Mistletoe Face Off (Chicago Blizzard Hockey #1)

Chapter 12Harrison

Chapter Twelve

Harrison

Holly is standing in the hallway of her apartment in an evening dress, and as I look at her, it's like someone's knocked the wind right out of me. That black dress hugs every one of her gorgeous womanly curves, the V-neck dipping just low enough to make my imagination run to places it oughtn’t in front of her kid. It hits above her knee, showing off legs that seem to go on forever, her feet in a pair of black patent leather high heels.

Sexy? Heck yes. But classy, too.

That about sums Holly up.

It's not just her who’s greeted me. Macy's here too, bouncing on her princess-shoe clad toes with excitement, her eyes wide. Behind her, is Cindy, who looks a lot like Holly, aka Granny, the giver of the princess gifts.

“Great to meet you, ma’am. I’m Harry,” I say, flashing her my smile. But if I'm honest, all my eyes want to do is return to looking at Holly in that dress.

Finally, I capture her gaze with mine. “Holly, you look—” I search for the right word. “Beautiful” seems too simple. “Gorgeous” doesn't even begin to cut it. Then my mind lands on a uniquely Christmas themed compliment and I blurt, “You look like all my Christmas wishes, wrapped up in one incredible package.”

Did those cheesy words really just fall from my mouth?

Smooth, Clarke. Real smooth.

But Holly’s reaction is to laugh, her cheeks flushing a pretty pink, and it strikes me that she's as nervous as I am about tonight.

Good. Nervous is a good sign. Nervous I can work with.

“You clean up pretty good yourself, Santa,” she replies with a smirk.

“I saw you on The YouTube,” Cindy says. “You're quite the skater, and I don't mean the hockey kind, although I'm told you're pretty good at that, too.”

“Thank you so much.” I crouch down next to Macy once more. “If it's okay with you, I'd like to take your mom out, Princess Macy.”

“You may,” she says with a curtsey. She lifts her finger to scold me, much like her mom did in our argument. “Just don’t sing with her.”

I raise my hands in the air. “Is that your royal decree?”

“It’s my royal rule,” she replies with a giggle.

I place my hand over my heart. “I solemnly promise not to sing with your mom.”

Macy nods. “Good. Because you're a horrible singer.”

“You can't say that, honey. That's rude,” Holly says.

Macy pulls her brows together, looking super cute. “But it's true.”

“It's fine,” I say as I straighten back up. “She’s right. I can’t sing.”

“How about we go play princess some more?” Cindy says to Macy.

“I can be a princess and you can be a queen,” she replies.

“I think we can do that,” Cindy says as she takes Macy by the hand. “Now, you two have fun.”

“We will do our best, ma'am,” I reply, eager to get Holly alone.

Holly slips on her coat and kisses her daughter on the top of her head. “Night, honey.”

“Night, Mommy.”

Feeling like the luckiest guy in Illinois, I offer her my arm, and she hooks hers through it. “Shall we, Mrs. Claus?"

“To your sleigh, Mr. Claus,” she replies.

Although I’ve got no less than three layers between the skin of my arm and her hand, nevertheless her touch sends a bolt of electricity through me.

If we go as far as holding hands or even kiss tonight? Yeah, I’m in serious trouble.

We climb into my car and begin to make our way through the busy Chicago streets to my chosen destination. I'll admit, I'm kind of proud of what I've pulled off tonight. Holly told me that day at the Community Center that she's into art, so I've chosen a venue where we can soak up some art and culture before we eat a delicious meal I prepared. Okay, I didn't prepare it, but I did pay for it, which is kind of the same thing, isn't it?

“Where are we going?” she asks.

“It's a surprise. But don't worry, it's not a hockey game.” I grin at her, nerves and excitement duking it out inside of me. I want tonight to be nothing short of perfect. It's our first time being alone together with no cameras or expectation of an argument. Tonight we get to be our true selves, and I cannot wait to get to know Holly better.

And kiss her.

Definitely kiss her.

