Our Marry Little Christmas

Chapter 1

FLETCH

The bright lights overhead shine like spotlights on a stage, illuminating the freshly groomed ice.

I take a deep breath, savoring that unmistakable hockey arena smell—a blend of cold air, sweat, and dreams. There’s nothing quite like it in the world.

The blades of my skates slice ribbons into the smooth surface as I take a lap, feeling the familiar burn in my quads and the freedom that comes with gliding. The tension I’ve carried for months eases. I’m grateful to be here, even though it’s not yet official.

This is my big comeback chance.

“Fletcher, let’s see you do a pirouette,” shouts Liam, our team captain, reformed grump, and apparently, the guy who has taken on my role as the team comedian.

I fire back, “Last I checked, figure skaters don’t do that move. They’re called spins. You have the wrong sport. You’re thinking ballet.”

He whizzes past me with a pair of prop elf ears attached to his helmet for the Christmas charity match here at the Ice Palace, my home away from home. At least it used to be.

Liam hollers, “You’d know that, wouldn’t you? Just don’t bust your jaw again!”

The muscles there twitch as I reply, “I’ll do my best.”

After three weeks of playing with severe pain, Coach Badaszek caught wind of my collision with a microphone during karaoke night at the Fish Bowl, landing me with a visit to the team doctor. Now, nearly three months later, I’ll donate a kidney if it means playing again.

Suffice it to say, the redhead I took on a date claimed she was single.

I do my best not to throw fists off the ice, but I would never have duetted “It Takes Two” with her if I had known she had a boyfriend.

An angry one at that, as I did a stellar rockstar slide during the chorus and didn’t see him barreling toward me until it was too late.

He busted my jaw. Now he’s missing a couple of teeth. I’d say we’re even.

But Tom Badaszek doesn’t have patience for bluster and bravado. He takes injuries, whether sustained on or off the ice, seriously, so he put my butt in the proverbial penalty box until further notice. Staying out of the game is far more agonizing than what got me here.

“Glad to have you back,” says Mikey, our center, zooming past.

“I’m as good as new. Doc cleared me yesterday.”

Well, that’s a teeny-tiny, itty-bitty, elf-sized fib. The doctor actually said I healed beautifully but required at least another thirty days of rest before he reassessed, which I took more as a suggestion. I couldn’t miss the Ho Ho Hockey for Hope charity game.

I’m just hoping Santa isn’t watching. But Coach Badaszek is with shrewd eyes.

Seriously, the two of them must be in cahoots.

Sometimes, it’s like he can read my mind.

For instance, I’ll prepare a play in my head during a game and he’ll shake his head and then tell me what to do instead—Coach, not the jolly man in the red suit.

I hum “Santa Claus Is Coming to Town” under my breath. The lyrics were definitely written with Badaszek in mind.

The bummer of it all is that Badaszek is right. Every time.

Except this one. I’ve warmed the bench long enough.

I’m not missing the annual charity game, which pits Nebraska Knights players against Nebraska Knights players, with one anonymous wild card on each side.

The guys picked me, so that part’s no secret, but our opposition could be anyone from an Olympian to a Hall of Famer to a figure skater.

Over the next sixty-plus minutes, I’m going to prove that I’m recovered and in fighting form.

I skate over to Mikey and Hayden, who are huddled by our bench, speculating about the composition of the opposing team. They’re on the front line like me.

“So, who’re we up against in the bracket this year?” I ask, tugging at my gloves.

Mikey grins. “They’ve got Jack and Redd up front, Robo in the box, plus Grady and Liam running defense.”

I arch an eyebrow. “That means their wild card is a right forward wing.” My position.

“There are only a few people they would’ve asked,” Mikey says.

“Neal,” the three of us chorus in unison. It has to be him.

Nostrils flared at this news, Hayden nods. “We have Pierre and Ted—you, our wild card defensemen—and Beau as our goaltender. We can handle Neal.”

I jerk my head toward the end of the ice where the former Knight makes his grand entrance. “Neal is well into retirement. This should be a cakewalk.”

“Have you ever played against him?” Hayden asks.

“Not in a long time.” I tell myself that Neal Sanderson—three-time Stanley Cup champion, NHL Hall of Famer, and a bit of a hockey hero—probably doesn’t even remember how to lace up his skates.

The others gather around, but instead of being one big happy family, today, our teammates are our opposition.

In place of the smile Liam has recently adopted, he snarls.

