Page 3 of Offside for Christmas
Cole reached Evergreen Cove at dusk on December 3rd, and immediately understood why Rick had sounded apologetic on the phone.
The town looked like Christmas had vomited all over it, then come back for a second round just to be sure.
Every. Single. Building. Was wrapped in lights.
Not tasteful lights. Not subtle lights.Aggressivelights. Red and green and white and gold, blinking and twinkling and competing for attention like some kind of illuminated turf war.
The town square—because of course there was a town square—featured a Christmas tree that had to be forty feet tall,decorated within an inch of its life. Around it, an ice skating rink where families glided in circles, kids shrieking with laughter, couples holding hands like they were in a damn Nicholas Sparks movie.
Wreaths hung from every lamppost. Garland wrapped around every railing. A group of carolers—actual carolers, in Victorian costumes—stood on a corner singing "Deck the Halls" with disturbing enthusiasm.
"You've got to be fucking kidding me," Cole said aloud to his empty truck.
A family walked by his window—mom, dad, two kids—all wearing matching sweaters with reindeer on them. The dad was carrying hot chocolate. They lookedhappy. Genuinely, sickeningly happy.
Cole's stomach turned.
He pulled up the address Rick had sent him: O'Brien's Pub, 247 Main Street. Apartment 2B. The team had arranged temporary housing until he found something more permanent.
As if he'd be here long enough to need something permanent.
The pub was wedged between a bookstore called "Once Upon a Page" and a bakery called "Winters & Co." The smell of fresh bread and cinnamon rolls wafted through his vents even though it was past eight PM.
Cole parked, grabbed his bags, and stood on the sidewalk, staring up at the building.
Laughter filtered up from the pub below. Christmas music—was that "Jingle Bell Rock"?—played loud enough to hear from the street. Warm golden light spilled from the windows.
He hated it already.
The apartment was accessed through a side door and up a narrow staircase that creaked with every step. His shoulder protested carrying the bags. Everything protested, really. He was exhausted, sore, and running on painkillers and spite.
2B was at the end of a short hallway. The key was under the mat, exactly where the email had said it would be. Small-town trusting bullshit.
Inside: one room, basically. A kitchenette along one wall, a bed shoved against another, a door that presumably led to a bathroom, and a window overlooking Main Street's festive nightmare. The walls were bare. The floor creaked. The radiator clanked and hissed.
But it was warm. And private. And right now, that was enough.
Cole dropped his bags, locked the door, and sank down to sit on the floor, back against the wall. His shoulder screamed. His head pounded. The sounds of joy from the pub below felt like they were mocking him.
He opened his duffel and pulled out the photo of his grandmother.
The photo was from Christmas. He could see the edge of a tree in the background, colored lights blurred out of focus. His grandmother had always made a big deal about Christmas—too big a deal, Cole used to think, when he was a teenager who thought hockey was the only thing that mattered.
That had been their last Christmas together. She'd made his favorite cookies, and he'd left them untouched because he was cutting weight for playoffs. She'd asked him to stay for dinner, and he'd said he had practice. She'd wanted to watch It's a Wonderful Life together, and he'd told her he was too old for that stuff.
She'd died three weeks later.
What would you say if you could see me now?he thought, staring at her smiling face.Probably that I'm being dramatic. That six weeks isn't a death sentence. That I should stop feeling sorry for myself and play some damn hockey.
She'd always been practical like that. No nonsense. The kind that made you better even when you didn't want to be.
"I miss you," he said to the empty room.
The radiator clanked in response.
Cole set the photo on the windowsill and turned away. He didn't do Christmas anymore. Hadn't for a year. And spending six weeks in a town that treated Christmas like a competitive sport wasn't going to change that.
Cole pulled out his phone. One new email notification.