“Is it figure skating? Because Macy would be so jealous.”

I flash her my grin. “It's got nothing to do with ice at all.”

“What is it then?”

“Do you always need to know everything?”

“Not always, but it pays to be prepared. Am I dressed right?”

Although she's currently bundled up in her winter coat and scarf, the memory of her curves encased in that dress fills my mind. “Oh, yeah,” I tell her with a waggle of my brows.

She lets out a laugh and it's too dark in the car to tell whether she's blushing or not, but I bet she is.

We arrive at the imposing entrance to the Art Institute of Chicago, and as I hold the door open for her, she gives me a questioning look.

“This is the last place I thought you’d bring me, What are we doing here?”

“Again with the questions! Just go with it, okay, Ms. Journalist?”

“Okay.”

We’re greeted by a tour guide, who produces two lanyards that say “VIP Visitor,” one for each of us to wear.

“Welcome to the Art Institute of Chicago, Mr. Clarke and Ms. Coleman,” the tour guide, whose name is Edgar, says. “We hope you enjoy your special experience with us tonight. I will be your guide for the tour.”

“Thank you, Edgar. I'm sure we will,” I say, shaking his hand.

As Holly slips her lanyard over her head she asks me, “Did you arrange a private tour for us?”

“Of course I did. You told me you were into art when you showed me that mayor’s portrait at the Hawksworth Community Center, and I figured what better place to take you in the city? I figure they’ve got loads of art here.”

The smile I win from her makes my efforts totally worthwhile. “I heard that, too. Thank you,” she says.

“Anything for you,” I reply, and as the words leave my lips I realize I would do anything for Holly. The feeling takes me by surprise, but as I look at her, with her coat unbuttoned, her lanyard around her neck, her luscious red lips, everything seems to fade away, and I see her with startling clarity. My heart’s racing, but it’s no longer the nervous kind. It’s more as though every beat of my heart pulls me closer to her, and I feel warm, almost lightheaded.

This thing between us has the potential to be big, seriously big. My feelings for this beautiful woman at my side are so much more intense than the time we've known one another should allow. But I feel it all the same.

I know it's a lot and I’m not usually the kind of guy to wear my heart on my sleeve, never falling for a woman with just a look. But with Holly, it feels different. Real. I can’t even explain it to myself, but with her, I want the world, and I’m going to do whatever I can to get it.

I take her hand in mine and the touch of her skin against mine is just as electrifying as I thought it would be. She smiles up at me, and together we follow Edgar through the impressive gallery, with its high ceilings and paintings hanging on the walls—I might not know much about art, but I knew there would be paintings on the walls in a gallery—until we come to a stop in front of an old fashioned looking painting of a woman holding a baby.

“This work is by Botticelli. It's called Madonna and Child ,” Edgar tells us. “It depicts the Virgin Mary and her son.”

“So, it’s not Madonna the pop singer?” I joke.

“No, sir,” Edgar replies, totally straight-faced, and I notice Holly biting back a smile.

At least one of them knows I’m kidding.

“There’s an intriguing detail in this painting, as you will see,” Edgar continues. “The book the Madonna is holding is believed by some to be a popular devotional text from the Middle Ages, but the words are legible, and are in fact a passage from Dante's ‘Divine Comedy.’”

“How interesting,” Holly replies.

“Are we meant to know what either of those things are?” I ask her under my breath.

“Just go with it,” she tells me with a smirk. “I’ve always loved this piece. Botticelli’s paintings are so serene and yet filled with passion.”

“They are indeed,” Edgar replies, pleased at least one of us knows something about this painting.

We reach our next painting, which Edgar tells us is called A Sunday Afternoon on the Island of La Grande Jatte by an artist called Georges Seurat.

“It's beautiful,” Holly comments. “Don’t you think, Harry?”

“It’s filled with lots of dots,” I say, peering at it. “I’m guessing that’s probably not the technical name for it, though.”

