Chapter 3
FLETCH
It’s been three days and even though I can still feel her velvety lips on mine. I still cannot believe that Bree Darling kissed me under the mistletoe.
I’m close to breaking a sweat, even in the unheated Cobbiton Community Center. The mayor said it’s to save on heating and electrical expenses so those funds can go toward advertising for the Christmas pageant. Apparently, the previous activities leader was caught misappropriating funds.
Half-built sets, hockey teammates, and volunteers surround me, but all I can think about is that kiss.
“Christmas is calling. Where is Fletch? Are you planning on hammering that nail or just staring at it all afternoon?” Mikey tosses a balled-up piece of construction paper at my head.
“Sorry,” I mutter, refocusing on the stable wall I’m supposed to be securing.
My mind keeps drifting back to those hazel eyes—more green than brown—when she realized who I was. The way her messy bun had a few strands escaping around her face, just like in college when I’d visited her at the newspaper office. Or, as she claimed, to pester her.
Her melted chocolate and warm Christmas candles scent gives me a sugar rush.
“He’s been like this for days,” Hudson announces to the group when we move onto set painting.
Pierre adds, “Ever since he ran into some girl from college.”
Before I can stop myself, I say, “Not just some girl. Bree Darling. She wrote for the school paper.”
“Did I hear someone say Bree Darling?” A woman with straight blonde hair perks up from where she’s reviewing ‘Encorn’ skit script pages—so named because Cobbiton loves corn almost as much as its residents love shouting “Encore!”
Heat creeps up my neck when I spot Bree’s friend, and my neighbor, on Sweet Corn Court. The same one who stood behind her while suppressing laughter after the mistletoe kiss.
“We knew each other at Iowa State. She interviewed me once for the paper.”
Nina’s lips quiver with a self-satisfied grin. “Oh, I know all about that.”
“Apparently, she made quite an impression because I’ve never seen him this distracted,” Grady chimes in, abandoning his paint roller.
“I’m not distracted. I’m focused on getting this set perfect for the pageant.”
“You’re not restoring one of Da Vinci’s masterpieces. Slap the paint on the prop.” Mikey gives me bug eyes as if to ask, What gives?
“Says the guy who used to work for a contracting company.”
“It was the family biz,” Mikey retorts.
“I take pride in my work. I’m not going to just ‘slap the paint on.’”
Nina studies me with a knowing smile that makes me uncomfortable. “Bree is staying with me for a few weeks. Her roof is leaking.”
Aiming for casual, I ask, “Is she still working in journalism?”
“Romance novels,” Nina says simply.
The guys have a good laugh.
“Romance novels?” Hayden howls.
Redd mimes tearing off his shirt. “Like the ones with the shirtless lover boys on the covers?”
“Historical Western romance. She’s quite successful,” Nina responds primly, if not a bit defensively.
My mind reels with this information. Bree writes romance novels. The serious journalism student who once grilled me about hockey scholarships and pay gaps in college sports now makes her living writing about ... love? There’s something ironic, poetic, and perfect about that.
And if she kissed me under the mistletoe with wild abandon, that must mean she’s single.
The plot thickens.
I’m not sure how—maybe a dash of theater magic—but within minutes, everyone finds out about our mistletoe moment. And I do mean everyone—from the Nebraska Knights volunteers to the Nannas sewing costumes to the sound engineer who plays a kissing song playlist over the PA system.
I try to play it cool, however, my neck and ears must be as red as the Santa hat worn at the charity game the other day.
Two hours later, I’m at the Fish Bowl with the guys, half-listening to them argue about power play formations while my mind repeatedly drifts to Bree.
This is our local joint, and I make myself at home even though half the menu is off-limits due to the team nutritionist, Nat, and his strict dietary regimen.
The Fish Bowl is family-friendly until shortly after dark, when it becomes a hockey hub.
We’re still early, but that doesn’t stop Pierre from tossing a piece of popcorn at Jack after the latter commented on a lousy slap shot at our last game.
The one I didn’t play in because I fancied myself a rockstar one night on the stage, only several feet away from where I sit now.
Moving forward, I will conduct thorough background checks on all potential women I date to be sure they’re single.
Except Bree.
The jukebox plays “A Holly Jolly Christmas,” and they dialed up the décor with big old-fashioned Christmas bulbs draped along the perimeter walls, along with a jumble of hockey memorabilia.
