Chapter 9
NINE
THATCHER
It’s Christmas Eve, but the only hint of the season is the occasional humming of Jingle Bells from one of the rookies.
As usual, the day before a big game, the team runs one last light practice.
The guys are loose, laughing, full of that pre-holiday buzz.
I should feel it too—the hum before the next shot at redemption.
Instead, every stride feels wrong. Too fast, too hollow.
Every echo of my skates against the boards sounds like someone else’s heartbeat.
When practice ends, I’m the last one in the locker room. I peel off my gear, sit staring at the scuffed floor, and fish a folded piece of paper from my jacket pocket.
The naughty list.
It’s soft at the corners now, ink smudged from my thumb. I unfold it carefully, eyes tracing the words that started as a joke: Skip the gym. Sleep past six. Drink a gallon of eggnog. Get laid.
I flip it over. Don’t fall.
Too late. Way too damn late.
Coach Dane steps into the doorway, arms folded. “You planning to shower sometime this century, Holt?”
I glance up. “Thinking about it.”
He studies me for a long moment, then nods toward the paper. “Is that your playbook now?”
“Something like that.”
“What happened up there on your vacation?” He comes closer, lowering himself onto the bench across from me. “You’ve been off all morning.”
“Just tired.”
“That’s a load of shit and we both know it.” He leans his elbows on his knees. “Go on. Talk.”
I stare at the ice bag melting by my foot. “I don’t think I can play tomorrow.”
His brows shoot up. “You’re cleared. You’ve been waiting weeks for this.”
“I know. But my head’s not here. My heart sure as hell isn’t.”
He studies me, quiet. “This about the woman?”
“Yeah,” I admit. “It’s about Liz.”
He exhales through his nose, slow. “You walk out on a Christmas Day game, the owners will kill you. That’s not saying the ass-kicking you’ll get from your teammates. Not to mention me.”
“I’ll deal with it.” I fold the list again, slip it into my pocket. “She made me remember what it feels like to want something that isn’t the next win. And right now, that’s all I can think about.”
Coach rubs a hand over his jaw. “You sure about this?”
“I’ve never been surer of anything.”
A beat of silence stretches between us, filled with the muffled noise of teammates joking down the hall. Finally he says, “Maybe Christmas isn’t a place. Maybe it’s a person.”
I frown. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
He smiles faintly, the kind that crinkles the corners of his eyes. “You’ll see. Sooner than you might think.”
I have no clue what the hell that’s supposed to mean. But it’s enough to keep me from buying the first airplane ticket back to Alaska.
I suppose I should at least sleep on whether or not I’m going to throw my career away. Especially for a woman who couldn’t seem to get me out of there fast enough.
I leave the locker room without speaking to anyone else.
Duffel slung over my shoulder, the cold night air bites my nose and cheeks.
The city’s lit up like a snow globe—windows glowing, streetlights wrapped in garland, people rushing home with last-minute gifts.
I should feel guilty. Instead, I feel alive.
The drive to the team’s lodging for the night takes twenty minutes. Coach had said he’d arranged a team dinner, something low-key since everyone’s families are in town. I pull into the lot expecting catered turkey and awkward small talk.
Instead, I walk into magic.
The lobby is unrecognizable. Strings of lights loop from the rafters. A massive fir tree stands in the center draped in ornaments that look handmade.
The air smells like cinnamon, honey-glazed ham, and pine. Laughter rolls through the space, the kind that hits low in the chest and stays there.
Teammates mill about with their kids, wives, and girlfriends. Someone’s playing carols on an acoustic guitar. A buffet table groans under plates of cookies and cocoa. I blink, momentarily disoriented.
“Surprise!” a familiar voice calls.
I turn—and there she is.
My heart leaps.
Liz stands beside the tree in a red sweater and boots. Her blonde waves are loose around her shoulders. Those bewitching green eyes sparkle with the kind of joy that makes everything else disappear.
