Page 53 of The Kiss Class

Itilt my head at a threatening angle. “You all are going to get your sticks broken if you don’t fill me in. What is going on?” I grind out.

Beau Hammer, in a rare moment of involving himself with the team off the ice, says, “The ugly sweater tradition started years ago when our then playboy Micah Lemon just couldn’t get enough. We had Helen make the ugliest thing she could and stuffed him in it.”

Hayden says, “And he’s been married to Meg ever since.”

“Then, each year, whoever has to wear it gets the honor of adding an embellishment,” Redd explains.

I rock back, arms crossed in front of my chest. I wasn’t too far off. The guys were initiating me in a way.

“That’s twisted. You’re a bunch of rogue elves.” But with the sweater now perfumed with Cara’s baby powder scent, I offer no further complaint.

Since getting called up to the NHL four years ago, I wanted all eyes on me. It felt good. I became the biggest. The best. The showman. It was all for the win. However, looking back, it was more like for thelosebecause, in reality none of the attention quite satisfied, so I kept chasing. Kept striving. Kept trying to be bigger and better and take more, more, more, hoping it’d fill me up. What I need, what I’ve been seeking, is much simpler.

I crush practice, even with the battle drills mostly, so Badaszek can’t come down too hard on me. A few stiff winds blow my way from across the ice, but it doesn’t seem like he hired a hitman to run me over with the Zamboni, so things are looking good for the game against the Blizzard.

After showering, I check my phone before I head home. Lucky me. It’s a text from My Dream Girl. My grin rises when I read her message.

My Dream Girl: Can we schedule class #3?

Me: Absolutely. You’re my best (and only) student.

My Dream Girl: I was thinking we could use one of the private rooms at the library.

Swishing my mouth from side to side, I’ll admit that sounds sweetly studious but not exactly romantic. Cara’s first kiss was almost at the Fish Bowl—which gets zero stars for ambiance unless you’re looking for a fight. Officially, we kissed under the Merry Kiss Me lights, which scored some points on the romance scale. But I want this one to be somewhere other than the pub or a supply closet.

On second thought, perhaps the library is fitting for Cara since she’s been a student for so long. Then her comments when we were slow skating about not knowing who she is anymore makes me pause.

Bottom line, I want to spend time with her. It’s too risky to come back here because the place is crawling with members of the hockey crew. Where can we go?

Me: How about my place?

My Dream Girl: Actually, if you’re available after seven, you can come to my house.

Me: Is that a good idea?

My Dream Girl: My sisters and their husbands could only get four tickets to see the Nutcracker and my father had to fly out for the game early, meaning he won’t be home for Christmas morning.

Me: But it’s Christmas Eve.

My Dream Girl: I need someone to see all the decorating or it didn’t happen.

I chuckle, and we make plans for me to swing by later. It’s a risk, for sure. I work up a plan to park down the street and be covert.

I scrub my hand down my face. Wow. I feel like a teenager using sneaky strategies to hang out with the girl he likes.

Only that wasn’t my high school experience at all. I was a dorky farm boy who didn’t date, much less kiss a girl, until I moved out. Maybe I’ll include that information in tonight’s lesson. Since getting to know Cara, I see more clearly and can admit that I got caught up in the clout that being a desirable hockey player has given me. While I didn’t take things as far as I let social media followers and fans believe, I’m not proud of my reputation either.

Before I left Quebec, my father cautioned me about the world. He said he andMamanraised us the way they did so we’d always have a steady foundation of values and principles. They’re still there, buried under the guy I thought everyone wanted me to be, under empty social media likes, comments, and false attention.

It’s all meaningless. Real connections and relationships are what matter. Although I walked backward into what’s growing between Cara and me, I want to turn toward her and away from the hit of self-importance and being wanted that I get from fame.

“Arsenault looks like he’s contemplating the meaning of life,” Ted says as he grips his gear bag.

I sigh. “You might say that.”

Hayden holds up his hand, counting off, “I find that hard tobelieve. More like Pierre Arsenault’s top three: Cereal milk, puck bunnies, oh, and puck bunnies.”

Micah casts me a questioning look as if challenging me to deny it.

---