Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
Dylan
Ding. Ding. Ding.
The bell on my elf hat jingles with every step I take, announcing my ridiculous presence to the entire Christmas tree farm.
Cheyenne spots me first.
“What in the world are you wearing?” She gasps, leaving her mouth hanging open. Her hand comes up to cover it as she takes in the full glory of my green-and-red-striped tights and pointed shoes.
Mission accomplished. She’s too shocked to look sad.
Genna spots me next, her eyebrows shooting up to her hairline before she doubles over in laughter.
I strike a pose, hands on hips, chest puffed out. “I’m Jingle the Elf, sent by Santa himself to help find the perfect Christmas tree!” My voice comes out in a ridiculous high pitch that makes Genna snort so hard she has to turn away.
“I can’t believe you.” Cheyenne shakes her head, but there it is—the smile I’ve been looking for. It’s small, but real. “Remind me why we thought soliciting Dylan’s help was a good idea,” she says to Genna, who’s finally recovered enough to speak.
“I didn’t know he’d come dressed like a complete idiot,” Genna protests, wiping tears from her eyes. “That was all his idea.”
She’s right.
When Genna called asking for help, I immediately thought of the perfect way to distract Cheyenne from her breakup with that jerk. The costume rental place near my house didn’t even question why a professional hockey player was renting a full elf ensemble the weekend after Thanksgiving.
Probably figured it was for a charity event or something.
“Come on, ladies,” I announce, the bells on my shoes jingling as I spin around. “The perfect tree awaits!”
The Christmas tree farm is straight out of a Hallmark movie.
There are rows and rows of pines stretching in every direction.
Twinkling white lights are strung across the walkway.
Holiday music is playing from speakers disguised as rocks.
There’s even a little shack selling hot apple cider, which already has my name on it.
I breathe in the smell of pine sap mixed with cinnamon.
A few other families wander through the rows, giving me double-takes as I lead Genna and Cheyenne deeper into the farm. I don’t care how ridiculous I look. Dignity is overrated compared to making someone laugh.
“So.” I clap my hands together, the sound muffled by my ridiculous green mittens. “What kind of tree are we looking for?”
“Something that will actually fit in our apartment,” Cheyenne says, rubbing her hands together against the chill.
“Boring!” I declare, prancing ahead with exaggerated elf steps. “Santa says bigger is better!”
I catch Genna rolling her eyes. “I’m going to check out the wreaths,” she says, veering off toward a display near the entrance. “You two handle the tree selection.”
And I can’t complain about the chance to get Cheyenne smiling again. I’ve known her since we were teenagers, and seeing her heartbroken over that idiot Garrett makes my blood boil. The guy never deserved her anyway.
“What about this one?” I point to a massive tree.
Cheyenne puts her hands on her hips, reminding me of all the times she’s challenged me over the years. “Dylan, our ceilings are eight feet. There’s no way that monstrosity will fit. That’s just basic math.”
“Math was never my strong suit.” I shrug, grinning at her. “That’s why I hit things for a living.”
She snorts and shakes her head. “Hitting things and flirting with everything that moves.”
“Not everything,” I protest, although my reputation suggests otherwise. “I do have standards.”
“Really? Name one woman you’ve dated for longer than a month.” She raises an eyebrow, and I notice how the colored lights from a nearby tree reflect in her eyes, making them look almost golden.
“We’re not talking about my dating life,” I say quickly, spinning around to examine another enormous tree. “We’re picking out the perfect tree for you to forget what’s-his-name.”
“Garrett,” she says quietly.
“Yeah, yeah. I’ve already forgotten him.” I wave dismissively, cringing at the jingling bells on my wrist. Maybe this costume was a bit much, but the slightly annoyed look on her face is still better than the devastated one I saw on Thursday. “What about this one?”
The tree I’m pointing to is a beautiful blue spruce, tall but not ridiculously so.
“It’s still too big for our apartment,” she argues, moving past me to examine a much smaller tree. “This one would fit perfectly.”
I scrunch up my nose. “You can’t be serious, Chey. That’s a Charlie Brown Christmas tree if I’ve ever seen one. It’s pathetic.”
“It’s practical,” she counters, folding her arms over her chest. “Some of us don’t live in giant hockey player mansions with twenty-foot ceilings.”
I laugh. “Go big or go home.”
We continue like this, circling through rows of trees, me advocating for the most ridiculous options while she remains stubbornly practical. I can see the tension slowly leaving her shoulders as we banter, her responses getting quicker, more like the Cheyenne I know.
“What about that one?” I finally point to a Fraser fir that’s about seven feet tall. It’s smaller than I’d like, but at least it’s not the tiny shrub she was eyeing.
She tilts her head, considering it. “Maybe...”
“It’s perfect!” I dart over to the tree, circling it dramatically. “Full branches, symmetrical shape, and it smells amazing.” I lean in and take an exaggerated sniff, getting a face full of needles in the process.
Cheyenne laughs as I sputter and brush needles from my face. “Fine,” she says, “but only because I want to stop walking around with an oversized elf who’s drawing more attention than Santa does on Christmas Eve.”
I grin triumphantly. “I’ll go find the tree farm guy.”
Before I can move, though, the owner approaches with three steaming cups of cider. “Thought you folks might like something warm,” he says, handing them out.
“Thank you,” Chey and I say in unison.
“Find a tree you like?”
“This one.” Cheyenne points to the Fraser fir.
“Good choice.” The man nods approvingly. “I’ll get it tagged for you.”
