18. Holly
18
HOLLY
There’s nothing quite like being the third wheel. It’s a special kind of purgatory—wedged between Lauren, who’s talking about her job like it’s some must-see Netflix docuseries, and Mia, who’s nodding along but is definitely just planning her next caffeine fix. And me? I just sit there, nodding, smiling politely, but my mind? My mind’s halfway across town, wrapped up in a certain grumpy hockey player’s flannel shirt.
Ethan hasn’t called. Not even a text. Not a single emoji. Nada. Zero. Zilch.
Lauren gives me a side-eye from the driver’s seat. “You’re fidgeting like a squirrel on Red Bull. What’s up?”
“Nothing.” That kind of smooth lie is what you do when your mind’s doing backflips over a guy who’s sometimes about as emotionally available as a frozen pizza.
“Mm-hmm,” Lauren hums, not buying it for a second. “With you, it’s never nothing. Spill.”
From the passenger seat, Mia chimes in. “Is it work? That new event you’re planning? Or wait, it’s a man, isn’t it?”
Busted. Clearing my throat, my eyes flick back to my phone like it might magically light up if I stare long enough. “It’s fine. Just work. Blizzards business.”
Mia raises an eyebrow. “Right, because checking your phone every two seconds just screams ‘work stress.’”
Keeping anything secret from these two is like trying to hide snacks in a house full of teenagers—they sniff it out instantly. “Fine,” I admit, heat rising in my cheeks as their eyes drill into me. “Maybe I was kind of expecting a call.”
Lauren grins like she’s won a bet. “From who? You’ve been glowing lately, girl. Practically written across your forehead.”
“More like stamped across her heart,” Mia adds, smirking.
I roll my eyes, trying to play it off. “Dramatic, much?” But the truth is … they’re kind of right. Things with Ethan have been heating up in ways that are starting to feel less like casual banter and more like something real. And every time we’re together, there’s this electric pull between us, a tension that’s becoming impossible to ignore.
"Come on, Holly. You sure you don’t want to join us tonight? Girls' night out. No boys, no work talk, just us—and maybe a ridiculous number of margaritas," Mia suggests, her eyes glittering with mischief.
The suggestion hangs in the air, like a dangling carrot. Normally, the idea of tequila and trashy girl talk would have me diving in headfirst. But tonight feels different.
As we pull up to my intersection, I wave off their protests about skipping girls’ night, promising, “Rain check?”
Lauren narrows her eyes like a disappointed parent. “You better. And don’t go MIA on us because of whatever this is. We will drag you out of your house, pajamas and all.”
I grin, slipping out of the car and waving them off. “Promise. Next time, mic in hand.”
The cold night air snaps against my cheeks, but even the chill can’t compete with the warmth flooding my mind. Every time I think about Ethan, my heart gives this little flip that both thrills and terrifies me. It’s ridiculous, really. He’s just a guy, and I’m a perfectly sane, capable woman. Yet the mere thought of him has me feeling like a teenager with a crush that’s getting less “crush” and more ... I don’t know. Something bigger.
When I open the door, I’m expecting nothing more than the quiet of my empty house. But instead, I’m greeted by ... well, an unexpected sight. Right there in the middle of the living room is a massive Christmas tree, tall and glittering under a mess of tangled lights.
I blink, once, twice. “What the?—”
“Surprise.”
I turn toward the voice, and there he is. Ethan. Standing there, looking like he just got in a fight with a dust bunny in the attic. His hair’s a mess, his shirt has a layer of grime, but his eyes—those dark, intense eyes that make my heart flutter—are softer than melted chocolate.
“Ethan…” I step closer, trying to piece together what exactly I’m seeing—the tree, the tangled lights, the dust-covered ornaments scattered on the floor. “What is this?”
He scratches the back of his neck, flashing a sheepish grin. “Found them in the attic. David must’ve packed them away after our last Christmas together.”
That last sentence lands heavy, like the final note of a sad song. I step forward, every emotion twisting in my chest as I take him in, the way he looks both strong and vulnerable in this moment. “You didn’t have to do this.”
“I did,” he says, his voice dropping low. “You deserve a real Christmas, with all the trimmings. I know you love the big family Christmas parties. This is the least I could do.”
My throat tightens, my feet shuffling quickly across the ground, closing the distance between us, wrapping my arms around him and pressing my face against his chest. His arms slip around me, warm and steady, and for a moment, we just stand there, breathing each other in.
“You’re unbelievable, you know that?” The whisper is hoarse—it’s hard hiding my emotions.
“Yeah, well ... don’t go spreading it around,” he murmurs, his voice rough and soft at the same time, one hand smoothing over my hair.
When we finally pull apart, our faces are so close I can feel the warmth of his breath against my cheek, and something in his eyes makes my pulse skip. There’s a charge between us, like something’s crackling in the air, just waiting for one of us to make a move.
