Chapter 5 Janie
FIVE
Janie
As soon as I drop the kids off to their parents, I make it exactly ten steps down the hallway before I lean against the wall and close my eyes. I just left Rourke in charge of the script. Have I lost my mind?
I can’t let him ruin the pageant. I’m the first new director in thirty years.
And our arts program is in desperate need of funding.
This isn’t just about tradition; the ticket sales from our Christmas pageant fund our arts programs for the year.
Principal Callahan has already sent out press releases about the pageant to the local newspaper.
If this fails, it’s not just disappointed kids I’ll have to deal with.
It’s my reputation, my job, and the school’s budget.
Why didn’t I just kick him out like he seemed to want me to do?
I pinch the bridge of my nose, letting out a breath.
Finding another Santa this close to Christmas will be next to impossible.
I’d already begged every man in town before the principal found Rourke.
I literally asked the mailman, the grocery store manager, and three random dads at pickup. All declined.
Down the hall, I see Rourke emerge from my classroom. I don’t wait to see if he’s looking for me. Instead, I dart toward the janitor’s closet, shutting myself in with the scent of pine cleaner and old mops.
After a few seconds, footsteps stop outside the door. “Janie?” Rourke knocks. “You in there?”
I press my body against the wall, and accidentally bump a broom, which crashes to the floor.
“So that’s a yes, then?” he asks.
I close my eyes. “I’m busy, Rourke.”
“Busy hiding in a janitor’s closet?” His voice is closer to the door now. “Could you at least open it?”
“No.”
“Fine,” he says with a sigh. “Then you’re going to have to listen through the door. Look, I’m sorry. I really messed up back there.”
“Spectacularly,” I mutter.
“I know. Can you come out? Please?”
I cross my arms, even though he can’t see me. “Not until you apologize for humiliating me in front of my students.”
“I’m trying to. But I want to apologize to your face instead of the door, which isn’t nearly as pretty.”
Why does he have to be so charming when I’m still mad at him?
This is exactly why I don’t get involved with men like Rourke Riley.
They’re charming and confident and completely oblivious to the damage they cause.
And when they come crawling back with all smiles and apologies, I’m in no state to resist.
I crack the door. He has his hands in his pockets, and a sad puppy-dog look on his face, which isn’t helping my heart.
“I shouldn’t have said those things to you back there,” he says. “It’s not your fault the script is bad. I’m sorry.”
“You’re not wrong about the script,” I say slowly. “But you traumatized children who’ve been looking forward to this for weeks.”
“I know.” He rubs the back of his neck. “I’m an idiot.”
“At least we agree on one thing.” I pause. “Why are you even here if you dislike Christmas so much?”
“It’s required. My team has a mandatory community service requirement this year. I can’t quit without losing a lot of money and getting benched. And missing games could cost me my starting position.”
“So you’re not here out of goodwill,” I say, frowning. “You’re here to fulfill an obligation.”
“Pretty much,” he adds. “But there’s also this competition for a Christmas bonus. The winner gets extra money. And the charity gets a matching donation.”
Now I’m listening. “How much of a donation?”
“Twenty grand.”
My mouth drops. “As in twenty thousand dollars?”
He nods.
That would fund our arts program for two years. “So why did you want me to fire you?”
“I thought maybe if I could get out of it without officially quitting, then I could find a different volunteer job here at the school. Something that doesn’t involve Christmas.” He sighs. “Look, I know how this sounds, but—”
“It sounds like you’re someone who doesn’t want to be here,” I say bluntly.
His jaw tightens. “You’re right. I don’t want to be here. But I’m stuck, and so are you.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means you need a Santa, and I’m the only one left to volunteer this close to Christmas.
” He steps closer, and I catch his woodsy scent that reminds me of the night we danced together—something that I’d rather forget right now.
“If I leave, you’re back to square one. No Santa.
Only disappointed kids and angry parents. ”
“I’ll figure something out.”
“Really? In one month? During the busiest time of year?” He raises an eyebrow. “Come on, Janie. We both know you don’t have other options.”
I want to argue, but he’s absolutely right. Finding another Santa now would be nearly impossible.
“Here’s what I’m thinking,” he continues. “I’ll stay and follow your direction while trying not to traumatize any more kids. On one condition…”
“You’re in no position to make demands.”
