Chapter 21 Logan Crawford Hate Club
Twenty-One
Logan Crawford Hate Club
Brie
From behind the podium, I stare out at the crowd gathered in front of the not-quite-sad eleven and a half-foot Christmas tree.
Okay, fine—maybe it was sad until Dad helped me jack it up another foot and a half.
I even added extra Christmas presents underneath so the tree appears taller and bustling with extra holiday joy.
It wasn’t my first choice, but damn, I’m proud.
The crowd is a sea of Santa hats, elf ears, and reindeer antlers.
Mount Holly does not do Christmas halfway.
Generations of townsfolk smile back at me like they’ve been waiting all year for this moment.
I know I have. A thwack rolls over the crowd as I tap the microphone.
Everyone quiets, giving me their undivided attention.
“Thank you for coming. The tree lighting is my favorite part of the Holly Jolly Festival. It kicks off the entire Christmas season. We have fun games, activities, vendors, and contests. New this year is the Holly Jolly Ice Rink. Every night, we’ll have open skating for everyone to enjoy.”
Cheers ripple through the crowd.
“And of course,” I continue, “our local businesses came through with some amazing prizes.”
“You can win one of my brand-new, super-duper power shovels. Only available at Holly Hammer Hardware!” my dad yells from the crowd.
The audience erupts with laughter and applause. I shake my head. “Thanks, Dad. Who doesn’t need a super-duper power shovel?”
I gesture Vanna-White-style at the tree. “Big thanks to Henry and Reindeer Ridge for this beauty.”
An applause rolls over the audience.
Near the back of the crowd, I spot Josie’s head towering over everyone else.
My gaze drifts down to the shoulders she’s sitting on.
Logan’s staring back at me with a wide smile on his face.
Even in the cold, my cheeks warm. Lauren clears her throat, getting my attention.
She points to the tree. “Oh. Right. Let’s kick off the Holly Jolly Festival! You ready?”
The entire crowd joins in the countdown. “Five! Four! Three! Two! One!”
I flip the oversized fake switch as Lauren hits the real one, and the tree explodes with red, blue, green, and white twinkling lights.
The star blazes at the top, fireworks crack overhead, and for a second, I can’t breathe.
It’s perfect. It’s everything. Maybe, just maybe, I’ll land this promotion.
I scan the area where Logan was, but he’s not there. Maybe it wasn’t him after all.
Lauren murmurs, “Oh, it’s beautiful.”
“Yeah,” I manage. But my chest is too tight to mean just the tree.
When you’ve convinced yourself of one thing for so many years, you become conflicted when you realize it was a lie.
That’s my situation with Logan. I’ve spent years cultivating my Logan Crawford Hate Club membership.
But lately? My card has been revoked. When he’s not around, I miss the bickering.
When he is around, I can’t decide if I want to argue or kiss him.
Night after night, I replay the almost-kiss in the snowbank and every time I regret it didn’t happen.
The next morning, I wake up tangled in thoughts of Logan.
Again. I’d bet all my Christmas ornaments he was at the tree lighting.
But why? He’s got his own carnival kickoff.
Which I’m sure will be big, extravagant, and over the top because Logan knows nothing different.
Unless he was there to steal my ideas. Obviously, I can’t ask anyone if he was there; that would insinuate I’m thinking of Logan in more than an I-don’t-hate-you kind of way.
At the festival grounds, the crowd is… underwhelming. Sure there are a few families, young and old, wandering around, enjoying cookies, and hot chocolate. While others play games to win stuffed Santas and snowmen. But it’s only one-fourth of Mount Holly, tops. My stomach knots.
“Brie! Brie!” Lauren jogs toward me, flushed. “Sorry I’m late. Traffic was insane near Snowflake Lane.”
My brows furrow. “Traffic?”
She nods. “I saw a sign about a hockey tournament.”
Damn. I know where everyone in town is. I pull out my phone and send a message to Willa.
Brie
What are you doing?”
Willa
Closing down the diner. Town is empty.
Brie
Hockey tournament. Want to check it out?
Willa
Oh, that’s right. I totally forgot. That explains the lack of customers. I never expected you to go to a Logan Crawford event voluntarily.
Brie
All our friends are playing. I want to be supportive.
Willa
Not because you want to see a certain professional hockey player?
Brie
No, but I like hockey, and I want to watch him lose.
Willa
Nope. I checked my receipt. I didn’t buy any of your bullshit.
Brie
Better check again. Because that’s what it is.
Willa
HA! Alright, I’ll meet you there.
I shove my phone in my pocket and turn to Lauren. “You can hold down the fort for a little while, right?”
