Page 5 of Shut Up and Jingle Me
Because the second he realizes I’m not immune, I’m done for.
I make a slow circuit around the rink, coffee in hand, keeping an eye on the guys who’ve been flagged lately—Nate’s shoulder, Peters’ tweaked wrist, and now our backup goalie, Dean, who’s been favoring his left leg all week.
When the drill pauses, I flick my eyes toward Dean. “You feeling that groin pull again?” I ask as he skates by the bench.
He shrugs like it’s nothing, which is hockey-player code foryes, but I’d rather die than sit out.
I don’t buy it. “Ease up on the butterfly drops. If it gets worse, you’re sitting. I mean it.”
Dean just nods and glides away.
Todd skates over, stick resting against his shoulder. “Problem?”
“Dean’s still tight on that left side,” I tell him. “If you want him for Saturday, back him off today. Let Eli take the extra reps.”
Todd smirks. “Pretty sure Eli will love that.”
I glance toward the net where Starling’s grinning under his mask like he just heard his name. He probably did. That guy’s radar for attention is freakishly accurate.
“Just… keep the drills clean,” I say. “And if anyone else starts making that face Nate makes when he’s hurt, pull them.”
Todd chuckles. “You’re like the team’s grumpy mother.”
I take a slow sip of my coffee. “And you’re welcome.”
They run their practice, and I watch with a clinical eye, looking for any tells that one of them is injured. Freaking hockey players will play through anything for ice time.
I glance toward the crease. Starling’s crouched in position, mask tipped back, posturing as though he’s got the whole rink under control. Which is exactly when he decides to push off and glide over to me during the break in drills.
He props his stick against the boards, takes a long sip of his peppermint latte, and eyes my coffee. “You know, Calder, if you swapped that sludge for something with actual flavor, you’d look ten years younger in our calendar spread.”
“I’m not drinking liquid candy,” I say.
“Fine, but I’m still thinking—what if we do a ‘snow day’ theme? I’m bundled up in a scarf with no shirt, you’re holding an umbrella, snow falling all around us.”
I arch a brow. “Umbrella? On ice?”
“Unexpected. Quirky. Memorable.” He grins like it’s a done deal. “That’s how you make magic, Calder.”
“Magic,” I repeat, deadpan.
Before I can tell him exactly what I think of his plan, Todd’s whistle cuts through the air. “Starling! Back on the net!”
Eli pushes off, calling over his shoulder as he skates back to the net. “Don’t go anywhere. I’ve got at least three more ideas for you.”
I take a sip of my coffee and pretend I’m not looking forward to hearing them.
Steam fogsthe locker room mirrors, and the air’s thick with that mix of soap, sweat, and whatever body spray Peter thinks is acceptable to wear in public. I’m putting the last of the tape and ice packs away when Eli appears, hair damp, still grinning like practice was the highlight of his life.
He plants himself in front of my examining table, towel hanging low around his hips, peppermint latte in hand. He’s not wasting a drop of that liquid sugar. It definitely is cold by now, and I’m surprised it isn’t gone with how much he’s sipping on it. I shake my head and focus on putting away my stuff.
“Still thinking about options,” he says, taking a long sip. “We could do a ‘snowball fight’ theme. You shirtless, obviously. I’d be laughing adorably in the background while pelting you with marshmallows.”
“No.”
“Or—hear me out—two-man sled. I’m steering, you’re…the sled.”
I close my eyes and take a deep breath. “Starling, you do realize that sentence alone is a violation of some kind of workplace boundary?”
