Page 63 of Cross Check Christmas
My classroom this morning had stopped me in my tracks - paper snowflakes dancing from the ceiling, twinkling lights strung meticulously around the bulletin boards, even a tinyChristmas village displayed on my desk–all creating a magical wonderland. I knew instantly who was behind it. The same person who apparently spent all night transforming this gym into something out of a fairy tale—the massive paper stars casting intricate shadows, the perfectly draped garlands, even the way the lights are woven through crystal-clear icicles to create shimmering rainbows on the walls. It's the kind of attention to detail I would've expected from a professional decorator, not the class clown who used to shoot spitballs at my binder during AP Literature. Each element shows such care, such thoughtfulness – qualities I'd convinced myself Hendrix Ellis didn't possess. I run my fingers along a crystalline ornament, wondering how many hours he spent working on it while I was sleeping soundly at home, completely unaware.
I overhear two PTA moms giggling like teenagers, and an unexpected surge of possessiveness catches me off guard.
"Did you see Coach Ellis hanging those stars?"
"Those biceps should come with a warning label."
I roll my eyes so hard they nearly get stuck.
Scanning the room, I spot him surrounded by students, his head thrown back in laughter, and something warm unfurls in my chest. The kids absolutely adore him, and seeing him like this, I'm starting to understand why.
He must sense me watching, because his head turns, and our eyes lock across the room. A slow smile spreads across his face as he excuses himself from the students and makes his way over. His gaze travels appreciatively from my carefully curled hair, down to my midnight blue dress.
"You look absolutely beautiful tonight," he says softly. "Like something out of a dream."
"You clean up nice yourself," I say, taking in his perfectly tailored black suit. The fabric stretches just right across his broad shoulders, and his hair—usually an unruly mess underthat backward baseball hat he always wears—is styled like he’s a GQ model.
He catches me staring and grins. "See something you like, Professor?"
Heat rushes to my cheeks. “Hmmm. I might need to issue you a dress code infraction.”
“I knew it. Too handsome.”
I shrug. “I suppose if you ask the PTA moms.”
"Come see the tree," he says, gently taking my elbow and leading me across the gym floor.
My skin tingles where his fingers rest. The massive Fraser fir we picked out at Sullivan’s towers before us, its lights twinkling like stars. That afternoon at the tree farm feels like a lifetime ago – our heated debate over size versus practicality, him insisting bigger was better while I argued for something more reasonable. Hide and seek. Getting tangled in branches. How I nearly fell into his arms when I slipped. The way he'd caught me, his face inches from mine...
Now, seeing the tree adorned with hundreds of twinkling lights and handmade ornaments, I have to admit his choice was perfect.
"The boys did all this," Hendrix says, pulling me from my memories. "Even Maurice Belgagio, who usually skips practice. They worked together, passing ornaments up the ladder, helping each other with the lights. No fighting, no showing off."
I study the tree more closely. The decorations aren't perfectly placed, but there's something charming about their slightly crooked arrangement.
"You turned tree decorating into a team-building exercise?" I ask, impressed despite myself.
"Sometimes the best lessons happen off the ice." His hand finds the small of my back, and my breath catches.
All night, Hendrix stays by my side. We're supposed to be watching the students, making sure no one spikes the punch or sneaks off to make out in dark corners – things Hendrix probably attempted back in our high school days. But I catch him stealing glances at me, unapologetically raking his eyes over my figure…
The dance floor pulses with energy as teenagers bounce and sway to the latest pop hits. A circle of girls in sparkly dresses huddles near the punch bowl, their heads bent together in conspiratorial whispers punctuated by high-pitched giggles. I recognize that familiar dynamic - the social butterflies holding court while the wallflowers hover uncertainly at the edges.
Near the DJ booth, Trevor Matthews is attempting what I can only assume is his interpretation of the robot, his lanky arms jerking in mechanical movements that have his friends doubled over laughing. Meanwhile, the hockey team boys lean against the wall trying to look cool and disaffected, though I catch them stealing glances at the dance floor.
The music shifts to a slower tempo, and couples gravitate toward each other like magnets. Young love blooms under the twinkling lights as awkward hands find waists and shoulders.
I scan the dance floor, watching the teens sway to the harmonies of Pentatonix singing "I’ll be Home for Christmas." My teacher instincts kick in when I spot Ethan Williams dancing with Addison Gray, his hands wandering south of appropriate territory. I'm about to march over there when Hendrix's warm hand catches my elbow.
"Let them be," he murmurs close to my ear. "I've got eyes on the situation."
"Miss McAllister, Coach Ellis!" Mrs. Harrison, the calculus teacher, approaches with a couple of faculty members. "The decorations are absolutely magical. You two make quite the team."
Marcy Whittaker agrees, beaming. "What a magical evening! You two have outdone yourselves."
"The decorations are simply stunning," Mr. Kane chimes in. "Colette, you have quite an eye for design."
I open my mouth to correct him - all I did was argue with Hendrix about a tree - but Hendrix speaks first.