“You’re right, Mr. Clarke,” Edgar surprises me by saying, and I beam at Holly. “Seurat used dots rather than brush strokes. It’s called pointillism.”

I turn back to the painting to see every single bit of paint is in fact a dot. “That's a lot of dots.”

“It is indeed. In fact, it took over two years for the artist to complete this work. It contains three million dots,” Edgar replies.

“Someone counted them?” I ask.

“They did,” Edgar replies.

“So your guy Seurat did this three million times?” I gesture with my hand as though I'm putting dots on a page. “He sure had some serious patience.”

“He certainly did, Mr. Clarke,” Edgar replies.

“I think it’s time you called me Harry and my friend here, Holly,” I say, and Edgar gives a nod of his head.

“What do you think of it?” Holly asks.

I stand back and take the scene in. There's no denying it's really evocative of an afternoon on a warm sunny day in Paris a long time ago. The people are all dressed in old fashioned clothes, looking formal. “They’ve all got really good posture.”

Holly lets out a laugh. “Is that all you’ve got to say about it? The people have good posture?”

“But they do. See? Look at the woman holding the umbrella.” I point at the woman, one of the two largest figures in the picture.

“I think you'll find that's a parasol,” Holly corrects, but she's got a smile on her lips, her eyes shining.

“Looks like an umbrella to me,” I reply with a shrug.

“Shall we move on to another artwork?” Edgar asks.

“Lead the way, my man,” I say, and hand in hand, Holly and I follow Edgar through the gallery to the next painting.

“Are you enjoying your tour?” I ask Holly.

“Harry, it’s amazing. You’re amazing.”

I capture her gaze with mine and I swear, my heart skips a beat. I squeeze her hand, so small in mine. “Ditto,” I reply.

Edgar comes to a stop and it’s a good job I manage to drag my gaze from where my eyes want to be because otherwise I would have mowed right over him.

“Hey, I know this one!” I exclaim as I look at the next painting, a familiar image of two stern looking people, one holding a pitchfork.

“This is American Gothic by Grant Wood, a very famous work and the first by an American artist this evening,” Edgar explains.

I nudge Holly. “They look like us when we argue.”

“Tell me you don’t plan on having a pitchfork at our next event.”

“Promise.” I give her hand another squeeze, enjoying our shared closeness.

“Tell us an interesting fact about this one, please, Edgar,” Holly asks.

“Of course. The woman and man in the painting were not actually a couple in real life, despite the fact that's how they appear in the painting,” he replies.

“Is that why they look so dang grumpy?” I say.

“Who were they, Edgar?” Holly asks.

“The woman was in fact the artist’s sister, Nan Wood Graham. The man was Byron McKeeby, who was a local dentist. Wood had them pose separately, and in fact never intended for them to be regarded as a married couple.”

“Huh. I never knew that,” Holly says.

“Me neither,” I add.

“Why doesn't that surprise me, Mr. Hockey?” Holly teases.

“I’m not all muscle and brawn, you know,” I quip.

“Oh, I know,” Holly says softly for my ears only, and it sends a little thrill through me.

Why did I arrange a tour when all I want is to have this woman all to myself?

But I know why. I’m trying to impress her, and by the look on her face, I think it’s working.

“This guy reminds me of ‘The Enforcer’ holding his hockey stick, looking the way he always does out on the ice: super grumpy,” I say as I imitate the pose of the pitchfork holding man, and earn another laugh from Holly.

Man, do I love her laugh.

“Do you mean Hunter Adams?” she asks.

“The very same.”

“The Enforcer is one of my favorite players,” Edgar says. “Besides you, of course.”

“You’re a hockey fan, Edgar?” I ask.

“I most certainly am. A Blizzard fan, to be precise.”

“Good man.”

Edgar shows us a few more paintings, and then he leads us to the Nichols Bridgeway, where we admire the Chicago skyline, the lights twinkling like stars. It would be ridiculously romantic if Edgar wasn't with us, but I need him to lead us to our next destination in this huge place, so instead of lingering, we move on.

