Page 9 of Home for the Holidays

Still, my eyes rise to the rafters, wondering if she’s up there, wondering if she can see me. Does Rachel even like hockey?

Scratch that—how can anyone not like hockey?

I let my body lead me through the warmup relying on muscle memory. After doing this for so many years, I have a routine, part superstition, part habit. I stretch and twist and get my blades familiar with the ice, digging the toe of my skate in to create little divots. My posts are there to protect me, and I make sure they get a good dousing from my water bottle. My stick taps the edge of the blue paint, marking my territory.

And when we head back into the locker room for our final pre-game pep talk, I don’t check my phone. It’s barely even on my radar.

That’s a lie. It’s definitely on my mind, weighing me down. Will she be there?

But I don’t allow myself to check. I have a job to do.

It’s game time.

five

. . .

Rachel

I shouldn’t be here.

When Jake sent me the tickets, I almost said no. How can he expect me to get to the arena on no notice? I need, like, a solid three to four days to prep for being social.

But when faced with the idea of staying alone in his apartment all evening…

So I pulled on my big-girl pants and left the apartment, meeting up with my friend Viv. She’s a rugby player on Boston’s pro team and has gone to the Olympics twice with the national team. She is also bitterly sarcastic and totally outgoing, which is what I need right about now.

“So tell me about the guy,” Viv says as we walk to our seats. We’ve been to games with our friend Ceci before, we’ve shared a box with other people, but we’ve never been to a suite.

“He’s my ex’s kid brother,” I explain.

She rolls her eyes. “Okay, I mean, is he hot, is he single…?”

“Oh. I don’t know.”

“You don’t know if he’s hot?”

My face heats. “He’s a child.”

Viv stops in her tracks. “What?”

“He’s, like, twenty-six.”

“That’s not a child. So you definitely wouldn’t be robbing the cradle,” she decides, already determining that I’m into him.

Which I am. Or maybe I’m not. I don’t know.

“He’s a baby,” I insist, although I don’t really know why I’m pushing the point. The five years between us are almost a lifetime. He may be a professional hockey player, but he’s probably still an immature, overgrown frat boy athlete living the high life. There’s no way—it’s totally inappropriate.

And there’s that word again. Why am I so worried about what is appropriate and what’s not? Since when do I care about the optics of everything?

“You don’t have to marry the guy. He can still be a fun rebound,” Viv suggests. She sighs. “After the douchebag…”

“I’ve been calling him fuckface,” I admit.

“Fine. After what fuckface did, you deserve a little lighthearted fun,” she says. “You’re living with a professional hockey player now. He sent you a ticket to the game. He obviously wants you here.”

“He’s just being nice.”