Mistletoe Face Off (Chicago Blizzard Hockey #1)

Chapter 11Holly

Chapter Eleven

Holly

NHL's Clarke Faces Off with Journalist in Yuletide Film Feud.

Love Actually in the Penalty Box?

Finding it hard to concentrate, I stop reading the headlines, watching the memes, and generally reliving Harry’s and my latest public argument. The goal was to keep the audience engaged, and by the looks of things, our latest fight was a runaway success. # SantaFeud is even trending.

It’s everything we planned it to be, thanks to Abby Sinclair’s brainchild and Slippery Stephen’s eagerness to get one of his journos out there, and by association, the paper.

Arguing with Harry is fun. Him picking the topic of rival Christmas movies—even though I will never in a million years agree that Die Hard is the best Christmas movie ever made—was nothing short of genius. It's the kind of topic people can get super impassioned about without it really meaning anything.

And then, when it ended and we went our separate ways, I shocked myself by agreeing to go out with Harrison on the basis that I would prove to him he couldn't resist dancing to that Pointer Sisters’ song Hugh Grant gets down to in Love Actually .

Why the heck did I do that?

Sure, I was swept up in the moment, enjoying our banter and the sheer ridiculousness of our argument. More than that, I enjoyed the way he gazed at me intently as though I was the only woman in the room.

A woman he wanted.

And then there was that moment when he fed me some of the chimney from the gingerbread house. It was so intimate and sweet that it made my heart thud and heat bloom in my cheeks. It was a moment. An intimate moment.

His wit is both infuriating and impressive in equal measure. In my time as a sports journalist, I've interviewed many athletes, but none have kept me on my toes quite like Harry can. Combine that with the disarming way he is with Macy, this tough, burly hockey player who turns into a gentle giant around my daughter, and I’ve got a serious case of the feels for the guy.

As in all the feels.

It’s as though in spending all this time with him I’m getting to see behind the curtain of his macho hockey pro persona, and I can't help but want to see more—even though my past is screaming at me that getting close to another pro athlete is simply too dangerous to even consider.

Look at what happened last time , my past says. Marriage over, left literally holding the baby, trying to make ends meet just to survive because Phil doesn’t have the decency to send us more than the barest of minimums each month.

It is not a pretty picture.

I’m not saying Harry and I are going to get married, and he'll leave me the way my ex did. That's taking the way I feel about him several leaps down the road of commitment. But even at this early stage, I'm scared to get involved with him, knowing from bitter experience how this could turn out.

Why would a guy like Harry, who could have any woman he wants, go for a single mom with a painful past like me?

I blow out a breath as I knit my fingers behind my head and lean back in my chair.

“A penny for them?” Selena asks, watching me though her thick-rimmed glasses.

“You don't want to know,” I reply.

“Coffee?”

“I need something, that's for sure.”

A few minutes later, we've taken the elevator to the ground floor and found our way down the street to a Starbucks. We order our coffee and then sit in a window seat, watching people bustle by on a cold Chicago morning.

“Don't tell me. It's what they're saying about you and Harrison Clarke again,” Selena says without preamble. “There are some crazy headlines and posts out there today. But honey, it's not that bad. So what if you don't get on with an NHL player. From what I know about hockey, they're all big brutes who earn way too much and like to fight on the ice more than play the actual game.”

“Harry’s not like that.”

“So, what gives?”

“I—” I debate whether to tell Selena that this alleged feud between us is fake. I’m not loving lying to everyone, particularly to a friend. It feels like I'm carrying a heavy weight around, and it would be nice to have someone else help carry the load. And besides, Selena’s not only my friend, but a journalist, too. She’ll get how these things can work.

“If I tell you, you can't mention it to a soul. Not even Horacio.”

“Not even to my husband? Wow, this sounds super serious.”

“Is that a promise?”

She places her hand over her heart. “Promise.”

“You know this whole argument thing? Well, it started out as real, but now it's …not.”

She knits her brows together. “How so?”