Reaching the entrance to our dinner destination, I thank Edgar. “I learned a lot tonight from you. Thanks a lot, Edgar,” I say as I pump his hand.

“Would you mind if I took a selfie with you? As I said, I'm a big Blizzard fan and my teenage kids won't believe I took you and Ms. Coleman here around the gallery if I don't get some evidence.”

“Of course.”

He pulls out his phone and Holly takes a few snaps of us before Edgar bids us goodnight and we’re finally— finally —alone.

Holly turns to me, her eyes soft. “I can't believe you did this for me, Harry. Thank you.”

“And the evening has only just begun,” I reply as I pull the double doors to Fullerton Hall open with dramatic flair.

On my instructions, the theater has been transformed for a private dinner for two, glowing with fairy lights draped along the arches, casting a soft, magical light. The stained-glass dome sparkles golden with tiny lights, creating a shimmering night sky effect, and there are even wreaths and holly framing the stage, giving the place a romantic Christmas feel. On the stage sits a table for two under a soft candlelit glow.

As she takes it all in, Holly’s eyes grow to the size of pucks. “Harry!” she breathes.

“Do you like it?” I ask, even though the chances are high she will. I’m impressed by what I see, and I’m a guy.

“Like it?” She pulls her gaze from the lit dome to mine. “It's perfect.” Her full, luscious lips pull into a smile. “No one’s ever done anything like this for me,” she says, shaking her head.

I reach out and brush my fingers across her cheek. “You deserve this and more, Holly.”

“You might well be the perfect man, Harrison Clarke.”

“I wouldn’t go that far. Maybe seventy-five percent perfect?”

She giggles. “I’d go for at least eighty-five.”

“Deal.” I take her hand once more and lead her down the aisle through the seating and onto the stage, where a table with a crisp white tablecloth and silverware for two sits in the middle, surrounded by candles.

I pull her chair out for her and take a seat myself. “I sure hope you like grilled cheese,” I say, and her response tells me she doesn't think I'm teasing.

“That’s Macy’s second favorite, after mac and cheese.”

I nod at a server, hidden in the wings, who places silver domed plates in front of us. He pulls them off dramatically to reveal a dinner of steak with my favorite sauce, roasted potatoes, broccoli, and beans. “Actually, I figured you might appreciate an adult meal for a change.”

Her lips expand into a relieved smile. “Adult food sounds awesome.”

Another server pours out a couple of glasses of wine, and I raise mine in a toast.

“To not arguing,” I say.

“To not arguing,” she echoes and we clink our glasses before taking a sip.

We sit and eat our meal and discuss the art tour—and the fact I'm a total heathen when it comes to such things.

“Get me in an arena and I will tell you everything you could ever need to know about hockey.”

“Oh, I know you could.” She takes a bite of her perfectly-cooked medium rare steak. “This food is delicious.”

“It's from one of my favorite restaurants in the city, Jean Paul’s. Have you heard of it?”

“Of course I've heard of Jean Paul’s. It's famous. I've never been. It’s way too fancy and expensive for me.”

“I'll take you there.”

“I would love that.”

“It’s a date. Number two, in fact.”

We share a smile, and my desire to kiss this beautiful woman sitting opposite me, bathed in the soft light that makes her look even more incredible, is getting too hard to resist. But when I kiss Holly for the very first time I want it to be perfect—which rules out leaning over our half eaten meals.

“The Tiffany dome lights look so Christmassy,” she says.

I give them a cursory glance because I want to talk about something more important than whether a dome looks Christmassy.

I open my mouth to say what I want to say to her, when she beats me to it. “Harry, I need to thank you again for what you've done for Macy. Helping her get on the ice the way you did was amazing, and she's been buzzing about it ever since, telling everyone she's going to be a figure skater for real when she grows up.”

“I was happy to help her. She's a great kid.”

“She sure thinks you're awesome, both as Santa and as Harry.”

“Oh, yeah? What does her mom think of me?”

She casts her eyes down momentarily as pinkness rises in her cheeks. “She thinks he's pretty good, too,” she says.