They went retro with metallic, holographic vintage Christmas decorations dangling from the stained-glass lights suspended over each table.
Faux snow drifts paint the windows. The scent of fried food and popcorn makes me wish I weren’t committed to staying fit for when Badaszek lets me back on the ice.
“Seriously, what is up with you tonight?” Mikey asks.
“You look like you’re skating through gravy.” Pierre reaches for a French fry from the basket in the middle of the table, disregarding Nat’s protocol.
“Is it because Badaszek didn’t formally announce you’re off injury leave?” Liam asks.
I shrug. “Just tired.”
“Tired of being single,” Jack says.
“I knew it was about the girl,” Grady says without letting me answer our team captain’s question.
“Tell us more about the romance writer.” Jake Twiles waggles his eyebrows.
“We had a moment in college, that’s all.” Sort of.
“A moment? Or THE moment?” Mikey presses.
If I know anything about my teammates, it’s that they won’t relent until I crack. Seeing as this is where the jawbreaker incident took place, I don’t want to risk any more fractured bones.
Pressing my palms to the table, I plan to lay it out in brief without giving them enough rope to hang me.
“Back in college, she interviewed me for the school paper. It was my first big game after being named captain. I was riding high, showing off. She asked where I saw myself in ten years, and I said something stupid.”
“Something stupid like—?” Jack lets the question dangle.
Taking a breath, I tell them, “I told her, ‘I’m going to marry you someday.’” I mumble the last part, but it’s an exact quote.
“Those sound like famous last words,” Grady says.
“Smooth.” Robo snorts.
“It became this whole thing. Took on a life of its own. People teased her about being ‘Mrs. Hockey Captain’ for weeks. I tried to apologize, but she avoided me after that, so I, uh, kinda owned it.” Took every chance I had to repeat those words.
I cringe now even though, for a minute, I’d wished it were true.
There was something about her—she was a brunette bombshell in a Lois Lane kind of way: smart, feisty, and she teased me with the challenge of pursuit.
Not that I was worthy of her back then.
“Typical Turley,” Liam says.
“And now she’s back and planting kisses on you. Destiny, bro,” Mikey says.
I shake my head. “I’m not looking for relationship complications right now.” Much. I mean, if the right woman came along that didn’t result in a microphone stand base to my jaw by an angry boyfriend, I might consider something serious.
The guys are unusually quiet and I don’t think it’s because they’re hanging onto my every word.
“I need to focus on convincing Badaszek to let me back on the ice.”
“Speaking of complications. Have you checked your email today?” Liam wears a suspicious grin.
My stomach drops. “Why?”
“No reason,” he says innocently. Too innocently. Then Hayden shows up with Leah and their attention turns, thankfully, away from me.
It’s nearly midnight when I get home. Nina’s house glows like a beacon at the end of the block, festooned with enough lights to be visible from space.
She makes Clark Griswold look like an amateur.
My own dark porch is particularly pathetic in comparison.
I have a wreath and a few decorations. That’s not Christmas. I should at least get a tree.
As I unlock the door, I glance back over my shoulder at what may as well be Mrs. Claus’s starter home. Is Bree in there now? Is she thinking about the kiss? Or has she already dismissed it as an embarrassing mishap?
“This isn’t college anymore. Time to grow up, Fletch,” I mutter to myself as I enter my empty townhouse.
I take a shower, then I’m reviewing NHL stats and news when my phone buzzes with a notification. It’s from the Knights group chat, suggesting that I check my email. With a groan, I finally open it and see what the guys had been hinting at all night.
From: HeartlandHEA@
Subject: Your Mail-Order Match Has Been Selected!
I give my head a little jingle bell shake.
My match? Already? So much for traditional courtship.
This must be about the stupid bet I lost, resulting in them signing me up for a matchmaking service—the modern-day equivalent of a mail-order bride.
Apparently, the guys made good on their word to complete my application.
I imagine they made me look and sound like a troll.
I skim the email, expecting automated nonsense, but find myself intrigued despite my better judgment.
The service isn’t about looks. Rather, personality and compatibility—extensive questionnaires, interest matching, and even communication style analysis.
My match apparently shares my love of classic movies, enjoys both quiet evenings and adventurous activities, and values honesty above all else.
Maybe Liam, the ring leader, and the others didn’t do me dirty.
I close the email without responding. This is absurd. I can’t actually participate. I should be focusing on recovery and on getting back on the ice, not on a blind date set up with a random woman.
