Chapter 8 Rourke #2
The judge rubs her chin as she studies our creations. “Well, if I only had to pick one, I’d give the award to him.” She points to my truly horrible, leaning perilously to the side, mobile home.
“We’ve never had a Christmas trailer before. Very creative,” she says, picking up the paper that I signed. “And thanks for the autograph.”
Janie’s face falls as the sudden thrill of victory spikes in my chest.
“You’re kidding, right?” she protests. “Didn’t you see my picket fence made of tiny frosted toothpicks? My stained glass windows of colored candies?”
The judge nods absently before turning back to me. “I can’t wait to see your next game. Go Crushers!” She waves the paper with my autograph before leaving.
Before I can think better of it, I pump my fist in the air. “HA! I BEAT JANIE BENNETT!”
Everyone in the place shifts toward me, and for one moment, pride swells in my chest.
Until I see Janie’s expression. There’s utter disappointment in her eyes and her expression is flat.
And just like that, the feeling of triumph in my chest deflates like a popped balloon.
Her shoulders slump and she’s staring at her perfect gingerbread house like all her careful work, all her Christmas magic just got crushed by a guy who doesn’t even care about the competition.
And she’s not wrong. I don’t care about gingerbread houses.
But I care about her—which is becoming a serious problem.
I miss her smile. Her taunts. The jut of her stubborn chin. The way her lips purse when she challenges me, silently begging me to kiss them.
But the devastation on her face right now? I’d rather lose a hundred bets than see that look again.
Without a word, she turns her back to me and begins cleaning up.
“Janie.”
She whirls around, pointing at me. “Don’t you dare rub it in.”
“I thought we were having fun. I wasn’t trying to make you feel bad.”
She scoffs. “We both know that judge let you win because she’s a hockey fan.” She nearly spits the words at me, and I can’t deny it. Being a professional athlete comes with a few perks and this is one of them.
That’s when she stares at her gingerbread house with disgust. “What’s the point of making something beautiful if it doesn’t matter anyway?” The hurt in her voice cuts through me.
For a second, I wonder if we’re even talking about gingerbread houses anymore. I thought this was just a silly competition. Another challenge issued by Little Miss Christmas.
Before I can ask, she sets her jaw and raises her fist, ready to flatten it with one blow.
I don’t think—I just move. In two strides, I’m in front of her, catching both her wrists before she can do something she’ll regret. “You’re not destroying this,” I say firmly.
She blinks at me, before her gaze drops to where my hands wrap completely around her wrists. “Why are you stopping me? It’s my house.”
“Because…” How do I explain that I’m not just saving a gingerbread house? That somewhere between her disappointment and my guilt, this stopped being about winning?
“It’s gorgeous,” I add, my voice lower now.
Then I make the mistake of actually looking at her.
I have to tilt my head down to meet her gaze.
She barely reaches my shoulders, this tiny firecracker of a woman with big energy who somehow makes me feel like I’m the one who’s small.
Her wrists are soft under my hands, and I realize I could lift her without even trying.
That thought sends a jolt of electricity through my body.
“Because you made it. And it’s way better than mine, no matter what that judge says.” I shake my head. “I didn’t win fairly. You’re absolutely right.”
She blinks several times, like she’s trying to process my words. “You’re admitting I’m right?”
I nod, still holding on to her wrists, not because I think she’ll actually destroy it now, but because I’m not ready to let go.
“But why would you save it?” she asks.
“Because this house is incredible. You put your whole heart into it, and watching you create something beautiful…” I pause. “It’s mesmerizing.”
She swallows before pulling back slightly. I let go of her wrists and she smooths her sweater, trying to compose herself. For a moment, neither of us knows what to say.
She starts cleaning up again. “So, what are you going to make me do? I bet you have plenty of ideas about how to ruin this festival now that you get to pick the next activity.”
“I changed my mind,” I say. “I’m going to let you pick the next activity. We both know you should have won.”
Her gaze narrows, like she expects some catch. “Why would you do that?”
“Because you look like someone just told you Christmas is canceled.” I shove my hands in my pockets. “And I can’t take seeing you disappointed.”
She scoffs. “You’re making fun of me.”
“I’m not.”
She lifts her eyebrows in surprise. “The grinch actually has a heart?”
I roll my eyes. “Don’t make a big deal about it.” I run a hand through my hair. “Listen, we both can’t be miserable today. And even though I hate Christmas, you know what I hate just as much?”
She frowns slightly. “What?”
“Watching you look like you got your heart broken.”
For a moment, she pauses like she’s trying to figure out if I’m serious. “What has gotten into you, Riley? I thought your whole goal was to beat me.”
“Beat you, yes. But not hurt you.” I force myself to meet her eyes again, even though everything in me wants to crack a joke, deflect.
Because that’s what I do. Flirting, sarcasm, keeping things light—it’s always been my armor. A way to keep people from seeing what’s actually going on inside. It’s worked pretty well for this long—keeping people at a distance so I didn’t have to deal with…whatever this uncomfortable feeling is.
It feels like standing on the ice in just my skates—no pads, no helmet, completely exposed to the next hit.
And I hate every second of it.
“So what are you going to choose, Bennett?” I ask, changing the subject while avoiding her confused glare. Mentally, I’m bracing myself for something involving craft glue and glitter.
“Ice-skating.”
I turn to her. “Wait. What?”
“I want to choose something you don’t hate.” There’s no teasing in her expression now. Maybe she doesn’t despise me after all.
“You’re doing this…for me?” It doesn’t make sense after I behaved so childishly earlier.
She shrugs. “Maybe for once, I want to watch you do something you’re actually good at. Something you won’t complain about.”
“Careful, Little Miss Christmas,” I warn. “That almost sounds like you want me to have fun today.”
The smile that curves her lips is different this time. “That’s the whole point, Riley.”