I reach for her hand, marvelling once again at how small it is in mine, the skin soft against my calloused fingers. “Pretty good?” I lead.

She laughs. “You’re fishing for more, huh?”

“A lot more,” I tell her, my heart beginning to thud. “Holly, can I say something?”

“Of course,” she replies, and the breathlessness of her voice tells me she feels the strength of this thing between us, too.

“I want you to know that I didn't expect this. Any of it. When I first saw you at the Community Center that time I figured you were another reporter looking for a scoop.”

“I was,” she replies with a shrug. “I thought you were Santa.”

“Somewhere between our fake arguments it all changed for me, and I find I want to go to our charity events, not because I get to argue with you about stupid Christmas stuff, but because I get to see you. Somehow, you've slipped past my defences—and I'm a defenseman.”

She laughs and it's music to my ears.

“I know we're from different worlds. Look at where we are. This is the last place I would come to if it wasn't for you. But I find when I'm with you, I want to be a better man. For you.”

I can see it in her eyes, the effect my words are having on her.

“But you are a better man, Harry. You’re the best man. Don't you know that? Look at the way you were with Macy. Look at the fact you dress up as Santa for half of these Christmas events, charming the kids and parents alike. You're a good person.”

I scrunch up my face. “I kinda have an ulterior motive for dressing up as Santa.”

Her brows pick up. “Is this where I find out something I don't want to know about you?” she asks, but I can tell she’s teasing.

“Nothing bad, I promise you. I volunteered to be Santa because I want to be the next team captain when Dan retires at the end of the season. Coach said it showed commitment to the team.”

“Oh. I think you'd make a great captain.”

“What makes you say that?”

“You’re super easy to get on with and you have this talent of getting the best out of people.”

“Can you mention that to Coach when you next see him?” I ask on a chortle, feeling light.

“Of course I will,” she replies with a smile. “I would have thought a guy like you would be a shoe in for captain.”

“I'm not the only one interested in the job. Lorcan wants the captaincy, too.”

“Lorcan?” she asks, her eyes widening. “I wouldn't worry about a guy like Lorcan.”

“Why do you say that?” My hopes just got a huge spike—both for the captaincy and for what Holly thinks of my arch nemesis.

“It’s obvious to me that a guy like Lorcan is only out for himself. I would bet you the cost of this meal he’s not interested in leading a team of people. He'll only want the captaincy because it makes him more important, and that's not a good enough reason for someone to be put into a leadership role.”

I nod along with everything she's saying. She's got it in one, but hearing it from her lips is extra special.

“But he’s an excellent player,” I say.

“So are you.”

We share a smile.

“Plus there's the fact you make a pretty dang good Santa, and that's got to be the clincher for you.”

I grin. “I'm glad my Santa impersonation skills are not going unrecognized.”

She touches the ring on my pinkie finger. “What’s the story behind this ring? I’ve noticed you wearing it before.”

“It was my grandpop’s,” I say, smiling at the memory of the man who lived down the street from my mom and me back in Portland, who always had a ready smile and a story to tell. “He passed away when I was about ten years old, which is when my mom gave me his ring. Over the years, as I’ve grown, I’ve gone from wearing it on my thumb to each and every finger, ending with my pinkie.”

‘That’s a beautiful story.”

“Grandpop meant a lot to me. My parents’ marriage was never great and my dad kind of came and went a bit until they finally divorced when I was about eleven. My grandpop was the only real father figure I had in my life.”

“I bet he was a good man, too.”

“He was.”

“You must miss him,” she says gently.

I’m surprised at the sadness that swells inside me. “I do miss him, but it was a long time ago.” I lighten the mood by adding, “I'm all grown up now.”

Her face breaks into a soft smile. “Not a man-child?”

“Not a man-child.”

“I bet your grandpop would be so proud of the man you’ve become, on and off the ice.”

“Thanks,” I say, her words meaning so much.

