4. Colette
COLETTE
I plop another donation box onto the folding table with more force than necessary, making Daisy jump. The cardboard screams "Toys for Tots" in my precise handwriting, just one of many booths fighting for attention at the Christmas fair in town square.
"I mean, who schedules a surprise hockey practice during my rehearsal time?" I reorganize the already perfectly arranged stuffed animals.
Daisy arranges candy canes in a festive display, her Christmas sweater twinkling with built-in lights. "Did you talk to him about it?"
"To who?" I know exactly who she means.
"The temporary coach with the million-dollar smile who's been living rent-free in your head since high school?"
"He has not been—" I stop myself, cheeks burning. "And no, I didn't talk to him.”
Every time I see him, my brain short-circuits and I start thinking about stupid things like how his eyes crinkle when he laughs or how his stupid hockey jersey fits his shoulders and—" I grab a donated teddy bear and squeeze it. "I hate him."
Daisy plucks the bear from my arms and drops it in the donation box. “Honey, that's not hate you're feeling."
"It absolutely is. He's sabotaging my pageant just like he used to sabotage my book presentations with his ridiculous commentary.”
"That was kind of funny?—"
"Daisy! Five of my leads missed crucial blocking. Mary almost dropped baby Jesus."
"So tell him to back off."
"I can't just—“ My words cut short as Hendrix Ellis strides across the town square, high-fiving some kids by the hot chocolate stand. His presence commands attention like it always has, but now there's this infuriating mature confidence about him. The leather jacket doesn't help.
"Earth to Colette?" Daisy waves a candy cane in front of my face. "You were saying?"
I snap my gaze back to the donation boxes. "It's not worth confronting him. He'd probably just make some stupid joke about how I need to 'chill out' or whatever ridiculous pun he can think of."
"Uh huh." Daisy's knowing smirk makes me want to hide behind the Christmas tree. "Nothing to do with those dimples or that jawline?"
"His jawline is irrelevant." I busy myself organizing already-organized toys. "And completely average. At best."
"Look," she says, placing both hands on my shoulders.
"You need to stand up for yourself. March right up to that smirking face of his and tell him what’s what.
Don't let some hotshot hockey player think he can just do whatever he wants—even if there is a bronze statue of his dad in front of the hockey museum. "
I straighten my spine. She's right. I've spent years trying to prove myself as a serious educator. I'm not about to let Hendrix Ellis and his perfect smile derail my Christmas pageant.
"You're right. First thing Monday morning, I'm going to march right up to him and?—"
"And?"
"And as soon as I figure out how to look at his face without wanting to…”
“Hey, hey hey!” Daisy screams, slamming a box of Legos on the table. “Oh no you don’t, mister.”
“What? What happened?”
Daisy's voice turns to steel. "That little... coffee-pushing... pastry thief!"
Following her gaze, I spot Tucker practically dancing as he crosses the street, a familiar pink pastry bag clutched in his hands. The same pink bags I helped Daisy design last summer.
"That sneaky little..." Daisy's fists clench. "I specifically told Jenny and Madison not to serve him. Ever. Under any circumstances."
"Maybe he just?—"
"That man is banned. Banned! What part of 'If Tucker shows his perfectly styled hair in my shop, call security' did they not understand?"
I bite back a smile. For someone who claims to despise Tucker, she certainly keeps tabs on his every move.
"Daisy, I'm sure it's not?—"
"He's been in there three times this week! Three! And now I'll bet he's got my signature cranberry scones. I can tell by the way he's grinning." She yanks off her light-up Santa hat and thrusts it at me. "Hold this. I need to have a word with Mr. Coffee Bean about respecting boundaries."
"Daisy, wait?—"
But she's already storming across the square, her red hair a warning beacon of impending disaster.
"Tucker Matthews, you get your pretentious coffee-grinding behind back here!" Daisy's voice carries from down the street. "You better not have bought the last maple pecan Danish!"
I'm left standing alone at the toy donation table, clutching her twinkling hat and wondering how someone who bakes such delicate pastries can stomp with such fury. Through the crowd, I catch glimpses of her closing in on Tucker, stopping him before he reaches his shop.
"Three times!" Daisy yanks Tucker’s arm, reaching for the pink pastry bag. "In my bakery!"
Several heads turn, including, unfortunately, Hendrix's.
Great. Just great. Now I'm alone, holding a light-up Santa hat that's currently playing "Jingle Bells" in tiny electronic beeps, while the man I'm trying desperately to avoid is looking in my direction.
Quick, look busy. I snatch up a stuffed penguin and pretend to be absolutely fascinated by its tag.
But too late. Hendrix strides right up beside me to watch the showdown taking place in the middle of Main Street.
“What’s the story with those two?” he says with an amused grin.
I give him the side-eye. "Why are you here?"
"To visit my Grannie for the holidays."
"No. What are you doing HERE? Today. In Town Square."
"Oh. I'm working the face painting booth."
Well that explains why I've seen at least five kids with "Go Titans" painted across their foreheads.
"Of course you are. You do know not everyone is a Titans fan, right?" I say.
"Who doesn't love the Titans?" Hendrix grins, leaning against my donation table. "Besides you, Shakespeare?"
My hand tightens around the stuffed penguin. That old nickname makes my stomach flip—not in a good way. "Don't call me that."