After a long moment, I clear my throat, trying to shake off the rush of warmth triggered by a pair of dark flames flickering at me.
I’d strip him naked right here if he stared at me for one moment longer like that. Not yet, Holly. You get him to bed now and you’re not getting out until tomorrow morning.
Nodding my head at the mess in front of us. “Alright, we’ve got work to do. These decorations aren’t going to untangle themselves.”
He chuckles, bending down to pick up a strand of lights. “If I’d known Christmas decorations involved this much labor, I would’ve skipped straight to taking you out for a dinner or something.”
“Oh, come on. Where’s your holiday spirit?” Nudging him with my elbow, I beam as I watch his lips twitch into a smirk. Quickly reaching out, I grab a dusty ornament from the floor, holding it up. “So, did you do this often with David?”
Ethan pauses, his fingers halting mid-tangle; his expression shifts, eyes softening, then he nods. “He used to make these ridiculous gingerbread houses every year. They’d collapse every single time.” He chuckles, his gaze going distant. “Once he actually got it right, just before he ate the roof.”
I laugh, imagining it. “That sounds fun.”
“Yeah,” he murmurs, and for a second, his eyes drift back to me, and there’s a softness there that makes my chest ache. “He was fun.”
His expression shifts slightly, like he’s trying to keep the emotions at bay. I want to know more, ask him more, but I know better than to push. Turning back to untangling the lights, the silence stretches between us until finally, he speaks again.
“There was this one year ... David was determined to give us the best Christmas ever. We didn’t have much, but he saved up for weeks, and he surprised me with this beat-up old pair of skates. They weren’t even the right size, but he was so proud of them. I wore them anyway. We spent the whole day at the rink, just the two of us. It was good.”
I smile softly, my heart swelling at the story. “I’d have loved to meet him.”
“I know,” Ethan says quietly, his voice tinged with something bittersweet. “Get back to work?”
Agreeing with a nod, we focus in comfortable silence after that, the tree slowly coming to life with twinkling lights and ornaments that shimmer in the glow.
As we work together, hanging lights, straightening ornaments, there’s a warmth between us that seems to grow with each passing moment. Every so often, our fingers brush, sending a spark through me, like there’s some magnetic pull that keeps drawing us closer in a tight knot that doesn’t give you the chance to pull away.
There’s something about watching him decorate that sends little sparks of joy flickering through my chest. Maybe it’s the way his brow furrows in concentration or how his hands move so confidently, like he’s done this a million times before. Or maybe it’s just the simple fact that he’s here, in this moment, with me.
“We should go on a Christmas date.”
The words are sudden, completely unplanned, and I could’ve argued they didn’t come from me.
Ethan raises an eyebrow, a smirk playing on his lips. “A what?”
“A Christmas date. You know ... a Christmas market, or something corny and festive.”
He laughs, that low, warm sound that makes my heart skip. “Sounds ridiculously cheesy.”
“Yeah, well, I like cheesy. And I think we could use a little cheesy if you’re up for it,” a grin breaks across my face. “You think you’re the Christmas market type?”
His gaze drops to my mouth, lingering for a second longer than necessary, and my stomach does a little flip. “No,” he murmurs slowly. “But I think I’m the ‘do whatever makes Holly happy’ type.”
My breath catches, and I’m about to say something—anything—but the words disappear as he reaches out, his hand brushing against mine, fingers tangling together in a soft, unspoken promise.
The moment stretches, warm and electric, and everything around us fades away. He moves closer, his face mere inches from mine, his gaze intense, focused only on me.
“Lucky me,” he murmurs, his voice so soft I barely catch it.
When I lean in to kiss him, it’s not just a kiss. It’s like every bit of tension, every lingering glance, every brush of fingers has led to this, and for the first time, I feel like I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be. His arms pull me closer, his warmth surrounding me, and everything else fades away. It’s just us, tangled in the glow of Christmas lights and the heady feeling that maybe this could be the beginning of something big.
When we finally pull apart, breathless, I grin, unable to hide the warmth flooding my chest. “So, does that count as cheesy?” I whisper.
He chuckles, his forehead resting against mine. “If it does, I think I could get used to it.”
The Chicago Blizzards locker room might have seen some things: sweaty post-game brawls, dubious pranks involving glitter bombs, and other stuff, but right now it’s hosting an epic, borderline chaotic, TikTok live session of some of the toughest men on the planet struggling to gift-wrap scented candles and plushies.
Oh yeah, this is going viral.
"Alright, guys, you're live in 3… 2… 1!" Lauren’s voice rings through the room as she points at the camera, her finger like a conductor setting off a symphony of wrapping paper carnage.
Liam, bless his heart, is already tangled in a ribbon that could rival Rapunzel’s hair. “This—” he growls, yanking at the knot like it’s a defensive line he’s about to bulldoze through, “is why I hire people for Christmas.”
