Page 16 of Yule Know It When You See It
“Of course I do. I’m not one ofthosewriters. But normally, it entails extensive Google searches. Some of which could be sketchy were I ever on trial for murder.”
I don’t need to worry about that, right? She wouldn’t actually—I let the words fall from my brain as soon as they rise.
“I propose we go to a minor league game first. You can ask all the questions you have. That way, when we get to the major league, we can soak it in and you’ll understand the game. Yeah?” I press my fingertips together between my knees.
Theo rubs a lapel between two fingers, her heel swiveling left to right. “Alright. But thisisn’ta date.”
What the—
I shoot up like a rocket, fanning my palms at her. “Woah, woahsøta. Who said anything about a date?”
“It’s you and me, alone, in a public place, sitting by each other for hours. It could easily be misconstrued as a date, so I simply wanted to make that perfectly clear.” She lets her foot slap back to the floor.
As if the idea of being seen with me in public and anyone assuming wewereon a date was so—revolting?
Standing, I shove my hands in my pockets and stand in front of her. “The magazine is covering the bill. It’s a business trip. And Theo, if I’d been asking you on a date, which I wasn’t—” Tilting my chin downward, I lower my voice as I say, “It’d be far more charismatic.”
Sudden overlapping smells of cinnamon, vanilla, and something piney float from her skin. That scent. I remember it recently but can’t place when. Then again, it’s the holidays. Those aromas areeverywhere.
Theo’s bottom lip trembles, and she takes one giant step backward. “When’s the game?”
“Tomorrow at seven. The arena is too far to walk, so I’ll meet you at the train station at a quarter past six?” I let my eyes roam her expression, body language, and posture. She can take as many steps away from me as she wants, but one thing stands clear: she never turns herhipsaway from me.
“Great. Perfect.” Theo snaps her fingers, turns, and scurries away. “See you tomorrow.”
Pressing a hip to my desk, I watch her walk, her perfectly rounded ass bouncing. “Exquisite. Sublime,” I whisper.
Hockey: a contact sport played on ice between two teams of six skaters, each attempting to drive a black rubber disc, or puck, into the other’s netted goal, past the goalie, with curved sticks.
Did I immediately start researching the daylights out of the sport when I got home last evening? Yes. Yes, I did. Because I’ll not have Axel “man-splaining” what’s going on the entire time we watch the game. And it’s mostly because I don’t dare give him the satisfaction. And considering the game wasn’t until later tonight, it also gives me all day to continue feeding my brain with all things hockey and watch some highlights.
The only sport I’d been exposed to growing up was football because my dad was obsessed with it, to put mildly. Some of our closest moments had been when I took a keen interest, sprawled on the floor on my tummy with my chin resting on my hands, and watched with him. Did I have any idea how the sport worked? Not really. But that wasn’t the point. My dad was the only man for whom I’d ever feign interest in something because I trusted and confided in him. Not to mention the countless times he humored me by pretending he enjoyed playing with Barbies or having tea parties with my stuffed animals.
And you bet your mistletoe I now know the difference between icing and offsides.
Pride swells in my chest as I walk briskly to the train station. Saturday downtown is already busy without adding tourismandholiday shopping to the mix. With my gloved hands firmly in my pockets, I keep alert to swerve through the rows of people paying more attention to the skyscrapers than three feet in front of them. I couldn’t blame them for being in awe of the Chicago skyline. Aside from New York, it remains one of the most impressive skylines in the world to me. The Sears Tower alone is a marvel. And no, I won’t call it the “Willis” Tower. It just sounds plainwrong.
I make my way down State Street, pausing in front of the elaborate Macy’s window display I hadn’t stopped to see yet this year. Some years, they’d focus on toys—a moving train display, animated statues, and dolls. Other years, it would transform into a sneak peek at Santa’s workshop, complete with the big guy in his bright red suit surrounded by elves with shoes as pointy as their ears. This year, it features trees and lights in a variety of rainbow colors and toy elves in just elaborate elvish attire hanging from the trees’ branches. It’s nice to see more than red and green for a change.
Continuing several more blocks, I finally arrive at Millenium Station, spying Axel already standing and waiting on the platform wearing the same bomber jacket and blue knit cap I’d first seen him donning through the elevator doors. He stands out like a burly Viking amidst the patrons surrounding him, both in stature and mere presence. Despite how long he says he’s been in America, he looks like a delicious piece of ancient history in modern clothes, trying to blend in with the crowd. And one that can’t be less my type. We also work together, which means keeping him at arm’s length and not aninchcloser. At least he makes that part easy with his sarcastic quips and irritating grudges.
Sniffling, I approach him and clear my throat. “The puck.”
Axel’s scrolling through his phone and pauses, raising those jaybird blue eyes to meet mine. “Did you say fu—”
My hands are at his mouth, pressing over it with widened eyes, a group of kids clamoring past us. “No. Puck. With a ‘p.’ Like pinecone?”
Axel’s gaze drops to my glove, still plastered against his beard, and I snap my hand away. “Did you eat too many Holly berries or something? Why are you spouting random words?”
The genuine perplexed expression melting over his face almost has me laughing. Almost. “The difference between icing and offsides. It has to do with the puck. “Icing” is shooting it from their own side of the center line to the goal without another player touching it. “Offsides” is the attacking team entering the zone before the puck does.” I rub my arms and clench my teeth to keep them from chattering.
“Cold?” Axel arches a brow.
Leveling my voice, I cooly reply, “Me? Nope.”
He goes quiet and blinks once, twice, and a third time before the skin under one eye twitches. He points at me after slipping his phone into his jacket pocket. “You stayed up until two in the morning researching hockey. Didn’t you?”
Guilty as charged.
