When you're a blacklisted preschool teacher and somehow end up coaching the worst team in the NHL, it's shaping up to be the crappiest Christmas ever.We’re adding an NHL head-coaching job to the Yule log dumpster fire of my holiday season.
I lost my apartment and had to move back home for the holidays.
My mom sneaks into my bedroom to watch me sleep because she “can’t help it. I missed my little girl so much, Ellie!”
And my day-drinking granny has declared herself the team's new equipment manager so she can ogle hockey butts in the locker room.
The last thing I need is twenty-two adult toddlers with blades on their feet and bad attitudes for Christmas.
Captain Fletcher Sullivan? He’s the worst, with his muscles and his sneer, turning every practice into The Grinch on Ice.
Between breaking up fights, hosting snack time, and bailing my goalie out of jail, I have no time for Christmas cheer—or for the cocky, absurdly ripped team captain who thinks I don’t belong in the NHL.
Yes, I played on the women’s national hockey team.
Yes, I lift weights.
And yes, I will pick up a six-four hockey player and put him in time-out if he doesn’t follow directions.
There’s no Christmas miracle coming to save us. We lose. A lot.
But armed with Goldfish crackers and juice boxes, I’m going to turn this team of ragtag hockey players into winners.
Even if it turns me into the Grinch.
Or worse—makes me fall for the enemy.
“Girl, they are throwing you off a glass cliff.”
“I don’t want everyone to blame me when we get creamed.” I sink in my chair.
My dad kneels in front of me and grabs my hand. “Exactly! So do the press conference, say you have another job offer, and this will all be over.”
“No wonder they kept trading your ass around when you were a goalie!” Granny Murray makes a rude noise. “You’re a quitter and a narc.”
Angie comes in with my phone that’s ringing and ringing.
I don’t recognize the number, though it’s a Maplewood Falls area code.
“It’s the press.” Angie waves the phone at me. “Tell them you won’t do interviews unless they pay you.”
“Ooh! Yeah, then we can go shopping,” Maxine squeals.
“Aunt Babs already bought you clothes, sweetie.” Mom smooths my hair down.
“Don’t talk to the press,” my dad begs.
“Nate,” my mom tells him, “let me make you some herbal tea.”
“Food!” my little brothers wail.
“For God’s sake,” my dad curses.
I answer the phone.
“Speaker,” Maxie whispers. “Put it on speaker.”
“Hello?” My voice is hesitant.
A loud, irritated male sigh echoes around the kitchen as everyone watches breathlessly. “Candy Cane?” I can practically hear Fletcher roll his eyes. “I mean, Coach Candy Cane.”
I grimace. “About that…”
“You better not be flaking out,” the deep voice warns. “You have the keys. We’re freezing our nuts off out here.”
I write the kind of books I love—romantic comedies featuring snarly guys with hearts of gold, kick-ass heroines, and a swoon-worthy happily ever after! Also wine. And cupcakes.
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Print Copy Ends December 10 |
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