“Ah.” I feel behind me and there it is, a nice strip of silver tinsel clinging to my butt. I yank it off and clear my throat, too. “Right. Well. Back to business. I need your help with story time and the book signing afterward.”
He arches an eyebrow and leans a shoulder against the archway, arms across his chest. “My help for an event that’s going to disproportionately boost your sales.” He clucks his tongue. “No dice, Di Natale.”
“Jonathan.” I step closer, lowering my voice. “Please. I need someone to keep the mob in check. Parents can be entitled shitheads.”
He leans in and says, “I know. Which is why I don’t bother with them.”
A growl rolls out of me. “I promised Eli you’d make sure anyone who’s out of line gets the boot.”
“And that’s my fault?” Jonathan glances down and extracts his phone from his pocket as it makes a repeated ding.
“Jonathan, can’t that wait?”
“You’re quite the hypocrite, Gabriella, given you just checked your phone a moment ago.” He frowns at his screen, wiping his forehead with his free hand. I notice his face is damp, like he’s sweating. His hand is shaking a little.
For just a moment, my empathy wins out over my annoyance. “Are you okay?”
“Fine,” he snaps, pocketing his phone, then strolling past me toward his coat hook.
I gape as I spin and follow his path. “We were in the middle of a conversation.”
“Conversation’s over.” He unhooks his messenger bag, which holds the laptop he’s always tapping on whenever customers aren’t around. It has a screen shield so I can’t see shit. Trust me, I’ve tried. Bag on his shoulder, he storms into the bookkeeping room and shuts the door behind him with a thud.
Stunned, I clench my teeth and stare up at the ceiling. Irony of ironies, we were standing under mistletoe.
“Gabriella!” Eli calls.
“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.