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“You hush your mouth, Bobby Hastings.”
“Puck Bunny,” I say, continuing the game.
“Oh that’s easy: the things Rizzo likes to stick his dick in!”
We all bust out laughing at that and declare it a correct answer. Rizzo looks mildly offended for half a second but then shrugs, knowing it’s damn well true. His eyes cut to Nat for the briefest of moments but he quickly yanks his gaze back to Hattie, raising his glass her way.
“Touche,” he says, inclining his head.
“Ok, but seriously, I’m gonna need a list of all these or something,*” Hattie says, downing the rest of her drink.
[*a glossary of hockey slang can be found in the back of this book]
One afternoon a few days later, she and Nat come down to run through some upcoming events with us, getting volunteers and whatnot. There’s a Halloween trick-or-treating thing this weekend and a few other fall-type things, and though it’s still over a month away, a handful of the things she’s asking about are Christmas related. Which reminds me of her strange hatred of the holiday.
“Are you going to this thing tomorrow?” she asks, waving the flyer for a Halloween party at one of the bars downtown that Rizz and a bunch of the guys are going to.
“Nah, how about you?”
She hikes a shoulder. “Maybe. If Nat or Bobby are going, I might tag along. I’ll have to figure out a costume quick, fast, and in a hurry though.”
“You can never go wrong with a naughty school girl. Just throwing it out there,” I say with a grin and she smirks.
“Well, good thing I already have the plaid skirt and crop top then.” I clench my jaw at the picture of Hattie channeling her inner Britney Spears and quickly shove the image away. I lean my forearms on the edge of the wall and she does the same from the other side.
“So, are we officially ask-deep-personal-questions-friends status yet?”
She watches as some of the guys fuck around on the ice, just being stupid. “I’ll never understand how y’all do that,” she says, shaking her head.
“Do what?”
“Skate like that. Or in general I guess.”
My eyes fly wide. “You’ve never skated before? Likeever?”
“Oh, right, actsoooosurprised that a girl from southern Louisiana hasn’t strapped knives to her feet and yee-hawed around on fuckin’ice,” she says dryly, giving me one of those looks of hers that saysbless your heart(which she's explained is southern foryou’re an idiot).
I chuckle but don’t let her derail my thoughts completely. “Ok, so we’re coming back to this skating topic later, but answer the other question.”
“Oh sorry. Umm, yeah I guess so…Why?” She eyes me warily.
“Well, if we're that kind of friends now, I was going to ask you to explain your hatred of my favorite holiday.”
She lets out a long breath, as if she’s relieved, like she was dreading me asking something else. I wonder what she doesn’t want me to dig into.
“It’s not really the holiday that I hate, but it’s gotten wrapped up in my annoyance with this time of year, so now Christmas as a whole equals shit for me.” I furrow my brow. She studies me for a long moment, absently twirling a lock of hair around her finger, as if deliberating if she’s going to explain. Finally, she decides to share.
“For almost my entire life, bad things always happen to me in December. More accurately, within a week or so of Christmas.”
I narrow my eyes at her. “Seriously?”
“Seriously,” she says with a hard nod.
“But…surely notthatmuch could have all gone wrong in that one particular week. Not enough to make you hate the entire thing.”
She leans forward to lean her own arms on the wall beside mine, a spark of challenge in her blue eyes that’s admittedly…sexy. I like challenge. I like games and competition. I like being pushed and pushing back, especially in certain areas that involve very little clothing…I shake myself inwardly, not letting my mind wander in that direction.
“When I was four, our house caught fire two days before Christmas. The next year, our dog died on Christmas day. When I was seven, we were in a car wreck. The next year, my dad walked out on us—literally went out for “milk for Santa” on Christmas Eve and never came back. What a fucking cliché right?" She shakes her head and rolls her eyes flippantly, but I can see the flash of pain there even after all these years. "Flat tires, missed flights, break ups, stitches twice, food poisoning once. I was even mugged by a guy dressed as Santa.” Before I can protest that she has got to be kidding on that one, she raises her right palm. “Hand on the Bible, Jolly Old St. Nick stole my purse.”