We sip our cider while waiting, the warm, spiced drink perfect to combat the chilly evening air. I notice Cheyenne’s hands wrapped around the cup, her fingers red from the cold.
“Where are your gloves?” I ask.
She shrugs. “Forgot them. I wasn’t really thinking clearly this morning.”
Without hesitating, I pull off my ridiculous elf mittens and hand them to her. “Here.”
“I’m not wearing those,” she protests.
“They’re warm,” I insist. “And green is definitely your color.”
She rolls her eyes but takes them, slipping her fingers into the oversized mittens. They look absurd on her, hanging past her fingertips, but something about the sight makes my chest tighten strangely.
We finish our cider as Genna returns with a small wreath. “Did you pick a tree?” she asks.
Cheyenne nods toward our chosen tree. “What do you think?”
“Perfect,” Genna approves. “Not too big, not too small.”
The owner returns with a chainsaw, quickly cutting the tree at the base before helping us haul it to the front. When we get to the register, I pull out my wallet before either of them can.
“Dylan, no,” Cheyenne protests. “We can pay for our own tree.”
“Consider it my apology for ruining Thanksgiving,” I say, handing over my credit card.
“You didn’t ruin Thanksgiving,” she replies, her voice soft. “Garrett did that all on his own.”
Our eyes meet for a moment, and something passes between us that I can’t quite name. Her hand accidentally brushes mine as we both reach for the receipt, and I feel a sudden warmth spread through my fingers. I pull back quickly, confused by my reaction.
What the heck was that?
I clear my throat. “Let’s get this bad boy loaded up.”
The tree is heavier than it looks, and I’m glad for all those hours in the gym as I hoist it onto my shoulder, carrying it to my truck while the women follow. I position it in the truck bed while instructing them on the best way to secure it.
“Tie it down tight,” I say, demonstrating with the rope the farm provided. “Last thing we need is to lose a Christmas tree on the highway.”
Cheyenne’s face is focused as she ties knots on her side, her tongue poking slightly out of the corner of her mouth. It’s a habit she’s had since we were kids, and I find myself staring at her longer than necessary.
“What?” she asks, catching me in the act.
“You’ve got pine needles in your hair,” I say quickly, reaching out to brush them away. Her hair is soft under my fingers, and I pull my hand away when I realize I’m lingering.
What is wrong with me today?
“Thanks,” she says, looking slightly confused by my abrupt movement.
Once the tree is secured, the girls turn to head back to their car.
Halfway to Genna’s SUV, Cheyenne turns back to face me. “Thanks for coming. The costume was completely ridiculous, but ... I needed the laugh.”
“That’s what I’m here for.” I grin. “Professional hockey player and amateur comedian.”
“Don’t forget professional heartbreaker,” Genna adds from over her shoulder, and I shoot her a look.
The girls hop in the SUV and lead the way back to their townhouse while I follow closely behind. When we arrive, the real challenge begins: getting the tree inside. The narrow doorway is barely wide enough, and we struggle hilariously trying to maneuver it through.
“Push harder!” Cheyenne directs from inside, where she and Genna are pulling on the top of the tree.
“I am pushing!” I grunt, shoving from the bottom. “It’s stuck!”
After several minutes of struggling, accompanied by a shower of pine needles, we finally get the tree inside. I stand back, hands on my hips, surveying our handiwork.
“See? Perfect size,” Cheyenne says smugly.
“It barely fit through the door!”
“But it did fit,” she points out. “Unlike your ego-sized tree that would’ve been left on the curb.”
I roll my eyes, then help them position the tree in the corner of their living room, setting it up in the stand they’ve prepared. Christmas music plays softly from a speaker, and Jhett, Cheyenne’s black lab mix, circles excitedly around our feet.
He’s probably wondering why we’ve brought the outdoors inside.
“String lights next?” I ask, noticing the boxes of decorations they’ve pulled out.
Cheyenne nods, and we work together untangling the strands. Our fingers brush occasionally as we wrap the lights around the tree, and each time I feel that same strange flutter in my chest.
I’ve known this woman forever—why am I suddenly so ... aware of her?
Maybe it’s just my protective instinct after seeing her hurt by Garrett.
That’s gotta be it.
The apartment grows warmer and cozier by the minute.
The tree gradually transforms with lights and ornaments.
Cheyenne seems genuinely happy for the first time since her breakup, carefully hanging each decoration with deliberate care.
I find myself watching her, noticing the way she smiles when she finds a particular ornament she likes.
“Remember this one?” she asks, holding up a small hockey stick ornament. “Your mom gave it to me the year I started coming to your family Christmases.”
“She always treated you like one of her own.” I smile.
“She still does,” Cheyenne says softly, hanging the ornament on a prominent branch.
Something about this moment—the warm lights, the Christmas music, Cheyenne’s smile—feels ... right in a way I wasn’t expecting. There’s just something about watching Cheyenne move around the tree, seeing her finally looking happy again.
I feel a strange sense of ... belonging.
I try to shake it off. This isn’t my scene. I’m not a settling-down kind of guy. I’m the life of the party, the player, the guy with a different date every weekend. Everyone knows that.
But as Cheyenne steps back to admire our work, her face glowing in the Christmas lights, I catch myself wondering what it might be like to be part of moments like this more often.
The thought both surprises and unsettles me.
“What do you think?” she asks, looking at me.
“Beautiful,” I say, not entirely sure if I’m talking about the tree.