This feels good, right. I find I can be myself with Holly, not Harrison Clarke, defenseman. Not product spokesperson, or someone who feels the need to be guarded, not knowing the intentions of those I meet. There's something about Holly that makes me want to open up, allow myself to be vulnerable. And that is not something I do all that readily. If at all.

We share a moment, looking into one another’s eyes, our hands entwined.

But then her smile drops as she looks down, and the atmosphere around us changes.

“Did I say something wrong?” I ask, tension tightening my brow.

She takes a deep breath, her shoulders lifting. “It’s not you, it’s me.”

It’s never good when a girl says that.

Worry frays the edges of our shared moment. “Holly? What's going on?”

She pulls her hand away, my heart now thudding for the wrong reasons. “I need to tell you something. Before, when you said you figured I was a journalist looking for story, you were right.”

“I know. Your boss told you to interview me. You told me when you didn’t know who I was.”

“He said there’s something in your past that’s newsworthy, and he wants me to find out about it.”

In an instant, I'm on high alert. I straighten my back, watching her closely, thoughts ping in my brain like raindrops on a tin roof. What does she know? Who's she been talking to? And, most importantly, will she discover my past, the past I've been so careful to conceal all these years?

I make my tone purposefully light when I ask, “What's your angle?”

“That's the thing. I don't have an angle. Writing an article in which I tell everyone you're a great guy who throws on a Santa suit for the team and helps kids onto the ice won't cut it.”

Those raindrops of thoughts begin to clear. She has no story. She doesn't know.

“I’d read that article,” I tell her.

“I bet you would,” she replies, her eyes dancing. “No angle means no story, right?”

She hesitates for a beat before she says, “Right.”

Wanting to get this date back on track, I offer her my hand and pull her to her feet. “Is it totally cheesy to ask you to dance?”

“Here? On the stage?”

“Why not?” I pull my phone from my pocket and select a song. It's the song, the only song, the one that led to this date tonight. Immediately, the opening bars of the Pointer Sisters’ song Jump echo around the empty hall and Holly’s face lifts in a beautiful smile.

“I thought you said you could resist dancing to this song,” she says.

“It's weird but I find I’ve got to dance, just like Hugh Grant in that dumb Christmas movie that’s not nearly as good as Die Hard .”

“You mean the Christmas movie the world likes so much,” she corrects. “And besides, that cue card scene where the guy tells Keira Knightley that he's going to love her forever is totally iconic. People all over the world have copied it, because it's so dang romantic.”

“Didn't his friend marry Keira Knightley in the movie, making his love for her unrequited?”

“Totally beside the point.”

“You'd like someone to do the cue card thing for you, wouldn't you?”

“I think anyone would. Don't you?”

“I prefer using actual words,” I reply as I turn her in a spin, pulling her against me before I turn her once more. She lets out a giggle.

By now the Pointer Sisters are about to tell me to jump for their love, and I take a few steps back from Holly and pull out the moves I’ve been practicing in private, ready for this very moment. I start with a sway of my hips, just the way Hugh Grant does, before I leap into a sideways shimmy, moving across the stage.

By now, Holly is clapping along to the song, laughing as she watches, and I dance over toward her, channeling my inner dancing British Prime Minister—only I don't get interrupted by a member of staff, like in the movie. Instead, my endpoint is Holly, who I sweep up into my arms, and she lets out another girly giggle that tickles my belly.

“You are wasted as a hockey player, Harrison Clarke,” she tells me.

“Dancing is just one of my many talents.”

“Oh, really? What are your other talents?” she asks, her eyes sparkling, her soft lips lifted in a soft smile.

The best way to answer that question is without any words at all.

This is it. This is the moment.

With her body pressed close to mine, I slip my fingers around the back of her neck and tangle them up in her hair. My heart is banging with the intensity of my attraction for this woman in my arms, and all that she is growing to mean to me.

But I tell myself to take this slow. There’s no need to rush this. I want our first kiss to be magic.

She lets out a soft sound that tells me she wants this as much as I do.

