Page 52 of Ice Cold Heart
His attention returned to Dombrowski, unsuccessfully trying to catch Gavin on a breakaway. “Christmas brunch. Eleven o’clock. Now get on the ice.”
“Yes, sir,” I mumbled, shaking off my shock.
I hopped the boards with a fresh bout of hope swimming through my blood. Avery probably didn’t know about the invite, but I could make the most of the opportunity. Remind her how good we were together and allay some of her fears.
If she wanted friends with benefits, I could give her that—for now. My end game was considerably more complicated, but I was ready to work for a chance with her. Unless she took one look and slammed the door in my face.
I considered texting her about Coach’s invite, but there was a solid chance she’d shut it down. Guilt pricked me as I deked around Dombrowski and fired off a pass to Sellers, but she hadn’t specifically asked me to stay away. I was fucking around with a gray area here. Every day without her felt like a gray area.
Sellers slid me the puck, and I tipped it past Duncan, our second line goalie. No. No more waiting. Patience would only get me so far, and Avery needed someone she could trust to push her, just a little.
All I had to do was convince her of that.
20
Ikept forgetting Christmas was almost here. Honestly, I’d almost rather forget it. I hadn’t spent a holiday with Dad in twelve years, and I had no idea what I was supposed to do with him. After he got back from practice on Christmas Eve, he’d dragged a raggedy old fake tree out of the attic, already strung with lights.
We spent a couple of hours hanging a bunch of handmade ornaments next to a collection of generic shiny balls. I’d snuck a closer look when he went into the kitchen to make popcorn and was surprised to find my name scrawled across the backs of all of them in faded ink.
When he’d been setting up the tree, he hadn’t said a word to me, but each of the ornaments I’d made as a kid were carefully placed in prime positions front and center. I didn’t get it. Why save these keepsakes when he didn’t want the person who’d made them?
The evening was… nice. We worked in tandem without any stiffness, and when Marco texted me to come hang out with him and his girlfriend, I politely declined without a hint of remorse. I expected a lecture or a token effort before he found something he’d rather be doing, but Dad managed an entire conversation where he listened to what I said.
It was about the weather, but he was trying.
All in all, I woke up on Christmas morning with a sense of excitement I hadn’t had since I was eight. Not for the presents—for another whole day of trying. The only sore point was Cole. He’d stopped messaging me around the time Dad had left for practice yesterday. I’d figured he’d start up again as soon as he was done, but he’d gone silent where my dad had suddenly become vocal.
Since it was only us today, I dressed in my favorite yoga pants, cropped sweatshirt, and fuzzy socks. Part of me was hoping if I went into the day comfortable it would work some magic on making Dad approachable too.
Mom’s Christmas brunch and cocktail party always meant I’d spend the day using my clothes as armor, though never quite fancy enough as far as she was concerned. Good riddance. I’d take the apathetic parent over the narcissistic one any day. At least I was the one making the choice.
My phone sat on the counter next to my stuff in the bathroom, and I checked it at least three times while I brushed my teeth. No messages. No teasing pics. No wicked smile over a mostly naked torso.
Before I’d woken up with him wrapped around me, we’d texted or talked every day. Usually Cole sent me silly questions, then pestered me with increasingly horrific answers until I responded. I rinsed my mouth and pulled up the pic Cole had sent when I’d teased him about sleeping in a onesie.
Cole: What do you think?
He’d angled the camera to catch his smile, his naked chest, and the faint line of hair disappearing past the bottom edge of the picture. Another inch and I’d have gotten an eyeful of the hard length I’d felt the other night. Not a dick pic, but it might as well have been with my imagination going wild.
We’d danced on the edge of the line that night, then I’d flung myself over it the next time I saw him. Was I foolish for pushing him away? My stomach clenched at the thought of him deciding my back and forth wasn’t worth it and moving on with his life.
I pulled my hair off my face in a simple ponytail and picked up my red lipstick. The bold color was my last line of defense, and I felt naked without the weight of it on my face. With a shaky breath, I set the tube back down in my makeup case.
Not everything was about Cole.
I pasted on a smile—a naked smile—as I headed down the stairs. Dad had made an effort yesterday. I wasn’t ready to trust him yet, but I could refrain from my usual brooding and sarcasm until I had a reason to pull it out.
The smell of roasting meat made my mouth water, and I hoped he wasn’t expecting me to help with preparations. My entire experience cooking came from a life skills class I’d been forced to take in high school. I could handle scrambled eggs and anything in a microwavable package.
Dad was in the kitchen, not surprising since I’d slept in until after ten. He glanced my way when I stopped in the archway, but he didn’t stop chopping some green vegetable.
“Morning,” he said. “Coffee’s ready.”
I said a silent prayer of thanks and poured myself a cup. If we were about to return to the stilted awkwardness of the previous days, at least I’d be caffeinated. He didn’t say anything else as I took stock of the room.
Something bubbled on the stove, several bowls containing mashed potatoes and mac and cheese were already on the table, and a small casserole dish sat on the counter with a cloth napkin over it. I hadn’t been aware Dad owned cloth napkins. The strangeness piqued my curiosity, and I lifted the edge of the cloth.
“Rolls,” he grunted. “Can’t have Christmas brunch without rolls.”