Behind her, Stevie and Grady grin like conspirators.
For a second, I forget how to breathe.
“What… what is this?” I manage.
She steps forward, cheeks flushed. “Your Christmas Eve.”
I laugh once, shaky. “You flew here?”
“Technically they flew me,” she says, nodding toward her sister and brother-in-law. “Stevie found a last-minute seat on standby, and Grady bribed someone at the gate with homemade fudge.”
Stevie winks. “Totally worth it.”
Liz bites her lip. “We wanted to give you the Christmas you didn’t think you’d get.”
Around us, teammates cheer as the tree lights flicker on. Kids clap. Someone hands me a mug of cocoa that smells like hers. For a moment I can’t find words.
“You did all this?” I ask.
“Grady handled the logistics. Stevie handled the chaos. I handled the creative direction.” Her smile softens. “We wanted you to know that home isn’t always where you think it is.”
I thank her the only way I know how. I pull her into my arms and kiss her as if my life depends on it. In a way, I suppose it does.
The room swirls around us—music, laughter, lights—but all I can see is her.
I set the mug down so I can pull her closer. “You flew halfway across the continent for me.”
“Call it a change of heart.”
“I thought you didn’t believe in temporary insanity.”
“I still don’t,” she says. “This feels permanent.”
Something in my chest breaks open.
“Liz…” I trail off, because everything I practiced on the drive here sounds small compared to the real thing. “I love you. I didn’t plan to. Hell, we both know I’m the last person who would. But somewhere between the eggnog and the frozen lake, you stole my whole damn heart.”
Her eyes shine, and for a terrifying second I think she might cry.
“You idiot,” she whispers. “I love you too.”
“Then why did you want me to leave?”
“I didn’t want you to miss your game tomorrow and throw away your career.”
“And here I was thinking you’d just gotten sick of babysitting me.”
“Never.” She laughs then, tears slipping free, and the sound knocks the breath from me. “I really do love you, Thatcher. Even when you’re impossible.”
“Especially when I’m impossible,” I correct.
“Maybe a little.”
I pull her close, and the crowd around us blurs into a halo of gold and green. Someone starts a countdown to light the big tree outside. Voices rise, a hundred people shouting “Three, two, one—” and then the lights blaze to life through the windows, reflecting in her eyes as I kiss her.
The world narrows to heat and pine and the faint taste of cocoa on her lips. Applause ripples through the room—whether for the tree or the kiss, I don’t know, and don’t care.
Later, after the crowd thins and music drifts to softer carols, we stand near the window watching snow fall under the glow of the tree outside.
“Coach gave me a speech before I left,” I say. “Said maybe Christmas isn’t a place—it’s a person.”
Liz smiles. “Smart man, your coach.”
“Yeah.” I slip my arm around her waist, pull her close. “Turns out he was right.”
Across the room, Stevie raises her glass in a silent toast. Grady claps me on the back as he passes. My teammates pretend not to watch but grin anyway. For once, everything feels exactly like it should.
I tilt my head toward her. “So, what’s next on the list?”
She laughs, low and warm. “You still working on it?”
“Always.” I pat my pocket. “But I think it’s missing a line.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah.” I take out a pen from the check-in desk, scrawl something new at the bottom, and hand it to her.
She reads aloud, voice barely above a whisper. “#11 – Make it last.”
Her eyes lift to mine, bright as the tree behind us. “Think you can manage that?”
“I’m planning on it.” I lean down, kiss her again, slow and certain. “Merry Christmas, Liz.”
“Merry Christmas, Thatcher.”
The band in the corner shifts into Silent Night. Someone passes out candles; the lights dim until the room glows with hundreds of tiny flames. Voices rise, familiar and full. Liz’s hand squeezes mine as we sing.
And in that perfect hush, with her shoulder against my chest and the echo of the crowd around us, I finally understand what Coach meant.
Christmas isn’t a place or a time of year. It’s a person.
And I’m holding on to mine.