Page 8 of Holiday Crush
Court Henderson, the six-foot-three hockey hunk of my youth.
And what happened next was your classic textbook clusterfuck.
I tried to right the tray, he tried to help, but we were working against each other and this wasn’t going to end well.
Sure enough, the tray tilted, wobbled, then fell with a theatricwhooshand splatter. Five piping hot lattes went flying, spraying my jacket, my shoes, and the rubber mat floor.
But Court got hit the hardest. His shirt was drenched and his crotch…
“Ow, fuck!”
I gathered whatever napkins were still dry from the mess on the floor and manically patted his sopping wet pullover. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Are you okay?”
“No, I’m not okay. My dick just got singed, and I probably don’t have any chest hair left. Fuck.”
“I’m sorry,” I repeated, ineffectively swiping at his chest until he finally grabbed my wrist.
“Stop.”
I forced myself to make eye contact and gulped. “How bad is it? Your…you know.”
He pulled the napkins from my hand and took over cleanup duty. “My what?”
“Your privates, your johnson, your…thing between your legs.”
“My dick hurts,” Court snapped. “I’ve been fucking scalded.”
“Right! Yes, I know. My bad,” I babbled.Ugh!I had to fix this. “Stay here. I’m going to find salve or…something.”
He shook latte from his hair like a duck in a pond. “No, don’t worry about—”
“It’s no trouble at all. I insist.”
With that, I marched to the ice and waved my arms over my head to get the attention of the posse of men bent over a clipboard on the opposite side of the rink.
“Help! Urgent! Stat! Where’s the first-aid kit? We have a penis situation, gentlemen!”
3
COURT
Apenis situation?
Holy fuck.
This was a new one.
“Ivan Carmelo, right?” I winced as I pulled my shirt from my chest, catching his gaze in the bathroom mirror.
“You remember me.” Ivan set the first-aid kit on the counter and washed his hands.
“There weren’t a hundred kids in our high school class. Of course, I remember you,” I snarked. “And I don’t think I’ll forget you after today.”
He made a yikes face. “I’m sorry.”
“I know, it’s cool. It was an accident.” I sighed at the state of my sneakers.
Shit. I hoped this wasn’t a bad omen. Hockey players were notoriously superstitious, and I wasn’t above worrying that a latte bath was a sign I’d made a wrong move in coming home to Elmwood.