Standing on the sidelines, watching the chaos unfold with barely contained amusement, I can hardly hold in the laughter. In front of me, burly hockey players are fumbling with gift bows and tape as if they've been tasked with disarming a bomb, not sending holiday gifts to fans.
Ethan, for once, looks like he’s holding it together—cool, collected, wrapping paper folded with precision. Because of course, he’s good at this. Probably uses some secret hockey strategy on how to fold corners at 90-degree angles or something. The man is perfection even when dealing with cartoon reindeer wrapping paper.
From across the room, our eyes meet. His signature brooding glare softens, just for a second, a flicker of something playful sparking beneath the surface. I feel the heat rising in my cheeks as I flash him a grin. He returns the tiniest smirk before flicking his gaze back to the task at hand, but not before texting me under the table.
Ethan: I can tell you’re thinking dirty thoughts while I’m over here folding like a pro.
I choke on air, discreetly glancing down at my phone and biting back a laugh. I type furiously.
Me: Please, you look like a Martha Stewart wannabe. Very cute, though.
From my peripheral, I see his shoulders tense, the same way they do before he skates into a game-winning shot, and then—bam! —he’s back to acting like the perfect, unbothered player.
Ryan, the team’s captain, is a few feet away, making what can only be described as a “tape monster” with Christmas tape. “Yo, Ethan, how do you make this stuff stick? I swear, this tape has a personal vendetta against me.”
“Ryan, you’re using double-sided tape,” Ethan replies, his voice dripping with calm.
Ryan blinks down at his tangled creation, realization dawning slowly. “Oh … right.”
I barely keep it together. The boys are ridiculous, but somehow, it just makes them all the more endearing. I sneak another glance at Ethan, my heart doing a somersault in my chest when our hands brush against each other under the table. It’s such a subtle touch, but it feels electric. Like our skin is magnetic and the whole universe just conspired to bring us together in this very moment.
“Alright, boys, focus!” Jonathan Reid—the team director—claps his hands, looking around like a principal watching over a class of mischievous schoolchildren. “We’re still on live, and the fans are sending in requests!”
Fans. Right. I’m supposed to be focused on making sure the players don’t turn this entire gift-wrapping event into a WWE Smackdown. I glance back at the screen where comments are flooding in:
@hockeygurl123: Omg, Ryan, you’re doing amazing, sweetie!
@ethansbae: Ethan’s wrapping skills = boyfriend goals.
@wrapwarrior: Someone save Liam from that ribbon, lmao.
Looking up to catch Ethan looking at his phone again, this time I can’t resist sending him another text.
Me: Care to sneak away? I need to ‘supervise’ the supply closet.
He doesn’t respond immediately, but the corner of his mouth twitches as if he’s trying—and failing—not to smile. Two seconds later, I feel his hand lightly brush mine beneath the table, the signal I’ve been waiting for.
Lauren, stationed nearby, suddenly glances over, her eyes narrowing in suspicion. I stiffen, pretending to be deeply interested in the ribbon situation, but Lauren’s gaze lingers a second too long.
“Everything okay, Holly?” Lauren asks, her voice full of that knowing tone, like a mom who’s caught you with your hand in the cookie jar.
“Uh-huh,” I nod, swallowing hard. “Just ... making sure the boys aren’t about to accidentally set the place on fire with that gift wrap.”
Lauren’s eyebrow arches, but thankfully, she’s distracted by the sound of a player knocking over a box of ornaments on the far side of the room. “Liam!” she yells, rushing off to prevent further destruction.
Seizing the moment, I slip out from the chaos and duck into the hallway, my heart pounding with a mix of nerves and excitement. Sure enough, Ethan is right behind me, looking cool as ever.
“Took you long enough,” he says, the corner of his lips twitching with amusement as he crowds me against the wall.
“Yeah, well, I was busy, you know, doing my job,” I quip back, though my voice is breathier than I’d like it to be.
Ethan leans in, his breath warm against my ear. “Is this part of your job description, too?”
“Oh, absolutely,” I whisper, my fingers curling into the front of his jersey as I pull him closer. “Quality control.”
His lips crash onto mine, and for a moment, the rest of the world falls away. The chaos of gift wrapping, the TikTok live, the guys shouting back and forth—it’s all background noise now. All that matters is the heat between us, the electric current that seems to pulse every time we’re near each other.
I pull back, my lips tingling. “We should ... get back before someone notices.”
Ethan chuckles, resting his forehead against mine. “Yeah, don’t want to get caught sneaking kisses on live TikTok.”
But just as we’re about to return to the locker room, a familiar voice echoes through the hall, sending a chill down my spine.
“Well, well, well. If it isn’t Chicago’s golden boys.”
My blood runs cold as I step out to see Jake Roland striding into the room, all swagger and smugness like he owns the place.
And from the looks of him grinning with Jonathan Reid, he might as well think he does.