“Aren’t I?” His cocky smile returns as he leans against the doorframe.
“Because the way I see it, you need me more than I need you. I can walk away now and find another volunteer gig for a different teacher. But you? You’re stuck explaining to an entire school and the community why there’s no Christmas pageant this year. ”
I step back and sink onto a box of toilet paper. I hate that he’s right. “What do you want, then?”
“First, I get to rewrite parts of the script to make the kids sound like kids. And we don’t mix up history with fiction.”
I tilt my head and consider this. The script really is awful. “Fine. We can work on it together, but I approve all changes.”
“Fair enough,” he says with a nod.
“I don’t get it—this seems way too charitable. How do I know you won’t ruin the pageant on purpose?”
“Well, if I’m stuck playing a character who’s supposed to love Christmas, and you’re stuck working with me, then you need to change my mind.”
My eyes narrow. “What do you mean?”
“You need to convince me to see Christmas the way you do. If you succeed, I’ll give you the best performance this town has ever witnessed.”
“And if I fail?” I ask.
He steps closer, his mouth lifting at the corner. “You’ll go out with me.”
I scoff. “That’s never happening.”
“Why? Because you won’t fail or because you won’t date me?”
“Both.” I jut my chin out. “I don’t date. Period. Especially not hockey players.”
“Why not?”
“Because hockey is boring,” I say.
His eyes narrow, like I’ve just issued a challenge he can’t resist. “Then it seems we’re evenly matched. You don’t like my sport. I don’t like your holiday.” He leans in slightly. “But when I win, I’ll make sure the date involves you sitting in the stands at one of my games, wearing my jersey.”
“You mean if you win,” I correct. “Which you won’t. Because I’d never come to your game.”
“Never?” He lifts an eyebrow. “You know what I love about the word never, Janie?”
“What?”
“It’s basically a dare in disguise.” His voice drops lower. “And I’ve never met a dare I couldn’t win.”
The way he says it makes my pulse race, and I hate that he’s having this effect on me.
“You’re awfully confident for someone who’s about to lose,” I say.
“And you’re awfully stubborn for someone who claims they won’t come to a game.” He rubs his hands together. “This should be fun.”
I stare at him, trying to process what I just agreed to. Having a local celebrity play the lead role means better ticket sales and possibly that donation—if he wins.
But if I fail, it means I’m agreeing to a date with Rourke and wearing his jersey.
“Wait…” I say, holding up a hand. “What exactly does ‘liking Christmas’ mean? What are the terms here?”
“Good question,” he says. “How about this: if by the final performance, the kids believe I really like Christmas, then you win. Because kids can always see through an adult’s intentions, no matter how much they try to hide it.”
He isn’t wrong. Kids are incredible at gauging whether someone’s telling the truth. And if they can’t win him over, then no one can.
“Plus, if I can win this community service competition, the school gets twenty grand,” he adds. “So, you helping me learn to like Christmas isn’t just about our bet—it’s about whether this school gets funding.”
I realize what he’s done. He’s made it impossible for me to say no. Part of me knows I should tell him to find another teacher to work with, another person’s Christmas to complicate. But there’s something in his face—a challenge I can’t resist.
It’s not that I think I can convince him to love Christmas the way I do—that would take a Christmas miracle. It’s just that I can’t have his humbug ruining my fa-la-la.
We’re like the Grinch and Cindy Lou Who.
Scrooge and Tiny Tim.
Buddy the Elf and Buddy’s dad.
If this is going to have a happy ending, we all know what has to happen. I have to make him like Christmas.
Difficult? Maybe.
But impossible? Of course not.
He lifts an eyebrow. “So what do you say, Ms. Bennett? Think you can convert me?” He puts out his hand.
“Fine,” I say, taking it and giving it a hard shake. “But at least give this pageant a chance. Not just because it’s an obligation. Do it for the children.”
“I will try,” he says, not letting go of my hand. “And if I don’t like Christmas after all this torture you’re going to put me through, at least there’s one bright side…”
“What’s that?” I ask, noticing he hasn’t let go of my hand yet.
His thumb brushes across my knuckles, sending electricity through my body. “You’re going to look amazing in my jersey.”