Chapter 3
My father has a reputation as being the toughest coach in the NHL. Even though I know his soft spots (homemade corn muffins grilled with butter, us girls, and Christmas), he doesn’t let too many people see that side of him, so it’s a surprise when he greets me—in public at the arrivals lane at Eppley—with a big hug.
We don’t so much as get a whistle from the worker in safety yellow. The traffic security officers must somehow sense that he’s the master of laying on the whistle on the ice and off. Let’s just say, while growing up, we didn’t have an alarm clock in our house. No, it was the blast of our father’s shrill Fox40 Super Force CMG Finger Grip screecher.
If you know, you know.
When I get in the car, he has the heater running and the Christmas carols playing.
“I missed you, Badaszek,” he says.
“I missed you too, Dadaszek,” I repeat, using my sisters’ and my custom dad title. Just like he does with everyone except Mom, he’s always called us by our last name. Since I’m the last one he has yet to walk down the aisle, I’m still Badaszek.
“You’re unusually cheerful,” I say, soaking it up.
While it was devastating to lose Mom to cancer, our father made every effort to keep her memory with us. But without who he called his “Number one teammate,” parts of him got even tougher over time. I imagine those were the aspects that a wife would’ve kept soft and sweet. Or it could have something to do with spending most of his time with some of the roughest athletes in the world.
Either way, he doesn’t usually sing along to “Frosty the Snowman.” No, he’s better described as Frosty the Ice King.
I snap my fingers, remembering that I’d turned on the Knights-Lions game when I was packing but didn’t have time to see the results. “Oh, I know. You won.”
“We did. Looks like we’re heading to the playoffs.” His strained excitement never gets old.
“That’s reason to celebrate, and maybe this summer . . .” I press my lips together because, for years now, Ilsa, Anna, and I have been urging him to take a vacation. To travel. Well, he does regularly, but only for away games. He doesn’t lounge on a beach, trek on foreign trails, or visit famous museums. Nope. It’s all hockey all the time.
Our encouragement for him to take some time off is constant, but my sisters and I finally decided to do something about it. We planned a family summer vacation to Europe, complete with my sisters’ spouses, leaving our father and me as the fifth and sixth wheels, but that’s okay. While the couples are off doing coupley things, I can listen to Dadaszek remind me how to safely operate a pilot light and what to do in the event of a grease fire.
Like I said, hyper-protective.
He tells me all about the Knights-Lions game and his key players. When he gets to number seventy-four, a defenseman, he grunts.
“Let me guess, he’s a troublemaker.”
“A player.”
“Right, a hockey player.”
“No, a hot-headed, hot shot who uses a different stick every game and is a little too casual with the rotating cast of puck bunnies afterward. The only thing that’s saving him is that he’s got game.”
“On the ice?”
He follows up with a few choice words muttered under his breath.
I gasp, then scold my father. “Dadaszek.”
He arches an eyebrow. “I spend an inordinate amount of time in a locker room. I’ve heard worse.”
That means he’s probably said worse. I wince, thankful it’s never directed at me.
“I thought I’d chased all those fervid female fans back into their warrens, but with no thanks to Arsenault, the Frenchman, they’ve multiplied and returned in droves.” He rants about how he worked hard to clean up the team’s reputation and make it more family-oriented. But now, according to my father, the French Canadian defensive player lured them out of the woodwork.
When we pull onto Main Street in Cobbiton, Dadaszek runs out of grumbly gas just as “I’ll be Home for Christmas” choruses through the truck’s speakers.
The activities commission decorates the town center every year, and it’s one of the best things about coming home. Feeling the warm fuzzies, I’m convinced one of the CAC members is a former set dresser for a Hallmark movie.
The shops on Main Street outdo themselves with frosted glass window displays, festive wreaths, and icicle garlands. The light-wrapped street lamps, big red bows, and gold bells are perfectly classic. Choirs of light-up wire angels span the road, trumpets lifted.
It all leads to the Christmas Market, which is a winter wonderland of vendors selling everything from handcrafted ornaments to mulled cider. We have horse-drawn carriage rides, a parade, and a gingerbread house contest. Plus, there are breakfasts with Santa, photos with him and Mrs. Claus, and the lighting of the big tree on December first.
As we pass the town’s living advent calendar Christmas countdown, today’s window glows icy blue with 3D paper snowflakes. Each year, it’s different and draws people from all over the country.
I miss home with a longing that makes me feel like I’m far away rather than right here in the midst of it.
