Mistletoe Face Off (Chicago Blizzard Hockey #1)

Chapter 7Harrison

Chapter Seven

Harrison

I scan the ice at our home arena, my breath heavy as I shout directions. We’re in the final period of a tough game against the St. Louis Vortex, with more fights than usual, Hunter at the center of a bunch of them.

Man, that guy needs to chill. He's a talented player, but he'll never shy away from a fight, starting half of them. At times, he gets us more penalties than points, and if I were captain, I would do my best to bring him into line.

With Dan on the bench, Coach put me in charge tonight, and I’m finding it hard to pull the team together in the face of a tough opposition.

Dion wins the face-off, feeding the puck to Fletcher. Lorcan streaks down the wing, but Fletcher ignores him—much to Lorcan’s frustration. Those two often bring their dislike for one another onto the ice.

I see Hunter clearing space, intimidating as ever. That’s one guy I’m glad I don’t have to come up against.

Suddenly, and without warning, their enforcer, Sharansky, slams right into Hunter, sending him crashing into the plexiglass. Immediately, both of them drop their sticks, their gloves flying off.

Fight time.

Not again! This game is getting away on me, and that’s the last thing I want when Coach has put me in charge.

Pinging off the plexiglass, Hunter's fists are a fast moving blur, pinpoint accurate as they connect with Sharansky's jaw. The crowd is on its feet, baying for blood, like they always do when a fight breaks out. Sometimes I wonder whether half of them are here more for the fights than the actual hockey.

But I don't have time to think about that because Fletcher is now throwing his own gloves off, backing up his teammate as another Vortex player gets involved.

I rush in, grabbing Hunter's jersey before this thing escalates any further. Chase is there too, pulling Sharansky back. We’ve each got a hold of them, as all the others swoop in.

“Cool it, guys!” I shout, trying to be the peacemaker as the two hurl expletives at one another.

Both teams are now glaring at each other, the atmosphere thick with tension. But even though Sharansky and Hunter are still throwing some colorful language around, I’ve done my job, separating them as the refs swoop in, dishing out the inevitable penalties.

“Keep it together, Hunter,” I warn. “And you, too, Fletcher. I don’t want any more repeats tonight.”

All Hunter does is grunt before he collects his gloves and stick and skates back into position. But he turns and nods at me, and I get the feeling he’s appreciative of my effort, even if he didn’t get to finish the fight. I've got his back, just like he's got mine on the ice—despite the fact he's way too much of a hot head.

Lorcan circles nearby, that ever-present sneer on his face. I know what he's thinking, I can read that guy like a book. He wanted me to get drawn into that fight so he could look the hero in Coach’s eyes as he broke us up.

But I’m rarely involved in fights, so he can go suck it.

Play resumes, and we’re still down 3-2 to the Vortex with the seconds on the clock ticking down. Fletcher dekes, but he loses it. I dive, pushing the puck to Dion. He lines up his shot and makes it, but their goalie blocks. Too bad for them because I'm there for the rebound. I pull off a slap shot, getting the goal.

Yes!

The crowd roars, leaping to their feet, ecstatic their home team has equalized the scoreboard.

I glance at Lorcan and see his face is twisted with envy.

I'm not one to gloat, but when I get one over Lorcan, it feels pretty dang good.

Chase pats me on my back. “Great play, Harrison.”

“Thanks, man.” I beam at him, hoping this proves once more that I'm captain material—and Lorcan isn't.

But our joy is short-lived. With ten seconds left, their star forward, Vince Turner, breaks away. Casey does his best to stretch across our goal, but it's not enough. The puck slides in, and with no more time on the clock left, the final score is 4-3 to the Vortex.

I'm philosophical about it. You can't win all the time, even if you want to.

As we begin to leave the ice, I catch Dan's eye. He nods, a silent acknowledgment, raising my hopes that maybe I'm one step closer to that ‘C’ on my jersey. But I know I'll have to keep on proving myself, game after game throughout the season, whenever I’ve given the chance.

