19. Colette #2
I should say no. I'm a responsible teacher. I have chaperoning duties. But the way the kids are pointing and giggling makes me feel like I'm back in high school myself, being teased about my crush on the popular hockey player.
"Yes," I whisper, grabbing his hand.
We slip out the side door into the darkened hallway.
The music becomes muffled, though I can still hear Eddie Van Halen's guitar riffs through the walls.
The fluorescent lights are dimmed for the evening, casting long shadows across the floor.
Our footsteps echo against the lockers as we hurry down the corridor, feeling deliciously rebellious.
"I can't believe they played that song," I say, though I'm fighting back laughter now that we're away from prying eyes. "Those little monsters planned it."
“Come on,” he says, leading me down the dark hallway.
My heels click against the linoleum floor. "Where are we going?"
"You'll see." He pushes open the double doors to the ice rink. The overhead lights are dimmed, but the ice gleams with a magical quality, like moonlight on fresh snow.
"If you're thinking we're going to make out in the locker room, Coach Ellis, I'm afraid that's against school policy." I cross my arms, trying to look stern despite the smile tugging at my lips.
"As tempting as that sounds..." He leads me to the player's bench and reaches underneath, pulling out a wrapped package with a red bow. "I got you something."
"Hendrix..." My protest dies as I take in the familiar shape. It's a book, but not just any book. When I tear open the wrapping paper, my hands freeze.It’s a leather-bound copy of Shakespeare's collected works. My fingers trace the gold embossing on the cover.
"Open it," he says softly.
Inside the cover, I find an old, wrinkled piece of paper. My hands shake as I recognize it – a note passed to me in social studies class, covered in his messy teenage scrawl: Hey Shakespeare. You. Me. Pizza?
"How did you...?"
"I found it when I was cleaning out my old room at my parents' house. You crumpled it in a ball and threw it at me, remember?"
His eyes meet mine. "I've been carrying it around ever since, waiting for the right moment to give it back."
My throat tightens as I run my fingers over the worn creases of the paper. "You kept this all these years?"
"Some things are worth holding onto." His hand finds mine in the dim light. "Even if they take seven years to get right."
I am done for. Somebody write my eulogy, because I am deceased.
I stare at his impossibly beautiful face, my heart hammering against my ribs, as Hendrix cups my face in his calloused hands. His thumb traces my cheekbone, and my silly heart is screaming for him to kiss me already.
"Colette," he whispers, and my name has never sounded so perfect, and his finger tilts my chin up.
When his lips meet mine, they're impossibly warm.
The kiss is achingly tender at first, just the softest brush of his mouth against mine.
But then his hand slides into my hair, angling my head to deepen the kiss, and something inside me ignites.
I melt against him, becoming hungry and desperate.
My fingers curling into the fabric of his suit jacket.
His other hand finds my waist, pulling me closer until I'm practically in his lap on the player's bench.
His mouth is hot against mine, tasting of the candy canes he'd been sneaking from the refreshment table all evening, and a feral sound escapes me when his tongue traces my bottom lip.
Heat blooms everywhere we touch. I press closer, wanting more, needing more. Both his arms now wrap around my waist, strong and steady, holding me like I'm precious. Like I'm everything.
This is a man who knows exactly what he wants, and right now, incredibly, that's me. Yet there's still that trace of sweetness, that hint of vulnerability that makes my heart ache.
When we finally break apart, we're both breathing hard. Hendrix rests his forehead against mine, his thumb brushing my now-swollen lips. I keep my eyes closed, savoring the moment, afraid that if I open them, this will all dissolve like a dream.
"Still want to run?" he murmurs against my temple.
I shake my head, finally looking up at him. "No running. Not this time."
“What about skating?” His eyes light up as he reaches under the bench again, producing two pairs of skates. The first are his well-worn hockey skates, and the second... I blink in surprise at the explosion of colors before me.
"Are those tie-dyed ice skates?"
"Aunt Goldie's." Hendrix grins, holding them up. "She begged for them, swore up and down she needed them for exercise. Wore them exactly once. You're a size seven and a half, right?"
I eye the rainbow swirls dubiously. "How did you know that?"
"And you just happen to have them here?" I raise an eyebrow.
"Maybe I was hoping for this moment." He kneels before me, skates in hand. "Here, let me help you."
"I’ve skated before," I say. But I sit still anyway, letting him slip off my heels. His fingers brush against my ankle as he slides the first skate on, lingering perhaps longer than necessary.
Once we're both laced up, Hendrix takes my hand and guides me onto the smooth surface.
The ice gleams beneath us like polished silver.
His palm is warm against mine as we glide forward together.
We make lazy circles around the rink, our blades cutting gentle patterns into the pristine ice.
The only sound is our steady breathing and the soft swish of our skates.
Every few strokes, Hendrix's hand tightens on mine, keeping me balanced, though I suspect he's using it as an excuse to pull me closer.
"You're not half bad," he murmurs, as his hands find my waist, guiding me from behind.
"Don't sound so surprised." I lean into him, enjoying the solid warmth of his chest against my back. "I grew up in Canada too, you know."
We drift along in comfortable silence, the dim lighting casts everything in a dreamy glow, and with Hendrix's arms around me, I feel like we're floating in our own private snow globe.
As we glide past the player's bench where I left my present, Hendrix spins me under his arm, pulling me back against his chest with practiced ease.
The ice feels magical beneath my feet as we glide together, his hands steady on my waist, and I can't remember the last time I felt this light, this free.
The world has narrowed down to just us, the soft scrape of our blades against the ice, and the way my heart flutters every time he pulls me closer.
"Colette," Hendrix says, pulling me to a gentle stop. His expression turns serious, those dark eyes intense as they search mine. "There's something I need to tell you?—"
My heart skips. I know that tone, recognize the weight behind those words.
The same tone that preceded heartfelt confessions in every romance novel I've ever read.
But I can't bear to hear it, not when reality lurks just beyond these enchanted walls.
Not when contract negotiations and trade rumors hover like storm clouds on the horizon.
So I rise on my toe picks and press my lips to his, silencing whatever beautiful, heartbreaking words were about to spill forth. His arms wrap around me instantly, his surprise melting into a groan as he presses me against him until there's no space left between us.
My fingers tangle in his hair as his hands slide down my back, pouring everything I'm feeling into it – all the years of longing, the electricity of tonight, the desperate wish to freeze this perfect moment in time.
The ice beneath our feet, the world beyond this rink, the inevitable goodbye that waits somewhere in our future—none of it matters right now.
I don't want to hear what he was about to say, don't want to think about what comes next.
Not when his arms feel so right around me, not when his kiss makes me forget everything else.
Let me have this, just this, without thinking about tomorrow.
Without counting down the days until he returns to Toronto or gets traded across the country.
Tonight, in this magical bubble of Christmas lights and stolen kisses, I want to pretend that happy endings aren't just found between the pages of books.