Letting out a breath because I haven’t yet gone shopping or done any of the many traditions we used to start as soon as the town tree was lit, I say, “With only twelve days until Christmas, I’d better get busy.”
“Hope to see you in the box, too.” My dad gives me the game schedule.
I promise to go to all the home games.
“Just stay away from Arsenault.”
I roll my eyes. “As if.”
My father had an unspoken rule that his daughters weren’t to date hockey players. Then, in high school, I foolishly fell for Ricky Koch. He then had the pleasure of hearing me say, Dadaszek, you were right.
We pull up to the pale yellow brick colonial house I grew up in on Golden Bantam Lane. Shutters on every window border wreaths and the red front door and entry are bedecked in white lights.
I look up and down the sidewalk for the Victorian carolers who canvas town. They make their way through the various neighborhoods one night at a time.
“Home sweet home.” A deep breath fills me as I get out of the car.
Anna rushes out with Ilsa and Kangaroo Jack on her heels. Cal carries a pair of giant resin candy canes and plants them at the end of the sidewalk. We share a rowdy round of hugs, complete with happy squeals. The guys exchange a look as the three of us sisters link arms and head into the house.
While catching up with Ilsa and Anna, the sound of hockey highlights comes from the other room, along with Dad’s voice, likely instructing Cal and Kangaroo Jack on the fine art of the saucer pass.
If I were to ask—I wouldn’t dare after Ricky—he’d vote down having a hockey-playing son-in-law. But maybe he wouldn’t mind if at least one of his daughter’s spouses were fans. By the sound of his breakaway analysis, he’ll mold them into hockey aficionados one way or another.
But that’s not the focus as Anna takes out Mom’s massive KitchenAid stand mixer, and Ilsa lines ingredients up on the counter. The cookie-baking bonanza is about to begin, and I am here for it.
Every year, we make twelve different kinds of cookies—dozens each. Some of them are for our enjoyment and others we package up for friends, family, and neighbors, the firefighters and EMT team in town, and the hospice workers from the association that helped take care of Mom.
We call ourselves The Mrs. Claus Squad since she doesn’t get nearly as much of the spotlight as she should. Also, because Dadaszek called Mom Mrs. Claus from December first to the twenty-fifth, since our mother loved Christmas so much, it’s a way to keep her memory with us. Some people might think this tradition is sad, but we know Mom would love our little ode to her.
No sooner are we mixing and blending do Anna and Ilsa ask about my non-existent romantic life. I relay my encounter with Richy, the cute guy with BO from the plane, while dramatically holding my nose. This makes them laugh, and we reminisce about terrible dates over the years.
They both conclude that they married the loves of their lives.
“Which means it’s your turn,” Anna says, tossing a chocolate candy Kiss wrapped in foil my way.
I pop it in my mouth because I know what’s coming.
Ilsa spins by me, tying an apron around my waist. “We’ve been planning . . .”
I suddenly have an inclination about how Dad is going to feel when we present him with his mandatory European summer vacation Christmas gift. It seemed like a good idea at the time, but now I’m having second thoughts. Our father makes good money and if he wanted to spend a summer gallivanting abroad, he would. He’ll love the Hockey Hall of Fame museum in Finland but could manage to get himself there without our help.
By this logic, if I want to date, I will.
Right? I mean, right?
However, I have a knack for meeting guys with BO or an abundance of nose hair or who don’t tie their shoes—I couldn’t be worried Felix was going to trip all the time.
It’s not like I’m trying to check off every box, but basic hygiene and shoelace skills are a good place to start.
Anna parades by with a bowl full of sugar cookie dough. “We just have to get you out there.”
“You need some more experience,” Ilsa says, taking a swipe of the batter .
“I’ve done plenty of studying when it comes to the romantic arts. Take Dante and Beatrice or John and Abigail Adams, for example—” I’m about to launch into a retrospective on Queen Victoria and Prince Albert when Ilsa interrupts.
“When did you last meet a guy for coffee or go to the movies . . . in real life, not in a fictional escape?”
I look from side to side, wishing for an easy exit. Unfortunately, my sisters know where my bedroom is, and they more than likely know what I’m thinking. It’s a triplet thing.
“It’s been a minute. But while I’m here—” I didn’t quite think about how to present my “homework” sketching storyboards at the arena all week without revealing that graphic design and studying law aren’t the same thing. “I’ll be busy.”