Pure panic takes over her face. “Uh. Um.”
“Great! You have my number if there’s an emergency!” Before she can respond, I spin around and sprint down the walkway and out of the festival.
I meet up with Willa at the only available parking, which is a quarter of a mile from the carnival entrance on the side of Snowflake Lane.
Thankfully, the sun is shining, and the temperatures are above zero.
When we enter, it’s bustling. Minnesota loves hockey, no matter if it’s professional, junior hockey, high school, or in this case a fun weekend tournament.
There’s no way I’d be able to compete with this. Might as well enjoy it while I’m here.
“Who knew Mount Holly would love watching a bunch of thirty-somethings play hockey?” Willa says over her shoulder as we meander through the crowd.
Four sections of bleachers are full of spectators. People are even standing shoulder-to-shoulder along the boards. A thin netting surrounds the entire rink to protect the crowd from flying pucks. A few rows up, she finds us an empty spot on the metal bleachers.
She pats the bench. “This is fancy. He sprung for the extra luxurious foam padding.” Both of us sit, our butts sinking into the vinyl-covered extra-soft foam.
Immediately, I scan the players on the ice, mostly searching for one in particular. It takes less than five seconds to find him gliding across the rink.
Willa leans over, playfully bumping my shoulder. “I dare you not to stare at Logan while we’re here.”
I scoff. “You say that as if it’s a challenge.”
Willa laughs. “We’ll see.”
Players get ready for the next game and skate around the ice taking practice shots into the net.
Logan’s on the far end. I’m mesmerized by his effortless gliding across the ice.
His powerful thighs push him forward. I imagine his thrusting force is just as powerful.
He lines up a shot, flicks his wrist, and the puck smacks the top corner of the net with surgical precision. My breath hitches.
“I should have placed a bet,” Willa whispers.
“Huh?”
“You’re staring.”
“No, I wasn’t.” I drop my gaze and tug my knit cap farther down on my head.
“You’re glued to the left side of the rink. Guess who’s the only player there?”
There’s no way I can lie my way out of this one. “Fine,” I grumble. “I was staring. But he’s a professional athlete. It’s hard not to.”
She smirks. “Because he’s so hot and manly. All you want to do is rip all his pads off and play with his stick.”
“No.” I groan. “That’s not—” Except yeah, it is. Exactly that. “He’s a professional hockey player. It’s hard not to stare when he’s on the ice.”
“Suuure,” she teases.
I hate that there’s a teeny tiny part of me that doesn’t hate the way my chest flutters every time he’s near.
Or how his stupid dimple makes my knees weak.
That he thinks of tiny things—like dryer sheets.
How my heart skips a beat every time I see him being the best dad to his daughter.
Or how my skin prickles with goosebumps every time he touches me.
I hate I want it, all of it. All the time.
Willa nudges me and points to the far end of the rink. “Isn’t that the Christmas blogger over there?”
I squint toward the far side of the rink. “Yes. Emma. What is she doing here? There’s nothing Christmas about the hockey tournament.”
“That guy is wearing a Santa hat over his helmet, so it’s kind of Christmas-y. You should go talk to her. Get that meeting so you can gush about the Holly Jolly Festival.”
“I should! I’m going to go do that right now!” Leaping from my seat, I scoot past the row of people until I’m racing down the stairs while maintaining a visual of Emma’s position. Once on solid ground, I weave through the crowd of people.
“Oh, Brie! Brie!”
I ignore my name and quicken my steps.
“Brie! I have a question.”
Oh, my god. I didn’t know Mrs. Albertson could move so fast for being an eighty-year-old woman. I grind to a stop and paste on a smile. “Sorry, I didn’t hear you calling.”
“That’s okay, dear. I wanted to ask are there still three rounds for the Christmas cookie bake-off?”
“Yep, there sure are. We’ve always had three rounds.” My gaze flicks over her head. I still have Emma in sight.
“Oh, good. Betty believed there were only two. Sheryl thought there was just one.”
“Nope. There’s still three. I haven’t changed it.” I bounce on the balls of my feet, not wanting to be rude, but also I need her to speed up this conversation.
“Great. I’ll let them know. Thanks, dear.”
“You’re welcome.” I rush past her and weave in and out of carnival goers.
“Brie!” I pinch my eyes shut when I hear my name again.
I glance over my shoulder, and Mr. Jacobson is waving like he’s hailing a taxi.
“Oh, Brie! You have to thank your father for the brand-new snow shovel he sold me. It works like a dream. He had the perfect display showing me the good, better, and best of all the shovels. Of course, I had to get the best.”