Page 24 of Holiday Crush

“Uh…yeah, me too,” I panted. “You’re an amazing kisser.”

“You too.” He pecked my cheek and opened the door. “See ya, Ivan.”

I watched him stride along the path to the sidewalk, hands buried in his pockets, head held high. He walked with a straight spine and proud shoulders, confident and self-assured. There’d been nothing in his posture or tone to suggest he was drunk or confused or that he’d regret any part of tonight in the morning.

But that made perfect sense. Court was out and had grappled with his sexuality years ago. He wasn’t the boy or the teenager I’d known in another lifetime. He was a mostly well-adjusted adult man who just happened to be in town for a short stint during the holiday season. He liked me and I liked him and—

Shit, there went my “no crushing on Court” rule.

5

COURT

Ronnie Moore met me at center ice. He co-owned Elmwood Rink with Vinnie and also just happened to be Vinnie’s best friend and brother-in-law.

I’d looked up to those guys when I was younger. They were roughly six years older, but they’d seemed like superstars, whizzing around the ice, making plays out of nowhere. I remembered sitting in the stands and watching them practice, mesmerized by their speed and their wiliness. I’d wanted to be just like them. I’d figured if I worked hard I’d have a decent shot. After all, their dad was my coach too, so…why not?

Coach Moore had been the heart and soul of this rink back in the day. He’d singlehandedly run the hockey program and had inspired a few generations of kids to aim for the stars. Vinnie might have been the lone NHL star to come out of Elmwood, but a few of us had gone pro and earned a living playing the game we loved.

I couldn’t help feeling like I should have done more. Maybe if I’d worked harder I wouldn’t be mentally gearing up to deal with pint-sized skaters with sticks that didn’t quite reach my kneecaps. Yeah, I doubted Coach would be proud of me now.

“Court! Good to see you, man,” Ronnie enthused, punching my biceps playfully.

He was a perpetually happy dude in his early forties who’d lost his hair and gained a belly a decade ago. He had a thing for Henderson’s maple cookies…and unfortunately, they weren’t sugar-free.

“You too.” I bumped his fist and held out a hand to the waifish preteen at his side wearing a pink Elmwood Ice sweatshirt and black leggings. “Hi, there. I’m Court.”

“I’m Mary-Kate. The kids call me MK, though. Uncle Vinnie started that one and it stuck,” she said with a laugh, her long brown ponytail swaying behind her.

My jaw dropped. “No way. You can’t be Mary-Kate. She’s five. Tops.”

Mary-Kate snickered. “I’m almost twelve.”

“Wow. Okay.” I rubbed my stubbled jaw and blinked as if coming out of a haze. “I forgot I was so old.”

“Well, if you’re old, I’m Methuselah.” Ronnie snorted, patting my shoulder. “Mary-Kate is going to help you with the Mighty Mites. They’re good kids, but it can be like wrangling cats. I’ve been handling this one for a while, and it takes a certain amount of patience.”

“I’m not exactly known for that particular virtue. Is there anything else you need help with around here?”

“I believe in you, Court. And I’m also a little desperate. We need the help. The program is growing faster than I can hire new coaches and sadly, no one is clamoring for this gig. The good news is…Mary-Kate here is a natural. She can run the basic drills on her own, but it takes two to keep this crew focused.”

“Sounds like a babysitting gig,” I commented ruefully.

“Yeah…maybe a little,” he drawled, eyes alight with humor as he waved to the group of little kids waddle-skating toward us. “Here they are now. Have fun.”

“Hang on.” I grasped at Ronnie’s shirt before he escaped. “That kid is shuffling over here, not skating. I don’t know what to do with that.”

Ronnie gently unpeeled my fingers and bumped my chest. “You’ve got this. Just teach them the basics. The very basics. The juniors will be rolling in after you’re finished, and we’ll need your help there too. Don’t worry. I believe in you, Henderson.”

My protests were swallowed by a squawk of miniature people with pink cheeks carrying miniature sticks. I shot a panicked glance Mary-Kate’s way.

She smiled graciously and introduced me as the newest member of Team Mighty Mites.

Fuck my life.

So here’s the thing about the six- to nine-year-old age span. Age had nothing to do with skill levels. Archie Menlo’s kid and his cousin were both eight and they were decent skaters, but other than knowing that the objective was to put the puck in the net, they didn’t know the game. Stella, a precocious six-year-old with blond pigtails wanted to be goalie so she could practice her gymnastic moves on the bars. Trey was seven and might one day be a decent defender, but he also had the attention span of a gnat. Rosie was nine and was probably the best shooter on the team. Unfortunately, she didn’t know how to skate backward. At all.

In other words, it was a hot mess.