As I drift off to sleep, it’s not a faceless match I’m thinking of. It’s a pair of hazel eyes that shift from brown to green. It’s the scent of melted chocolate. It’s the brush of soft lips against mine beneath a sprig of mistletoe.
My phone explodes with notifications at six a.m. Disoriented, I fumble for it, afraid I’ve slept through practice before remembering I’m still sidelined with my injury.
It’s a barrage of texts from the guys, but not in the group thread. They’re individually peppering me with notifications.
Hayden: DUDE, CHECK YOUR EMAIL!!
Mikey: You have to do this, man. No backing out now.
Pierre: If you don’t go to this meeting, we’re signing you up for speed dating next.
Liam: Go to this meeting or there will be consequences.
Groggily, I reopen the email from last night and read further down—to the part I’d ignored.
Based on our comprehensive analysis, we believe we’ve found your perfect match. Your compatibility score is in our top 1%. We’re pleased to inform you that your match has also registered interest in an initial meeting.
It is scheduled for Saturday, December 4th, at 3 p.m. at the Cobbiton Christmas Market. Look for the red bench by the big Christmas tree. Your match will be wearing a snowflake pin. You will receive a candy cane pin for identification by courier.
My phone rings. It’s Mikey.
Not going to deny it, my pulse picks up. I was already thinking about Bree and how I told her I was going to marry her someday.
“Tell me you’re going,” he says without preamble.
“I don’t know, bro. A blind date at the Christmas Market? It seems a little desperate.” Plus, there’s Bree. How long is she in town? Why is she here? Does she live nearby?
“It’s not desperate, it’s romantic. Besides, what have you got to lose? If she’s terrible, you’ll just be married for the rest of your lives. But what if she’s amazing?”
His words drift lazily as I continue to surface from sleep before reality slams into my mind.
“Marriage?” I ask.
“The compatibility score and the description sound promising.”
“So you read the email?” I ask.
“Liam was copied on it.”
“I take it he forwarded it to you.” And the rest of the guys on the team who’re in on this bet.
Mikey chuckles. “Think of it like a team full of accountability partners.”
I grunt.
“That’s the spirit!” he says as if the sound I made was anything approximating agreement.
“What’ll happen if I don’t show up?”
“Penalties. Dire ones,” he says darkly.
However, how would they know? Never mind. I’ll be watching for sizable men staking out the Christmas Market, making sure that I’m on time and if I’m not, they’ll be ready to assault me with a team tackle.
Mikey adds, “Hey, at least it’ll take your mind off Bree Darling.”
I’ll need a dash of good luck for that. Unfortunately, lately, I’m just attracting dumb luck.
I recently dropped my phone in the toilet and found someone’s wallet behind it. My truck got a flat tire in front of Cobbiton Car Repair. The list goes on.
The next day, after my workout and a shower, I attach the candy cane pin to my jacket pocket and study my reflection.
I can’t help but wonder if I’m making a mistake.
Part of me wants to walk down the street right now, knock on Nina’s door, and ask Bree out properly.
Clear the air about that stupid interview comment all those years ago.
See if our mistletoe kiss could lead to something real.
Instead, I’m letting my friends push me into a blind marriage match with a woman who could very well be a wackadoodle. Then again, I’m no stranger to being impulsive and thinking about the consequences later.
There was the time I made a fake report card. My mother didn’t buy it for a second and not only was I grounded, but I had to show my teacher and explain myself.
Once, in high school, I accepted a dare to only wear my underwear to class. Let’s just say I didn’t make it past first period and banked a week’s worth of detention in Mr. Peng’s classroom, which perpetually smelled like tuna fish.
My brothers say that I’m a shoot-first, aim-later kind of guy. Maybe so, but not when it comes to hockey. On the ice, I’m a master at precision. But the rest of my life? Fine. Guilty as charged.
“Give it a chance. Maybe this match will be the one,” I tell my reflection.
It can’t be any worse than when I took a woman mini-golfing and she got a little overly enthusiastic when swinging the club. It lodged into the windshield of my college hockey coach’s beloved Bronco.
As I try to get excited about meeting my mystery mail-order bride, Bree’s face continues to appear in my mind. The way her eyebrows furrowed when she recognized me. The slight panic in her eyes after the kiss.
I shake my head, trying to clear it. Bree is the past. This match—whoever she is—could be my future.
That is, if Heartland Happily Ever Afters knows what it’s doing.
I certainly don’t.