't figure skate. Everyone knows that,” she says, her eight-year-old kid logic at work.

The guy dressed as Santa leans closer to her. “Don't tell the other kids. They're not as smart as you and they haven't worked it out.”

“Your secret is safe with me, Santa. Or Not Santa,” Macy replies, her features serious.

A grin claims my face. “In that case, can you tell us who you actually are?” I ask.

“No can do, sorry,” he replies.

“A first name at least,” I prod.

He pauses a beat before he replies, “I’m Harry.”

“Harry. Pleased to meet you.” I extend my hand and we shake, the touch of his skin against mine ramping up the electricity flowing through my veins.

“Harry and Holly,” he replies, his eyes dancing. “We sound like a 70’s folk music duo.”

“I guess we do,” I reply.

“Tell me, Macy, where do you train?” he asks.

I open my mouth to reply when my daughter responds with, “Oh, I don't figure skate on actual ice. It's just in my living room at home. Sometimes in the kitchen when Mommy’s cooking dinner, but it’s a bit more slippery in there,” Macy replies, and my heart squeezes for her.

“You can't be a figure skater without practicing on the ice, you know. In fact, it’s kind of a big part of the sport,” he says.

Macy looks down at her hands. “I know.”

“Macy is working up to that,” I reply, giving her shoulders a squeeze. “Aren't you, honey?”

She looks up at me, her lips in a thin line, and nods.

“I've got an idea. If it's okay with your mom, would you like me to take you out on the ice sometime to give it a try?”

His offer takes me completely by surprise.

“Oh, you don't have to do that for her,” I reply hastily. I don’t even know who this guy is. For all I know, he might be some kind of serial killer. A serial killer who’s great with kids, can figure skate like a pro, and has abs for days.

Okay, so probably not a serial killer, but he could be some kind of weirdo.

“I'd like to,” he replies simply.

“That's really kind of you, but I'm not sure Macy—” I begin, only to be cut off when my daughter says, “I want to try it. With you, Harry.”

I blink at her in disbelief. “You do?”

“I do,” she confirms.

“Are you sure that's okay?” I ask him.

“It would be my pleasure. If you skate, you could hang out with us out there on the ice, as well. In fact, it might help Macy if you do.”

I'm overwhelmed. Seriously, could this guy get any nicer?

We hold one another's gaze for a beat, and I wish he wasn't dressed in the Santa suit so I could know what he actually looks like, this talented figure skater who is so good with my daughter, and who I find myself thinking about more often than I should.

Chase, one of the hockey players I interviewed at the Community Center, comes over and slaps Harry on the shoulder. “Good work, man. Who knew you had figure skating skills as well as hockey.”

Wait. Hockey?

With his arm around Harry's shoulder, he turns to me and says, “Who would have thought Harrison had such hidden skills. Am I right?”

“Harrison?” I question, my brain whirring. Harrison… Harry…

No!

It can’t be!

Is the guy I’ve been thinking about, the guy who gives me butterflies, the guy Macy just agreed to go skating with … Harrison Clarke?