“Abby Sinclair, the Blizzard PR person, thought after all the press coverage for our first fight, it would be good for the team and their Christmas charity efforts that Harry and I keep it up. We had a meeting, Abby, Harry, their coach, Stephen, and me.”

“Wait. Are you saying that Slippery Stephen agreed this was a good idea for you to get into arguments with an NHL player?” she asks, and I nod. “Huh. You play the part well, that's all I can say, but you sure are opening yourself up to criticism.”

“That’s not what’s bothering me.”

“What is it then?”

“During our argument last time, I accidentally agreed to go out with Harry on Sunday night.” I hold my breath, waiting for her reply.

Her eyes widen as her lips pull into a grin. “Girl, I saw that coming a mile off.”

“You did?”

“Heck, yes! All that arguing and getting hot under the collar? Total turn on. Have you kissed yet?”

“No!”

“Have you wanted to?”

I pull my lips into a line. “Yes.”

“Ha!”

I toy with my mug.

“I don’t get it. What’s the problem?” she asks.

“It’s just… I’ve been burnt before.”

“Your ex?” She waves him away with a flick of her wrist. “Is Harry at all like him?”

I think of how much I enjoy being with him. It’s so easy, natural, like we’ve known one another all our lives, but with the excitement of only just beginning to learn about one another. “He's different. He's kind and sweet and fun.”

“Any man who can put that kind of smile on your face can't be bad.”

“But what if I'm wrong? I thought Phil was a great guy when I met him, too, and I married him.”

“Do you wanna know what I think?”

“Yes!”

“I say go on this date. See how it feels. When was the last time you went on a date? Sometime last decade?”

“It wasn't that long ago,” I reply, but Selena just gives me a look. “Okay, it was with Phil before we got married. But I've been asked on dates since then.”

“Doesn’t count. Go out with the guy. Have some fun. Not all hockey players will be like your ex. Who knows? Harrison Clarke may be the one.”

Selena’s words are still ringing in my ears when Mom comes over to sit for Macy on Sunday night. I've been twisting myself in knots over this date, nervous that I'm getting in too deep with another guy who has every opportunity to be just as disloyal as my ex was.

And then I remind myself that this is only our first date. Sure, we've spent time together, and we definitely shared a few moments. But it's never been just him and me, and I'm feeling the pressure.

Maybe I need to just lighten up about this whole thing? Plenty of people go on dates and have short term relationships with men without ending up walking down the aisle and having babies together. I need to see this for what it is: a date with an incredibly hot guy who I get on super well with, and a man who sets my heart alight.

If nothing else comes of this evening, at least it will be good for my cardiac health.

“Didn't you learn your lesson the first time around?” Mom asks as I pull open the door to my apartment to see her bundled up against the cold winter’s night.

“And hello to you too, Mom,” I reply with a smile.

Her taut features soften as she collects me in a hug and I breathe in her familiar perfume. “I'm just worried about you, sweetie. I don't want you to go through all that heartache again.”

“You and me both,” I reply as I close the door behind her.

She throws her eyes over me. “Is that what you're wearing?”

Self-consciously, I glance down at my black, V-neck shift dress. I've always felt good in this dress. I think I look sexy but elegant, with the dress falling just above my knees, the V low enough to give only a hint of cleavage and nothing more. “No, Mom. This is what I've been wearing to clean the oven.”

“Don't you get sassy with me, Holly Coleman.”

“Sorry, Mom.”

“It’s black.”

“Correct.”

“Are you trying to tell him going on a date with him is like going to a funeral? Because that’s what that dress says to me.”

“Black is classic, and besides, I don’t have time to change. Harry’s due here any minute.”

“What's he like? I saw him on The YouTube doing that fancy skating in his Santa suit.”

I smile at my mom’s way of referring to YouTube as “The YouTube.” Mom and technology aren't good friends, which is just as well with all the furor around Harry and my alleged hatred for one another right now.

“I thought he was a hockey player, not a figure skater,” she says.

“He is, but he learned figure skating when he was younger, too.”

“So, he’s multi-talented.”

“He's also a really nice guy, and he even helped Macy onto the ice the other day.”

