Page 30 of Cross Check Christmas
The team exchanges glances, and I can see it sinking in. Even Jake, who's been the most vocal critic, straightens his posture.
"So here's the deal - you can waste time worrying about my contract situation, or you can focus on becoming the kind of players who'll have their own contracts to negotiate someday. Your choice."
Danny raises his hand tentatively. "Six AM? Like, for real?"
"For real. And anyone who's late runs extra drills." I gesture toward the goal. "Now, are we done with the therapy session, or do you want to actually practice some hockey?"
11
COLETTE
Igrip the door handle of Hendrix's massive truck, questioning every life choice that led to this moment. Of course the decorating committee for the school dance would pair us up. Because the universe hates me.
"Need a boost?" Hendrix's eyes sparkle as he gestures to the running board.
"I'm perfectly capable." I hoist myself up with as much dignity as possible, which isn't much considering my boots slip on the running board. His hand shoots out to steady me, and I bat it away. "Don't."
Despite my efforts, it really is a feat to climb up into the truck—especially in a pencil skirt. Hendrix's hand steadies my lower back, sending unwanted tingles up my spine. His palm is warm and sure against my wool coat, and I hate how my body instantly responds to his touch, like some sort of Pavlovian reaction I can't control. It's the kind of steadying gesture that shouldn't mean anything - that I won't let mean anything - but my traitorous nerve endings seem to have other ideas.
Hendrix clicks the door shut and jogs around the front with a huge grin on his face. When he hops in the driver’s seat, he slides across the bench until he’s almost on top of me.
"Safety first." He reaches across me to grab my seatbelt, his cologne - a heady mix of pine and something distinctly masculine - invading my space. My breath catches as his arm brushes against my shoulder, his breath against my skin. And I fight the urge to lean into him despite the unwanted proximity. The warmth radiating from him only makes the cramped cab feel that much smaller.
"I can buckle myself in, thanks."
“Too late.” He clicks the buckle shut and slides back to start the engine, whistling to the tune of Sleigh Bells.
I plaster myself against the passenger door—the leather seat squeaks as I adjust, trying to maintain as much distance as possible between us.
He accelerates smoothly, one hand resting casually on the wheel. His other arm stretches across the back of the bench seat, not quite touching me but close enough that I can feel the heat radiating off him.
"You know," he says, voice low and warm, "this reminds me of those Hallmark movies my gran loves so much. Two people, a Christmas tree farm..."
"Don't even start."
His laugh fills the cab, rich and genuine. "Whatever you say.”
"Just drive please." I cross my arms and stare straight ahead. “The sooner we get this over with, the better.”
I pull my coat tighter, angling toward the window.
"Cold?"
"I'm fine." But a shiver betrays me, and before I can protest, he's cranking up the temperature and angling the vents my way.
“It takes a minute to kick in. Here.” He shrugs off his leather jacket somehow and drapes it over my lap, managing to trail his fingers along my arm in the process. The weight of it settles warm and heavy, carrying that maddening pine scent.
"I don't need-"
"Humor me." His dimple appears as he glances my way.
I clutch the door handle tighter as Hendrix navigates out of town and onto the winding country roads, each curve bringing us closer to Sullivan’s Christmas Tree farm - and bringing my stomach into my throat. He drives like he plays hockey - fast and reckless.
A pothole sends us bouncing, and his hand lands on my knee to steady me.
"Careful there. These back roads are treacherous."
"The roads are fine. Your driving, however..." I remove his hand, ignoring how warm and rough his palm feels against my fingers.
