The Mistletoe Motive(21)

“What?” I hustle back to the main room and the sight of Eli, snowflake-shaped cookie in hand, seated in the wingback chair I positioned right by the gas fireplace, a giant pile of Color Your Feelings beside him.

“Sweet Lord,” he says, equal parts horror and reverence as he takes in how many copies await his signature. “That’s a lot.”

Smiling, I offer him a handful of thin black Sharpies. “Get ready to autograph, Mr. Goldberg.”

He glances out the storefront window at the growing line outside and mutters, “I hope they go into triple overtime tonight.”

“Knowing my luck, Eli, they will.”





Despite my grumbling about this late-night hockey game, I can’t help but smile as we enter and get our first glimpse of the rink. I love the atmosphere—the scrape and shoosh of blades on ice, the cold, dry air filling my lungs.

A wave of happiness washes over me as I lift my phone, snap a photo, then send it to my parents.

ME: Why does every hockey rink have that same magical feel?



My phone buzzes immediately.

MOM: The feeling of freezing your ass off while breathing in the smell of sweaty bodies and ripe hockey gear?

DAD: You mean the feeling of being pleasantly chilled while admiring gorgeous specimens of perspiring athletic glory?

DAD: Your mother just snorted at that. I’m offended.

MOM: I’ll make it up to you later.



I shudder. They’re 100 percent sitting on opposite ends of the couch, playing footsie while they do this.

ME: Stop flirting in the family text. It’s gross.

MOM: I’m done, promise.

DAD: Who’s playing, kiddo?

ME: Eli’s boyfriend. He’s in the local competitive league.

DAD: Those guys are pretty skilled. Should be fun to watch. What made you want to go?

ME: Eli. He did me a solid for work so I’m returning the favor with a hockey tutorial.



Eli takes me by the elbow when we start to ascend the stands, while I focus on wrapping up with my parents. Just as he guides us to our seats, I pocket my phone. “Sorry, got caught in the family chat.”

“You’re fine.” Sitting beside me, he scours the rink and smiles when he spots Luke. His smile becomes a grimace when Luke checks a guy into the boards. “I can’t believe your dad did this. He’s the biggest teddy bear, and hockey is such a…”

“Brutal game?” I shrug. “Yeah, it is.”

My dad, Nicholas Sokolov, is one of the greatest forwards to ever play the game. On the rink, he was always pure, fiery hunger; but off, he is and always has been the gentlest person I know. When I first started watching him play, it was a shock to see that scrappy man out on the ice.

Eli’s gaze tracks Luke as he says, “I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. Luke’s a teddy bear, too, and look at him.” Luke throws his shoulder into the other team’s offense and wins the puck, then skates toward the bench.

“Wait, why is Luke leaving already?” Eli asks.

“His shift is over.”

“He was on the ice for sixty seconds!”

“Less than that. More like forty-five. It doesn’t sound like a long time, but it’s tough. Hockey’s an anaerobic sport—you go as hard as you can the whole time you’re on the ice, switch, catch your breath, hydrate, then go back out there.”

“So he’s not being penalized,” Eli says.

“Nope. He’s doing exactly what he’s supposed to.”

Eli beams. “Good.”

Answering more of Eli’s questions, I explain icing and offsides and why some hits are deemed fair and others aren’t. As the players switch again, I notice the tallest guy of the bunch swing his long legs over the boards, then shoot across the ice like he was born to be there. A zing of awareness bolts down my spine. Goosebumps dance over my skin.

There’s something familiar about him.

“That guy’s fast,” Eli says. “Number 12.”

I nod dazedly, trying to ignore my pounding heart as I tug back on my headphones. I can feel a goal coming, and soon the horn announcing it will blare at a volume my brain can’t handle.

My eyes track Number 12, riveted, curiosity clawing at me. Who is he?

It’s difficult to get a sense of a player’s body when they’re in their pads and gear, but there’s something so familiar about the breadth of his shoulders, the long line of his legs, a lick of dark hair curling up at the bottom of his helmet.

I stare at him as if simply looking long enough will solve the riddle. I know him. I swear I do.

For the next thirty seconds, Number 12 is all I think about, all I see, lithe and lightning-fast on the ice, leading his side’s offensive momentum, backtracking when his teammate loses the puck and the other team’s defense sends it to their forwards. He’s there in a flash, gaining possession, exploding in a fresh burst of speed across the ice. Bearing down on the goalie, he fakes a slapshot, cuts past the crease, then cheekily backhands it into the net, right over the goalie’s shoulder.

The light blazes red, and my headphones dull the roaring blare of the horn to a faint hum. Eli cheers, smiling as he pats my thigh in his excitement.

Number 12 isn’t a hot-dogger. He simply lifts his chin to acknowledge his teammates who swarm him. I don’t see his smile behind that mouthguard, if he smiles at all. The crush of players block my view, slapping his helmet and hugging him.