Page 20 of Shut Up and Jingle Me
“If you change your mind, we can make up the spare room and get you a plane ticket. No strings, man.”
EIGHT
MAX
It’s been almosta week since Eli’s offer, and it’s still running laps in my head. Like he planted it there on purpose, knowing it would dig in and stay.
Come home with me. Spare room. No strings.
It’s Thanksgiving in two days. Too damn late to take him up on it now. Not that I would’ve. Pride’s a hell of a thing—keeps you from doing a lot of stupid shit, but it also keeps you from… other things. Things that might’ve been good.
I tell myself it’s fine. I’ve got plans. Not exciting ones, but plans all the same. A couple of days in a quiet, empty campus apartment. My laptop. My notes. The twenty-page paper I’ve been putting off writing. The kind of solitude I’ve always been good at, because it’s the only thing I’ve ever been good at.
But every time I replay that moment in the trainer’s room, his easy smile, the way he meant it, my chest tightens. He wasn’t just making conversation. He was offering… something else. Something I don’t take from people. Kindness.
Because once you take it, you can’t give it back. And if you lose it, it leaves holes you can’t patch over.
I lean against the railing at the edge of the rink, clipboard in hand, but I’m not really watching drills the way I should be. Notwhen Eli’s out there, skating as though he was born with blades instead of feet, grinning at everybody like he’s already three eggnogs deep.
The team’s supposed to be running shooting practice, but Eli’s got himself on full-volume Christmas carol mode again, belting out “Jingle Bell Rock” loud enough to echo in the rafters. He doesn’t care that he’s off-key in places, doesn’t care that half the guys are groaning at him to shut up while shooting pucks at the net with no mercy. Or that he’s just coming back from an injury.
Predictably, they start firing pucks at him instead of the net. Not hard, just enough to make him flinch and laugh harder. He dodges one, spins away from another, still singing as though he’s on stage somewhere and not getting used as target practice. He isn’t moving as if his groin still bothers him; maybe he was never really injured and used it to get closer to me. If that was his motive, damn if it didn’t work, because the image of him on my examination room table now has fantasies attached to it that definitely shouldn’t be circling my head.
And damn if he isn’t captivating.
It’s not just the easy way he moves or the way his voice carries over the scrape of skates. It’s that nothing—absolutely nothing—can shake him out of that joy. Not a puck to the back of the leg. Not his teammates’ chirps. Not the fact that he’s got an audience, because he doesn’t change a thing whether anyone’s watching or not.
I tell myself I’m here to make sure no one pulls anything stupid before break. But my eyes keep finding him, like they always do, and I know that’s not the whole truth. I need one more hit of his sunshine before he’s gone for five days.
Coach blows the whistle sharp enough to cut through Eli’s singing. “Bring it in!”
The guys coast over, sticks clattering against the ice, helmets pushed back to cool their heads off. Coach crosses his arms over his chest, scanning the lot of them as if he’s deciding whether to be nice or tear them a new one.
“Alright, listen up. Storm’s moving in faster than they said, so we’re calling it here. Get out of here early, beat the weather, and go enjoy your break. Happy holidays, enjoy the bird, and try not to do anything that’ll have me fielding injury reports over Thanksgiving.”
There’s a ripple of relieved laughter, a couple of the guys tapping sticks against the ice in appreciation before everyone scatters toward the tunnel.
I hang back by the boards, tucking my clipboard under my arm. Eli skates past with Daniel, the two of them laughing about something I can’t catch, probably a jab about his carols, knowing him.
But then he glances over.
It’s quick. Just a flick of his eyes to mine as he passes. Still, it’s enough to send a pulse of heat low in my chest, like the air between us is suddenly charged. He doesn’t stop smiling, doesn’t miss a beat in whatever joke he’s telling Daniel. But that spark—yeah, it’s still there. And it hits just as hard as it did the first time I noticed it at the start of the practice season at the beginning of the school year. Only now, it’s harder to ignore.
The locker room is buzzing, the kind of easy, restless energy that comes right before a break. Showers run in quick rotations, steam curling toward the ceiling while guys shout to each other over the water and laugh about whatever stupid thing happened on the ice.
Equipment bags thud against the floor, sticks get racked, and the scent of soap and sweaty gear hangs heavy in the air. Everyone’s moving fast—eager to get on the road, beat the storm, and start their holiday early.
One by one, they filter out with calls of “Happy Thanksgiving!” and “Don’t eat too much pie!” echoing down the hall. The room empties quicker than usual, chatter fading until there’s just the hum of the vents and the sound of someone—Eli—still moving around at his stall.
I’m leaning against the doorframe, not in any hurry myself, and I can feel the pull of his presence even without looking directly at him.
I push off the doorframe, my voice cutting through the quiet. “Where’s home for you, Starling?”
He glances over his shoulder, still toweling off his hair, and there’s that easy grin again. “South Carolina. Little coastal town. Warm, sunny beaches instead of snow. Although, swimming in November is usually too cold.”
Figures. Of course he’d come from somewhere warm, somewhere that matches the way he carries himself, all sun-soaked and easy in his own skin.
“Long way from here,” I say.