I toy with her hair, enjoying the way it makes her eyelids half close over, relishing the fact I’m the one who gets to make her feel this way.

When she opens her eyes they’re filled with fire, and the parting of her lips is all the invitation I need to claim her mouth with mine.

Softly.

Purposefully.

Finally.

The merest of brush of my lips against hers scorches, and there’s nothing but her and me, locked in this moment, the moment I’ve been waiting for since I lay me eyes on her at the Community Center that time—and from way back in our past, in high school, this girl I never dreamed could be mine.

My head is saying, this is what it’s like to finally kiss Holly Coleman , while my heart is telling me, she’s the one .

Fighting the powerful urge to deepen our kiss, I pull back from her, searching her eyes to know whether she wants more.

I needn’t have questioned it because the next thing I know she’s sliding her hands up my neck and pulling my head back down, her lips pressed against mine once more, only with more urgency. More want.

I have all the answer I need, and oh, how I need this woman.

Our kiss is everything I had hoped it would be. Her scent, her touch, her taste, her everything calls out to me, making both my heart and my body sing. Her soft lips, the way her fingers toy with the skin of my neck, sending electricity coursing through my veins, it’s all totally incredible, and I want more and more from her, to claim her as mine, and mine alone.

I have kissed other women in my life, I have wanted them before, but that's nothing in comparison with the searing heat I feel for this woman in my arms, this woman who has captivated me. We connect as though we were made for one another, and it's nothing short of absolute perfection.

Once we’ve kissed enough to make ourselves breathless, I press my forehead against hers.

“You know, I’ve done a lot in my life, but I’ve never been in love,” I say softly.

“You haven’t?” she asks, her voice breathy and light.

I shake my head, holding her close, her warm curves pressed against me. “I don't want to get ahead of myself here, but you feel this thing between us, too. Don't you?”

“I do,” she breathes. “But Harry, I'm scared.” Her voice trembles and I look into her eyes and what I see makes my chest tighten.

I can guess what she's thinking. I'll be just like her ex. Another hockey player who will leave her. But what she doesn't know is that there's no way on this sweet earth I'm letting her slip through my fingers.

“He did this to you?” I grind out. “Your ex-husband?”

She looks down and I know it was him. Phil Channing, a jerk on the ice and off. If I could only get my hands on him… But this isn't about Phil Channing, no matter how much I hate the guy for what he's done to Holly. This is about her. Her and me and the possibilities of us.

Phil Channing can wait.

She nods slowly. “Phil turned out not to be such a good guy. He… cheated on me while I was pregnant, but I didn’t find out until after Macy was born,” she says haltingly, and a fresh wave of hate for that man rolls over me.

I place my hands on her arms and pull back to look her straight in the eyes. “I’m not him, and I tell you, Holly, there's nothing to be afraid of. That I promise you.”

Her lips lift into a hint of a smile. “You do? You promise?”

I take her hand, pressing her palm against my chest. “Do you feel that? My heart is racing, and it's all because of you. I'm in this with you, Holly. All in."

She takes a shaky breath. “I want to believe that, Harry. So much.”

“Then believe it. It’s that simple,” I tell her. “We can take it one day at a time."

She nods, her smile growing a little brighter, the crease in her forehead softening. “One day at a time.”

I pull her against me, wrapping my arms around her. I hate her ex for what he did to her. He hurt her so bad, and he continues to hurt her with his lack of commitment to his daughter. I will never understand how a man can shirk his responsibilities to his kid. That's not a man, in my mind. That’s a low and dirty coward.

Both Macy and Holly deserve so much more.

I want to be the man that gives it to them.

As she rests her head on my chest, I feel something shift inside me. This thing between us is real. Real and big and, yeah, a little scary. But I want it so bad I can almost taste it.

As we hold each other in the soft glow of the Christmas lights, I realize that for the first time in my life, I'm exactly where I want to be. On or off the ice, Holly Coleman is the teammate I've been waiting for, and together, I'm ready for whatever comes next.