“Check out that ugly sweater,” Casey says with a whistle, gesturing at the crowd, and I look up to see a woman in a sweater covered in red and green pom poms with a Christmas tree flashing in lights on the front.

Someone must flick a switch because the lights change from a Christmas tree shape into bold letters, spelling out our team name across eight sweaters, the ninth and tenth forming exclamation points.

It's clever.

“The whole family’s wearing ‘em,” I remark as I raise my stick in the air in appreciation. All ten of the sweater wearers begin to jump up and down, clapping their hands in glee that I’ve acknowledged their efforts.

Tonight is Ugly Sweater Night at the arena, and our fans, usually decked out in their favorite player’s jersey, are sporting all kinds of Christmas sweaters, from the cute to the downright terrible. It's one of our annual Christmas fundraising events. People make a small donation on top of their ticket purchase and all that money goes to charity. It's always popular, and this year we're supporting kids cancer.

Dan will soon be announcing the winner of the competition, who will get to join me and some of the other player volunteers in one of the corporate boxes for a post-match meal. Of course, journalists and photographers will be there to report on it—including my new sparring partner, Holly Coleman.

Not that she's there to report exactly. More to put on a show… with me.

Yup, tonight is our first fake argument, and I admit, I’m kind of excited about it.

I'm not sure how Holly feels about this whole performance thing we’ve signed up to. Heck, I'm not sure how I feel about it. Pretending to hate someone, creating a ruckus in front of an audience? That's more Hunter’s speed than mine, only he does it for real, as we got to witness first hand tonight on the ice.

The way I see it, I want this captaincy so bad, I'll do almost anything for it. And let's face it, getting to spend time with Holly—no matter whether it's pretending to hate her or something else—isn't exactly a hardship for me. Even if right now, I'm pretty sure the fake part of hating me isn’t exactly fake for her.

She'll get over it. It's not like I tricked her into thinking I was someone else for all that long. In fact, it was really only one afternoon. And anyway, the cat is well and truly out of the bag now.

After the team debrief we hit the showers and are dressed and ready in our off-ice suits and ties for the meet and greet. The volunteers for tonight include me, Dan, Casey, Lorcan, and Chase. No surprises there, even though I know who I'd prefer not to be included on the list. But of course Lorcan volunteered. He’s after the job, too.

I check my appearance in the mirror, adjusting my tie. Some people say it's weird that we wear suits before a game and after, but personally, I think it’s important. Part of who we are. We're professionals. Sure, we’re pro athletes with a sometimes brutal job to do on the ice, but off it, being in a suit shows that we take our jobs seriously.

“What's with you and that Holly chick?” Chase asks as we make our way up to the corporate box.

“Yeah, Clarke. What gives?” Casey adds.

“Nothing,” I reply elusively.

“Are you dating her?” Chase asks. “She sure is pretty.”

“She's hot,” Casey agrees.

“He wishes he was dating her,” Lorcan scoffs. “That is one hot piece of?—”

“Shut your mouth,” I snap at him before he gets his words out. I don't want Holly talked about like that, even if all she is to me right now is someone I'm pretending to hate.

Lorcan raises his brow at me. “Touchy much, Clarke?”

“I respect women,” I reply, happily taking the high ground.

“Is that what you call it? Respect?” Lorcan replies. “I thought you two didn't get along. Or is it more of a love to hate her situation you’ve got on your hands?”

Abby made it clear that this little arrangement we have needs to stay on the down low. Even though I'm close to a bunch of the guys on the team, including Casey, Dan, and Chase, who are here with me tonight, I can't tell them about it. It could get leaked—and no one wants that.

“It was just a stupid misunderstanding,” I reply.

We reach the door to the corporate box.

“Game face, gentleman,” Dan says as he pulls the door open.

Immediately, chatter and music fills the air, along with the delicious scent of roasted pork, potatoes and some kind of sweet fruit pie. Apple is my guess.