Mom’s eyes grow huge. “You introduced him to my granddaughter already?”

“She was there when we met, and isn't the point that she got on the ice a little bit more important than your being judgmental over me introducing my daughter to the one guy I've gone on a date with since my marriage fell apart?”

She hands me her coat and scarf. “I told you, sweetie, I'm only trying to protect you. Now, where is my little Macy Bug?”

“She's coloring in her room,” I tell her and my mom bustles down the hall where I hear Macy excitedly calling out, “Granny!”

At least one of us is pleased to see my mom. Actually, that's a little harsh. Mom may like to share her opinions on my life choices—and my wardrobe—but she's always been there for me when I’ve needed her, particularly when Phil walked out on us all those years ago. She might not be perfect, but she’s all I've got.

The intercom buzzes and immediately, my heart rate kicks up.

With my nerves bouncing around, I press the button. “Hello?”

“It's me, Harry,” a disembodied voice says over the crackly connection.

I give him the apartment number and say, “Come right up.” I press the button and then scurry down the hallway to Macy's room.

“Mommy, you look pretty,” she says, a new tiara on her head and plastic Cinderella shoes on her feet. “Just like me. Granny made me a princess.”

“Mom, I told you not to bring gifts.”

“Can't a granny spoil her only granddaughter every now and then?”

It's every time, but I'm not going to point out that little fact.

“Harry’s here so I'm going to go now. You be good for your granny,” I tell Macy as she bounds over to me and I collect her in a hug.

“I will,” she says earnestly, and it occurs to me I should probably be asking Mom to be good for Macy.

“I love you to the moon and back, honey,” I say as I nuzzle her soft cheek. “I'll check on you when I get home.”

“Okay.” She wriggles to get out of my arms and as I place her back on the ground, there's a knock at the door.

Instantly, my belly clinches with nerves. “That'll be him,” I say.

“No time to change that dress,” Mom says.

“Not helping.”

“I want to see Harry!” Macy exclaims, bouncing down the hall, moving surprisingly fast considering her stiff plastic shoes.

Mom gives me a look, which I choose to ignore as I traipse after her, but she's already pulled the door open by the time I get there, and I’m met with Harrison Clarke, Date Night Version.

My breath catches as my eyes land on his, my journalist's eye for detail suddenly feeling like both a blessing and a curse. His tailored woolen coat hangs open, framing a body that's all long lines and muscles. A crisp white button-up shirt peeks out from under a navy V-neck sweater that makes his sea green eyes look impossibly bright. His hair is lightly tousled, as if he's run his hand through it nervously—and I wonder if he has. As he smiles back at me, there's a softness to his expression that tells me exactly how he feels about me.

After a beat, I realize I'm staring, and a blush creeps up my neck.

This is really happening. Our first date. No cameras, no fake arguments, just Harry and me.

The journalist in me may want to analyze him, but the woman in me? That part just wants to reach out and touch him, feel his arms around me as he murmurs sweet things in my ear.

“Hi,” he mouths at me before he crouches down in front of my daughter. “Hey, Macy. Or should I say, Princess Macy,” he says, and my heart gives a little squeeze at the soft side of this big, bulky man’s tenderness with my little girl.

“I am a princess. Granny gave me this tiara and these shoes. See?” Macy points at her feet jammed into the pink plastic shoes with fake diamonds the size of my thumbnail.

“You make a beautiful princess,” he tells her before he rises to his full impressive height. “And you must be the famous Granny who bestowed such a royal honor on Macy,” he says to my mother.

I watch as her tight expression relaxes into a beaming smile, her cheeks flushing with pleasure. “I am the granny, but you can call me Cindy,” she coos.

I roll my eyes. How easily my mother can be won over by a handsome man’s smile.

But then aren't I the kettle calling the pot black? Every little interaction between Harrison and Macy chips away at the fortress surrounding my heart, a fortress he’s been steadily breaking down since the day we saw one another at the Community Center.

As his lips curve into an easy smile, any reservations I had about going out with him tonight melt right away. I’m getting in deep with this man, and I’m excited for what’s to come.