Page 50 of The Kiss Class

I find the room where they keep the skates and grab a pair in my size. Dad never pushed any of us girls to play hockey or do figure skating, but we spent more time on the ice than your average pee wee player or junior figure skater. I can toe drag and layback spin with the best of them.

One of the things I always loved about hockey was the enormity of it. Feeling small in the middle of center ice. Orexperiencing the thunder of the arena filled to the brim with enthusiastic fans. We’d occasionally travel north to Canada for games and other events, too. The sky there is different, bigger, broader, and more silver—the flecks in Pierre’s blue eyes come to mind. I always had the sense that we were on top of the world. That’s what being part of the hockey family felt like. I miss the rush of anticipation of the game and watching my dad and the rest of the team—both managerial and on the ice—make magic happen.

Maybe I want to be part of something like that instead of making my way through life alone as I’ve done since going to school—set apart because of my intelligence and then later insistent on finding “My thing.”

Still wearing this silly outfit, I slide on the skates, lace up, and take to the ice, thankful that Nolan already resurfaced it.

During our Kiss Class slash date, when Pierre told me step one was to breathe, I thought it was silly. But I have to give him some credit. I often hold my breath, keeping myself in a steady state of mild anxiety. But with this reminder, all I can do is inhale and exhale as my legs pump or I’d risk collapsing.

The ballooning in my lungs makes me feel alive. The slight sheen of sweat and the cold air is a refreshing contrast. For some reason, tonight, my social battery feels like an early-model flip phone, and I don’t have the energy to socialize.

I do a few slow laps around the ice, thinking about my past, present, and future. It’s not that I’m unhappy, but I’ve never felt like any of my studies or degrees were right for me.

Who am I? I’m not quite sure. Maybe part of this has to do with being a triplet. Or it could be that I was told I was the brainy one and so I tried to meet those expectations to the exclusion of a lot of other things, including kissing.

A long sigh escapes on a cloudy breath.

From somewhere in the arena, a door closes with an echo.Technically, I’m probably not supposed to be here. The banks of arena lights flip off one by one, leaving a single spotlight shining on me. My pulse quickens.

I look around but can’t see into the stands. Worried I’ve been caught, I start to skate toward the exit when “All I Want for Christmas is You” plays through the sound system.

A tall Santa with broad shoulders and no round belly to speak of glides toward me on hockey skates. My stomach plays tug of war with nervousness and excitement. I slowly meet Pierre halfway as if dragged by an invisible magnet.

My breath stalls and my insides turn to liquid. “Hey, Santa.”

“You didn’t come sit on my lap and tell me if you’ve been a good girl,” he teases.

“You know the answer to that already.”

“I like seeing you in that sweater even more than my jersey.” He reaches for me and I glide away, maintaining distance because I worry about what I might do.

“Ha ha. My attempt to dress as a puck bunny backfired,” I say dryly.

He moves closer as if disagreeing while lifting and lowering his eyebrows and saying, “Hubba Hubba,” confirming hisWhoaearlier.

I want to object, but his gaze refuses to let me deny it or even wriggle further out of reach.

Pierre slides toward me, swift and steady. “Cara, you don’t have to try to be anyone other than yourself.”

I slow down with a T-stop and Pierre erases most of the space between us. He taps the bell on the end of the elf hat headband, dragging my eyes to his again. I quickly avert my gaze.

His voice is rough when he says, “I’m not looking for a puck bunny.”

I can’t say I was waiting for him, but hoping for someone like him, my very own Bannanna or McMann . . . maybe.

“That’s just it. I don’t know who I am. I’m having a mini-identity crisis. Puck bunny, deranged elf, graphic design student, or someone else—?” It all pours out of me as I look everywhere but at him.

“I’m not sure whether my opinion matters, but since seeing you, meeting you—kissing you—I rather like the woman I’m getting to know.”

“You don’t have to keep up the whole unrequited love shtick. Everyone is at the party. It’s just us.”

“Yeah. Us.”

I glance up at him. We have another one of those lingering gaze moments like we’re both afraid to look away because if we do, this charade might be over. Our bubble burst. Then what?

He holds out his hand for me to take. After a moment’s hesitation about what this could mean and where it could lead, my palm slides into his.

“Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas” now plays in the vast arena.

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