I scan the crowd, searching for Holly. I know she's here. We've got an argument to stage, after all. It doesn't take long to find her. She's in a black pencil skirt that shows off her figure and a cream blouse, her long dark hair falling down her back. She's talking to one of the ugly sweater winners, and when she laughs, her beautiful face lights right up.

As though she can sense me watching her, she tilts her head in my direction, and our gazes lock. I lift my lips and smile, and when she smiles back at me it feels like I've won the lottery.

She says goodbye to the ugly sweater wearer, making her way around through the crowd, and I catch up with her on the other side of the room, hidden from view from everyone else. “Hello, Ms. Coleman.”

“No Santa suit today?” she asks, although her tone is light.

“I'd like to retire that suit permanently, but I think my bosses have their ideas.”

“So, we're going to see you with the fake nose and the big belly again soon?”

“Possibly, but I can’t give away Santa-related secrets.” I tap the side of my nose,

“Got it.”

“Is Macy here with you tonight?”

“She's at home with a sitter. My mom, actually. It's a school night.”

I'm surprised to feel disappointment not to see her cute, smart daughter. “Make sure to say hi from me.”

Holly shoots me a questioning look. “Sure.”

“Did you catch the game?”

“I'm sorry you lost. Tough break. You played well, though.”

I flash her my grin. “I wasn't looking for a compliment, but I'll take it.”

Her full, pillowy lips lift into a smile, and it does things to me, making me want to do what I can to make sure I see that smile again.

“You and Chase Robinson were impressive out there, kinda like a crime fighting duo, breaking up fights.”

“As long as I’m Batman and he’s Robin, I’m good with that.”

“Do you break up a lot of fights?”

I shrug my shoulders. “You've got to do what you've got to do, I guess. A little like you and I have to stage another argument tonight.”

“What should we make it about this time? You're dressed as you, so I can't be angry at that, even though I do miss that big Santa belly of yours.” She glances briefly at my torso before she returns her eyes to mine.

She's teasing me. I find I like it. A lot.

I gesture with my thumb at the door I just came through. “I could go fix that if you like?”

She raises her hands in the air and lets out a laugh. “I'm good.”

“You prefer me looking the way I do?” I ask.

I'm flirting. It's no big deal.

“Now, I didn't go saying that, even though you do cut a pretty dashing figure in a suit, if I do say so. But I’m pretty sure you’re aware of that already.”

“Ditto. Not the suit part.” I allow my eyes to roam over her curvaceous figure for a moment. But only a moment. I don’t want to come across as some kind of sleazebag, only interested in her for her body. Looking the way she does, it’s hard not to find her attractive. Very attractive.

Her face flushes pink, rendering her even more gorgeous. She clears her throat. “We got some serious press for that one little argument. Did you see?”

“It was hard not to. Some of them had some pretty good headlines, don’t you think? Personally, the one that said ‘ho ho ho hold up, Santa.’ was my favorite.”

“There was a lot of ho ho ho-ing going on.”

I shrug. “It’s low hanging fruit. I liked the one that said ‘yule be sorry.’”

“Well, are you?” she asks, but she's smiling.

“Actually, I am. I thought about it and you were right. I didn't lie to you exactly, but I wasn't one hundred per cent truthful, either. Friends?” I offer her my hand, and she takes it in hers. The touch of her warm, soft skin against mine feels… nice. More than nice.

“I feel like a little kid, holding hands with you.”

I look down to see how small her hand is in mine. “Nah, I'm just freakishly large. Oh, and burly. I almost forgot that part”

She lets out a laugh, and the tinkling sound makes me smile. “I'm sorry I called you that.”

“Don't be. I'm proud of my freakishly large size and general burliness.”

“I bet it comes in handy for certain things. Like playing hockey, for instance.”

“There are plenty of other reasons, too, like the fact I'm always the first to know when it rains, and my shadow can act as a sundial for people to tell the time of day.”

She lets out another light laugh. “Any non-weather related reasons?”

“Let me think. I was a natural at playing tall trees in grade school.”