In the street, Daisy and Tucker's pastry battle has evolved into a dance of dodges and feints. "Those are MY scones!" Daisy lunges.
"I paid for them fair and square!" Tucker spins away, protecting the pink bag like it contains crown jewels.
In the corner of my eye, I catch a smirk on Hendrix’s face. "What?"
"Nothing,” Hendrix says, nodding at the spectacle before us. Daisy's got one end of the bag, Tucker the other, and neither seems willing to let go. “Just that this reminds me of that one time we fought over the last bag of chips in the vending machine. Which I won, by the way.”
"And while we're on the subject of things you shouldn't do, how about yesterday when you stole my students during rehearsal time?"
“I didn’t steal them. They volunteered for extra practice."
"During my scheduled rehearsal! Mary can't deliver her lines to an empty manger because Joseph is doing skating drills!"
"Whoa, chill out, Professor. It's just a school play—why are you so worked up about it?"
The penguin squeaks in protest as my fingers dig into its plush body. "Just a school play?"
"Well, yeah. I mean, compared to the championship game?—"
The words hit like a slap. I spin to face him, ignoring the growing spectacle of Daisy chasing Tucker around a lamppost.
"Oh? Well for your information?—"
A throat clearing interrupts my tirade. I turn to see a gentleman with snow-white beard and rosy cheeks, arms loaded with wrapped presents. His red plaid coat catches the winter sunlight, and there's something oddly familiar about the way his eyes twinkle behind wire-rimmed glasses.
I snap my mouth shut mid-sentence, face burning, and step to the side.
The man says nothing, just places each gift with careful precision into our donation box.
His weathered hands arrange them perfectly—as if each position matters deeply.
The silence stretches, broken only by Daisy's distant shouts about proprietary recipe theft.
The man straightens, brushes invisible dust from his coat, and gives us both a knowing smile that makes me feel about five years old. He tips an imaginary hat and walks away, his boots crunching in the light dusting of snow.
For a moment, we stand in silence, watching where he vanished. Then, at length, I shake off the strange feeling and turn back to Hendrix.
"As I was saying. This pageant has been a tradition for fifty years.
It brings the whole community together, raises money for charity, and gives kids who aren't athletic a chance to shine.
But of course, you wouldn't understand that because if it's not happening on ice, it doesn't matter to you, does it?
Heaven forbid anything compete with the almighty sport. "
His easy smile falters. "That's not fair?—"
“You know what? You haven't changed at all since high school. You're still the same self-centered jock who thinks the world revolves around whatever game you're playing.”
"And you're still the same uptight perfectionist who acts like every minor setback is a personal attack.”
“Some of us are trying to give these students something meaningful, something that isn't about scoring goals or getting bloody noses!"
“It's called teamwork. Maybe if you stepped off your literary pedestal once in a while, you'd see that."
"My pedestal?" I sputter. "That's rich coming from someone whose idea of poetry is whatever fits on a bumper sticker!"
Behind us, Daisy and Tucker's pastry war has drawn a crowd, but I barely notice. I'm too busy watching Hendrix's jaw clench as he straightens to his full height.
"At least I'm teaching them something useful. When was the last time someone got a scholarship for playing Shepherd Number Three?"
"Says the overpaid jock who barely made it through high school," I snap back, immediately regretting the words but too angry to stop.
I know I've gone too far. His face darkens, and for the first time—probably ever—I see real hurt flash across those hazel eyes.
"You know what?" He steps back. “You’re right. See ya around, Professor.”
I watch him stalk away, his broad shoulders tense under his leather jacket. The stuffed penguin dangles limply from my hand, its googly eyes judging me.
Well, that could have gone better. One minute we were watching Daisy and Tucker's ridiculous pastry chase, and the next... I went nuclear.
A gust of winter wind sweeps through the square, scattering a few snowflakes. Hendrix disappears momentarily in the crowd as he makes his way down Main street, leaving only boot prints in the dusting of snow.
The Santa hat plays another tiny round of Jingle Bells, its cheerfulness mocking my guilt. I'm supposed to be the adult here, the professional educator. Instead, I just threw a temper tantrum worthy of a teenage drama club diva.
"Hey," Daisy appears beside me. Her hair's disheveled, and there's a torn pink pastry bag in her hands. "I got my scones back! Did you see—" She stops, taking in my slumped posture. "What happened?"
“Well, I stood up to Hendrix."
“Good for you.”
“And it ended with me basically calling him a stupid jock.”
She shrugs, digging into the pastry bag for some crumbs. “So? Where’s the lie?”
I give her a look.
"Okay, but I'm sure it wasn't that bad."
I sink onto the folding chair behind the table. "When did I become such a..."
"Judgmental stress case?" Daisy offers helpfully.
"I was going to say terrible person."
"Oh, honey." She pats my shoulder. "You're not terrible. You're just... passionate. About everything. All the time. At maximum volume. Oh, wait. That's me, not you."
I glance at the torn bag in her hands. "Ya think?"
Daisy sets the bag on the table and rips the rest of it open until it sort of lies flat. "Deconstructed scone?" she offers.
I wrinkle my nose before looking across the square. I catch a final glimpse of Hendrix as he climbs into his ridiculously expensive truck. The engine revs—louder than necessary—and he peels away from the curb.
I slump forward, resting my forehead on the donation box. Now I feel awful AND I still have no idea how I'm going to run rehearsals with half my cast missing.