Page 31 of Holiday Interference
With the ache of being wanted and the sharp sweetness of restraint.
We turn back to the screen at the same time, like we planned it.
But the air doesn’t settle.
It thickens.
And beneath the blanket, our legs stay exactly where they are.
Touching.
The episode winds down, but neither of us reaches for the remote.
The credits roll. The soft hum of the next auto play trailer fades into the background.
My head rests against the back cushion, my legs curled under me. Cal hasn’t moved much either, but the energy between us has shifted—settled, but not cooled. It simmers low and steady beneath the quiet.
“I used to play this game with my mom,” I say softly. “Whenever we couldn’t sleep. She called it the What-If Game.”
Cal glances over at me. His profile’s all shadows now. Strong, quiet lines, jaw flexing once like he’s already bracing for something heavier than he wants to carry.
Still, he humors me. “How’s it work?”
“You ask a what-if. Then you answer it. That’s it.” I pause. “No follow-up questions. No judgment.”
He lifts a brow. “That sounds suspiciously emotional.”
I smirk. “Maybe.”
He shifts slightly, neither further nor closer to me, but I feel his heat all the way down to my toes.
“If you weren’t a hockey player,” I say, “what would you be?”
He sighs like he’s going to pass. But then:
“Mechanic.”
I blink. “Seriously?”
He shrugs, eyes back on the TV. “When I wasn’t playing hockey, I’d help my uncle fix cars. Engines. Gearboxes.”
“You’d trade packed arenas and adrenaline for grease and busted mufflers?”
“Only if I couldn’t do hockey. I love the sport; it’s really all I’ve ever wanted to do. I’m only a rookie, and I figure I’ve got years to go. But I’m not a fool. One wrong move and I could be out permanently.”
“So, you have a backup plan.”
He glances over at me. “I always have a backup plan.”
Something tugs in my chest. He says it so casually, but I hear the hollow under the words.
The way he talks about success like it doesn’t belong to him. Or like he doesn’t want it to.
His gaze stays on me. “What about you? What would you be if you weren’t charming sponsors at parties you plan?”
Heat rises in my cheeks that he thinks I’m charming. “If I didn’t run events, I’d probably be a wedding planner.”
He narrows his eyes and looks at me like I’ve just confessed something scandalous. “Isn’t that the same thing?”