“Did you play a lot of tall trees back then?” she asks, her eyes dancing.

“Only every year. My performance was considered a little wooden, though.”

She rolls her eyes. “That was a dad joke.”

We share a smile, and it feels like we've reached a truce. A truce and more. We're getting along, enjoying one another's company.

“Hey, I wanted to say that my offer of taking Macy onto the ice is still on the table,” I say.

“You don't have to do that. You're super busy with all the matches you've got on right now and all these Christmas events. She’ll understand.”

“I can make the time. I want to do it. She's a good kid.”

“She knew you weren't Santa.”

“I liked her logic. I couldn't be Santa because Santa doesn't figure skate.”

“No other reason.”

“No other reason.”

We share another smile and it does weird things to my heart.

“How about it? We could go to the Caulfield Rink and give it a shot after school one day.”

“I don't know, Harrison. I've tried to get her on the ice before, but she's always chickened out at the last minute.”

“Harry, remember? That’s what my friends call me.”

“Are we friends?” she asks a little coyly.

“Yeah, I’d say we are,” I reply. “And it’s totally your call with your daughter.” I don't want to push it with her. She knows her kid a whole lot better than I do. If she thinks Macy won't do it, then I need to run with that.

She runs her fingers through her hair, and I wonder whether she’s feeling comfortable with my offer. But then she surprises me by saying, “You know what? Let's give it a shot. Who knows? You might be just what she needs to get her out onto the ice. She’s really taken a shine to you. Well, the Santa version of you, at least.”

I try not to let the fact Holly trusts me with her daughter affect me, but I fail miserably, a massive grin spreading right across my face. “Tomorrow after school? I've got practice scheduled for the morning, but no game.”

“I guess that would be okay?” she says slowly.

I sense her uncertainty. Placing my hand lightly on her forearm, I say, “You can trust me.”

She purses her lips. “As I said, you may be the magic ingredient she needs.”

“Thank you,” I reply, holding her gaze for a beat, noticing the rich brown of her eyes, deep brown like mahogany at the edges, lightening to milk coffee closer to the pupils. They’re really quite mesmerizing.

“So, we need to stage a fight. Pity now that we’re actually getting along,” she says.

“We never didn't get along. I always liked you back in high school.”

Her eyes grow to the size of pucks. “You did?”

“We had English class together, remember? We were in a study group.”

“Actually, I think you'll find we were less study buddies and you were more the guy who always needed my notes to catch up on what he missed in class because he was too busy thinking about what his next deke would be, or how he was going to play a great slapshot at the next game.”

“How do you know I was thinking about hockey?”

All she does is raise her brows at me.

“Okay. You got me. Sometimes I was thinking about other things, though.”

“Like which cheerleader you were going to date that Saturday night?”

“Hey, I only dated one cheerleader.”

“You know what I mean. You were the type.”

I raise my brows. “The type?”

“The type perky girls like Kelly Hanson would go for,” she replies, naming my girlfriend senior year.

“Oh, yeah? What was your type?”

“I didn't date. Not ‘till college, really.”

“Is that where you met Macy's dad?”

She casts her eyes down and immediately I feel bad for raising the guy.

“Sorry. I didn't mean to dredge up your past. But to be fair, you started it.”

“How?”

“You mentioned Kelly.”

“Didn't you only date her for half the year?” she asks and I nod. “I'm not quite sure six months equals marrying someone. Do you?”

“You got me there. But you’re divorced now, right?”

“Right.”

“Overstepping again?”

“No, it’s fine.”

I’m not sure if it is, so I move the conversation on. “About the argument. Abby didn't tell us what we should argue about, but the way I see it, it shouldn't be anything personal.”

“I totally agree. What did you have in mind?”

“I thought we could run with a Christmas theme. Last time was about me wearing a Santa costume and not telling you who I was.”

“Oh, I remember,” she replies with a glint in her eye.

“This time, I figured we could argue about a super contentious topic. The best way to unwrap a present.”

She lifts a brow. “Could you even make an argument about that.”