I get a pat on the head from Ilsa. “Sure you will be.”
“Uh huh, starting with a blind date.” Anna grins like an evil mastermind.
“No way.”
“And you’re going to text the guy I have in mind.” Ilsa cackles and then runs out of the room.
Anna wants to send me on a blind date with one of Cal’s buddies. Not especially interested. Ilsa has someone she wants me to text. No, thanks. I can’t imagine either of those scenarios being the start of my happily ever after.
Seconds later, my phone beeps.
Pumping her arms in the air in success, Ilsa whisper shouts, “I just got his number off Dadaszek’s phone.”
I immediately know what this means. “No way. I’m not dating a hockey player.”
Ilsa clicks her tongue. “What’s wrong with a hockey player?”
“Where do I begin?” I tilt my head, prepared to count the reasons on my fingers. They’re all too familiar with Ricky.
Ilsa says, “Nolan is kind, thoughtful, a big ole cinnamon roll, who works with charities, donates to good causes and is responsible with his money. Plus, no record of being a player of any sort.”
The Frenchman defenseman my father mentioned comes to mind.
Anna says, “Sounds like you did your homework.”
Ilsa bounces a little as if she thinks I’ll appreciate this because I’m the studious one and all.
“As I said, I have homework and cookies to bake and time to spend with my wicked sisters.”
Anna breezes past my comment. “Back to the blind date. He’s in finance, has a 401K, and no criminal record.”
“That all sounds great, but?—”
“We didn’t forget about love, obviously,” Anna says as if that’s the most important ingredient as she gets a little generous about adding cinnamon to the oatmeal cookie dough. “Oopsie.”
“But that’s something that comes with time. First, you have to get out of your books and onto the ice.” Ilsa spins me on the counter stool.
I wrinkle my nose because she sounds a lot like our father. When it comes to true love, you can’t tick items on a list, and I certainly don’t want a hockey player. They belong in the penalty box.
“Dadaszek isn’t going to like you trying to hook me up with someone from the team.”
“Technically, Nolan isn’t on the team. He drives the Zamboni.” She makes sparkle fingers because that also means he dresses up like a knight in shining armor between periods. It’s not the team mascot, but it’s a team “thing” that fans love, along with throwing corn cobs (or fruit, whichever is available) on the ice.
Anna’s eyes widen. “I always wondered who was under there. ”
“There are a few ice-resurfacing knights, but Nolan seemed sweet. It could be a love match,” Ilsa sing songs.
The timer on the oven dings.
Anna hops to her feet. “First, we have to get you ready for your blind date.”
While they pilfer our respective closets to find me the perfect outfit, I protest. “Can we not do this? I just got home.”
Ilsa pulls out her makeup pouch. “It’s going to be fun.”
Pouting, I say, “If Dadaszek finds out, he’s going to lock me away in a tower like Rapunzel.”
“While that would be a good excuse to let your hair grow longer, Dadaszek knows Nolan. He’d approve. I just know it,” Ilsa says.
“And when he meets Richard, he’ll have a third victim to whom he can subject his hockey obsession.” Anna wears a smug grin.
“Who?” I ask, inclining my head.
Anna clears her throat. “Richard.”
“Like Ricky?” I grit my teeth.
“He might go by Richy,” Ilsa suggests.
Anything but that. I blurt, “Or Chard.”
It cannot be helped. We all burst into laughter. I can’t be mad at my sisters. They’re trying to help. But I’m not exactly thrilled by this surprise turn of events.
Dadaszek, forgive me for the Christmas gift trip to Europe if you hate it. I know how you feel and won’t ever spring something on you again.
“Cara is going to fall for Nolan,” Ilsa says, like they have a bet on the side.
The two of them banter back and forth about my one true love and how they’ll get matchmaking credit and become my favorite sister. In this family, there are no favorites, but we faux fight about it anyway .
Just then, my phone beeps again.
Ilsa squeals and checks it. The facial recognition feature thinks we’re all the same person, so we have access to each other’s devices, which tells me one thing. While I was mixing the shortbread dough, she took the liberty to reach out to the guy whose number she nabbed from our father’s phone.
Let’s just say this isn’t the first time an attempt of this sort has been made. In the past, I was able to intercept a not-so-innocent love note before she pressed send . For the record, I did not have a crush on Augie Mitchum. We helped each other with math.
i(3)u was the answer to a problem. Ilsa trying to translate it to I love you was incorrect.