Arms crossed in front of his chest, Robo forms a human wall and the others would make me shake in my skates if this were a game to seed the finals and not to raise funds for a good cause.

The Ho Ho Hockey charity game is for a health-and-homes kids’ charity and I’ll jingle all the way to help. Someday I’ll have my own pee-wee hockey team—once I meet the right woman—and we’ll carry on the tradition of helping children in need.

While Badaszek and assistant coach Vohn Brandt confer out of earshot, Liam gathers all of us together before we officially split into two opposing sides. “Time to up the stakes for the annual Christmas charity game bet. You know the rules—winners get glory, losers get humiliation.”

The tradition is simple but ruthless. The player who scores the most goals gets to name the price, and the one who falls just short pays it. Last year, Pierre had to dye his hair pink for a month after losing to Jack—by one goal.

Eyes gleaming with mischief and elf ears on display, Liam says, “You’re our big scorer, even with a busted face. If you put away more goals than anyone else, each of us will donate an extra ten grand to the children’s fundraiser.” That totals about a hundred thousand extra dollars.

Lips curving down, I nod. “Not too shabby. And if I don’t?

” I ask, though I already know I will. I’ve had plenty of time to practice while injured.

During secret late-night sessions sneaking to the community rink across state lines, I’ve kept sharp while remaining incognito—Coach would kill me if he knew.

Liam exchanges a look with the others. “If you don’t, well ... we’ll come up with something special.”

Their matching smirks make me uneasy, but I brush them off. “Deal,” I say, extending my hand.

A few of the guys snicker, and the ones who don’t stuff their Santa hats over their heads—the theme is green, with elf-ear hats on their helmets, against red elves with jaunty Santa-style hats. That’s my guys and me.

Meanwhile, the arena is decked out in festive flair and the crowd is scream-singing Christmas carols as we wait to take to the ice.

Grady juts his chin. “You sure you’re up for this?”

I’d expect nothing less than trash-talking from our defenseman, but usually, I’m not on the receiving end of it.

“I’ve had more than enough time lately. Made enough smoothies to open a juice bar, watched every episode of The Office—both the US and British versions—and I can play ‘Jingle Bells’ on piano now, along with pretty much every other Christmas tune.”

“Too bad you didn’t learn the violin, because then you could play a sad song when we crush you,” Redd snipes back while miming air-playing a miniature version of the instrument.

It’s all in good fun, but when we separate and go to our respective areas of the rink, Mikey asks, “And how has your dating life been since the karaoke incident?”

I groan. “A disaster. After the jawbreaker, I had the champagne cork incident at my brother’s engagement party.” I point to my right shoulder, where it hit me at a surprisingly high velocity.

“Oof,” Pierre says with concern.

“Then there was the cooking class where I slipped on spilled olive oil while trying to impress the cute chef, followed by the allergic reaction to oysters ...”

“Don’t forget the flying bouquet at your ex’s wedding,” Beau adds—his wife is a wedding planner and questioned my sanity.

“Wait, you went to your ex’s wedding?” Hayden interrupts.

“Long story. But it’s like Cupid had one too many sips of eggnog and doesn’t want me to find the future Mrs. Turley.”

Hayden mutters, “Stupid Cupid.”

The buzzer sounds, calling us to our positions. The fans go wild with roaring cheers and thunderous applause. From the line, I watch Neal Sanderson move with the grace of a man half his age, his gray-streaked hair visible beneath his helmet adorned with elf ears.

Even though a smile curls like Christmas ribbon on my lips, there’s a fair chance he’s going to make it his mission to see me lose the bet. But this is about more than that. If I play well enough, Coach will take me off the bench, which will be worth whatever the guys come up with for the loser.

“Head in the game, Fletch,” I whisper to myself, because I don’t plan to come in second place. Instead, I’ll return to my spot as a future legend.

The puck drops and I’m immediately in motion, sticking to Vohn’s order of play.

It all comes back to me like riding a bicycle—or playing hockey like the professional athlete I am.

Feeling the breeze in my lungs as I pump my legs across the ice, I offer an assist and operate as one with my teammates.

This is among my top three happy places and I am in it to win it.

First period is a blur of bodies and sticks—Hayden sends a beautiful pass my way and I onetime it, but Liam makes an impossible save.

Sweat drips into my eyes as I battle over the blue line and along the boards, fighting to dominate every inch of ice. My jaw tingles—probably from clenching it—but adrenaline keeps me sharp.