I’m enjoying how easy it is to talk to her. It’s like we’re back in the Community Center, chatting and getting along.

“Oh, yeah. I figured you're a careful present unwrapping kind of person. You probably even keep the paper to reuse. Am I right?” I ask.

“You could be.”

“That's a yes. Me? I'm more of a rip into it kinda guy.”

Her eyes dance as she shakes her head. “Why doesn't that surprise me?”

“Because I’m so manly?” I ask with a grin.

“Something like that,” she replies with a laugh.

We move back into the view of others and I ask, “Ready?”

“To argue over the correct way to unwrap presents?” She shrugs. “Sure.”

“Are you serious?” I ask, raising my voice. “Life's too short for wasting all that time carefully unwrapping a present! I'm not a surgeon. I'm a hockey player, and I want to see what's inside now !”

“That's ridiculous. You're as impatient as a toddler. You are a grown up, aren't you?” she spits back.

“Listen, sweetheart. As far as I'm concerned, the wrapping paper's fate is sealed the moment it’s taped up. I'm just fulfilling its destiny.”

“Its destiny?” she scoffs, her hands flying to her hips. “What about the environment? Did you know you can't recycle most Christmas wrapping paper? You need to reuse it again and again. That's the sensible grown up thing to do.” She lifts a finger to scold me. “And don't think I didn't notice you called me sweetheart. Pal .”

Oh, she's good. And the way she's looking at me right now? This is beginning to feel more like feisty flirting than an actual argument—and I cannot say I'm unhappy about that.

“Are you suggesting I'm not a grown up? Because I think the fact I tower over you may be a clue to the fact that I am a grown up, a grown-up who exercises his right to choose to unwrap his Christmas gifts quickly and efficiently.”

“But it's not a race, Harrison. Isn't savoring the anticipation part of the whole fun?”

Savoring the anticipation? Oh, this is definitely getting flirty, and I'm finding it increasingly hard not to grin at her.

“Forget the anticipation. Why wait? I want to get right to the real deal efficiently and quickly.”

And yes, my words are dripping in innuendo.

“You're such a… a man .”

I raise my brows. “Oh, I’m a man now? I thought you said I wasn't a grown up. Get it straight, sweetheart. Am I a man or am I a boy?”

She glares at me, but the corners of her lips are twitching as though she's trying hard to suppress a smile. She's enjoying this, just as much as I am.

And man, do I want to kiss her right now. So bad. Her and her witty feistiness and clever retorts. With her luscious lips and womanly curves. Oh, yeah. I want to kiss her bad .

But we've attracted a decent crowd of nosy onlookers, and kissing Holly right now would wreak the whole feud thing we’ve got going on.

But that does nothing to stop me wanting to.

“Oh, honey,” she begins, her head tilted to the side. “You're a man-child, which is the worst of both worlds. You've clearly got the impulse control of a toddler, ripping into your presents with no regard for the environment or even the clean up after, combined with the looks of an overgrown lumberjack.”

I bark out a laugh. That was funny! I style it out as sardonic. “How many lumberjacks do you know who can move the way I do on the ice?”

“None, but let's face it: lumberjacks do a real job.”

Next level, Holly. Next level!

I cross my arms over my chest. “Oh, yeah?”

She smiles sweetly at me. “Yeah.”

“Well, if you think playing hockey isn't a ‘real job’,” I say, using finger bunny ears. “What the heck are you doing at an ice arena, surrounded by the very people you don’t think do a ‘real job’?”

“That, Harrison Clarke, is a very good question.” She adjusts the strap of her purse over her shoulder. “Have a great evening, man-child,” she grinds out, and it's so realistic, I want to stand and applaud her, right here, right now.

She turns on her heel and storms off, collecting her coat and scarf from the rack by the door. She throws me one final scowl before she disappears from the room and I'm left here, my attraction for this feisty, witty, sexy woman only growing stronger with each passing moment.

I cannot wait for the next event, where we’ll get to do it all over again.