Her eyes bulge. “Oh, he’s flirty.”
“What did you write?” I lunge for my phone and scan the messages.
Me: Hey, we met after the game last night, and I got your number from a friend. I hope that’s okay. I was the one wearing the red scarf.
“I have a pink scarf.” My nostrils flare. “You posed as me.”
Ilsa shrugs. “Jack said it was fine if I acted on your behalf. We’re identical triplets. Nolan wouldn’t know the difference with me all bundled up.”
Knight in Shining Armor: What are you craving right now?
Me: Snacks.
Only the “Me” is Ilsa, pretending to be yours truly.
Never mind my cheeks, my entire body heats with the burn of embarrassment. “Ilsa, I would never have written that. I don’t even know what that means.”
“Exactly.” She winks.
Anna says, “It’s a way of telling him you think he’s cute without telling him you think he’s cute.”
“But I didn’t see him, you did,” I say to Ilsa.
“You’d approve.”
“My judgment cannot be trusted. I thought a guy on the plane was cute, and it turns out that he smelled like?—”
My phone beeps in my hand, and Ilsa snatches it, rapidly typing out a reply. I practically have to wrestle it from her.
Knight in Shining Armor: If you were a piece of fruit, what would you be?
Me: A perfect peach.
I gasp. “Are you saying I have a big butt?”
Anna taps my rear end. “You have a perfect butt.”
“I’m not cut out for this.” I hide my face in my hands.
“That’s why we’re here to help.”
“Anna just means that when talking to guys, sometimes you have to add some of Dadaszek’s favorite hot sauce to spice things up.”
“But Kablamski! is not hot,” I say, ever logical.
That’s the joke. Our father is of Polish heritage, and their cuisine is not known for being especially spicy, meaning he can’t handle much more than a shishito pepper. Having lived in Los Angeles with its amazing Mexican food, I’ve upped the family heat tolerance on the Scoville Scale considerably. Dad thinks his Kablamski! Sauce is spicy, but it’s negative mild if there were such a thing.
Anna shrugs. “Depends on your taste. Plus, those sausages Dad gets at the Polski Festiwal every fall are inarguably a tongue burner.”
I groan when another text comes through and take control of my device, not at all wanting to think about mouths or tongues in the context of my sisters matching me with random guys because this could lead to only one thing: Kissing.
Knight in Shining Armor: If you’re a Knights (and corny jokes) fan, I bet we’d make a great pear.
The joke is beyond cheesy, but I get the reference. The fans of some pro hockey teams throw rats or fish onto the ice. Knights fans mainly toss corn cobs, but when those aren’t available, it could range from apples to oranges. After all, beyond the Cobbiton suburbs, it’s all farm country.
Me: Hi again! You seem nice, so I bet you’ll find someone you’d like to see s’more, who’d make your heart skip a beet. A special someone with whom you’re mint to be.
My sisters banter about how I’m impossible.
Ilsa says, “You should’ve mentioned pasta-bilities between you.”
Anna adds, “And asked what kind of fruit he is.”
“Then you could’ve said—” Ilsa starts.
My hands fly to my hips. “No, don’t say it. I don’t even know what he looks like. You two are taking this too far. I’m going to report this to your husbands.”
Given Cal’s last name being a misspelling of a popular fruit, this silences Anna. Ilsa goes quiet because after she met Kangaroo Jack, she referred to him in code using the pineapple emoji. I later found out this was because she considered him a fine apple, a fruit of which we do not speak for reasons not having anything to do with Jack McMann.
Sober-faced, Anna says, “We don’t want you to be late for the blind date.”
“I can’t double date two guys.”
“Technically, you’re going on a date now with Richard and just texting with Nolan. No big deal.” Ilsa shrugs.
Panic seizes me and I flap my hands. “What if I accidentally call him Chard?”
They push me out the door. Then, as if instantly knowing that if I drive myself, I’ll end up cruising around for hours looking at Christmas lights and standing the guy up, Ilsa hollers over her shoulder, “Guys, we’ll be right back.”
Quick and nimble, Anna flies by me and hops in the driver’s seat of the 2002 Dodge Caravan Dadaszek passed along to us when we got our licenses. Yes, it’s called the Cara van, even though I rarely got dibs on it. He happily upgraded to a truck.
“Still runs like a dream,” Anna says, telling us how she had to borrow it a few weeks ago while her car was serviced. “Dadaszek even had me run some hockey errands in exchange for a full tank of gas like old times.”