Season’s Schemings: A Holiday Hockey Rom Com

“We have to find a… pickle?” I frown at Maddie, who’s standing next to me looking cute as hell in the outfit she changed into for dinner—a plaid kilt and a cream sweater with a V-neck that shows a tantalizing glimpse of her cleavage. Because no, I was not lying when I told her she has great boobs, and no, I am not being a creep by noticing this. It’s just a fact that is impossible for any heterosexual male not to notice immediately.

I know Adam’s noticed.

That tool has been hovering next to us for the past few minutes, trying (and failing) not to stare at Maddie, and then at me, and then at Maddie again.

Which, on the one hand, I get—Maddie is a knockout. But the possessive side of me wants to tell him to stop undressing my wife with his beady eyes. He had his chance with her and he blew it to smithereens.

The bozo is clearly still in his feelings for her, even if he doesn’t know it yet. I almost feel bad for Elizabeth—who’s pretty, but like I said, has nothing on Maddie’s gorgeous eyes and cute smile and curves for days. But then, I remember that she started dating Adam while knowing he was in a long-term relationship, and I don’t feel so sorry for her anymore.

“Yeah, it’s a pickle ornament that’s hidden in the tree,” Maddie replies, her full, pretty lips curling upwards. She’s wearing red lipstick tonight, and it’s a great look on her. “The game’s a tradition for our first night at the cabin.”

“I’ll explain for the newcomers!” exclaims a very merry grandma Dorothy ‘call me Dot, my boy!’ Plumlee. As she says the word “newcomers,” she gives Elizabeth a hard stare before beaming at me and reaching up to ruffle my hair.

And I do mean up, the elderly woman cannot be more than five feet tall. And with her gray hair pulled back in a neat bun, her poinsettia-printed, button-up blouse in the dead of winter, and her ruby red glasses, she could honestly give Mrs. Claus a run for her money.

A bit of a drunkypants Mrs. Claus, mind you…

As Dot drains the last of her mulled wine, she launches into an explanation about how the game of “find the pickle” (a name I couldn’t help but laugh at) is a Christmas tradition in Germany, and the family does it every year to celebrate their German heritage. “The first person to spot the pickle-shaped ornament in the Christmas tree gets the first gift on Christmas morning, and will be rewarded with good fortune in the year to come!”

I nod. “Got it.”

Sounds insane, but no more insane than anything else that’s happened lately.

Elizabeth nods too, smoothing down the tight black mini dress she’s changed into for the evening before looking at Maddie and putting her hand possessively on Adam’s arm. Adam, meanwhile, is sighing and not-so-subtly checking his cuticles the entire way through his grandmother’s explanation.

I note with happiness that the diamond on Elizabeth’s ring finger isn’t half as awesome as Maddie’s ring. Elizabeth’s ring looks like what you’re supposed to buy for a woman with expensive taste, while Maddie’s looks like… her. It captures who she is—interesting and unique and sparkly and cool, all at once.

“One, two, three… go!” Dot cries, and everyone starts pickle-hunting.

I swear. You can’t make this stuff up.

The Christmas tree is a real Douglas Fir that has to be at least nine feet tall, taking advantage of the cabin’s vaulted ceilings. Hunting for a green pickle amidst the branches covered with sparkly, colorful ornaments and lights is actually more difficult than I expected.

It’s also much more competitive. Maddie is crawling on the floor on her hands and knees. Mr. Plumlee is literally throwing ornaments around the room in his search. Maddie’s prim and proper mother is tangled in Christmas lights and (hilariously) screaming “Dig deeper, Richard!” at Maddie’s stepfather.

But hey, I’m a competitive guy—I compete for a living—and I’m not above getting involved in the hilarity. Unlike Elizabeth, who looks like she’s stepped in cow poop with the way her nose is wrinkled and her chin’s tilted up.

“Come on, Lizzie, get in on the action!” I call out as I use my height to my advantage and start rummaging through some upper branches. She looks like the sort of Elizabeth who doesn’t enjoy the nickname “Lizzie.”

“Yeah, Lizzie, put your back into it,” Adam pipes up, his grabby hands patting the tree up and down.

Lizzie sniffs. “I’d rather not, thank you.”

I zone in on a glittery green ornament at the same time as Adam.

Our hands reach for it at the exact same moment.

“Got it!” he exclaims, his fingertips making contact as my hand wraps around the pickle, beating him to the punch. I’m holding the stupid thing, but Adam continues to grab for it, so I decide to let go, stepping back and raising my brows at him as if to say, really, man?

“Seb had it first,” Maddie points out.

“I had it first,” Adam grumbles like a child, fingers closed around the pickle possessively.

“No. Your reflexes are too slow, boy.” Dot chuckles. “Sebastian beat you. He may have gotten there second with Maddie, but he was first with the pickle, that’s for sure. It’s Sebastian’s pickle now.”

I’ve been at the cabin for just over two hours now, and I am confident that I already have a solid ally in Adam’s grandmother.

Adam grudgingly goes to hand it to me, but I stop him. “That’s okay, he can keep it,” I say, adopting the same gentle tone that I used to talk to Allegra-the-hockey-hating-kid at the toy drive.

“But it’s your pickle, Seb,” Maddie says with a small smile, like she’s realizing that I have the upper hand here and my nonchalance is making Adam look petty as all hell.

I have the urge to make her smile again. Because this guy hurt her and humiliated her, dammit. On national TV, no less. She might be my temporary wife, but nobody messes with the people who are important to me. Ever.

I look pointedly at the little three-inch ornament in Adam’s fist. “Nope, that’s definitely Adam’s pickle.”

Elizabeth gasps, Adam looks vaguely confused, and Maddie lets out a strangled burst of surprised laughter. Fueled by this, I wrap my arm around my wife and kiss the top of her head. “Now that the game is done, shall we go get a drink?”

Maddie nods, looking at me like I hung the moon as we walk into the kitchen. When we’re out of earshot of everyone, she practically convulses with laughter. “That was genius, Seb.”

Which is nice to hear and everything, but it also makes me strangely sad. All I did was subtly insult her ex’s manhood. Not exactly original or smart. For Maddie, the bar’s so low, it’s practically rolling around on the floor.

“The guy’s a tool,” I tell her lightly, filling up two glasses with sparkling apple juice.

She hops up on the counter. “I wish Jax had been here to see that. He never liked Adam. I think he’ll like you, though.”

“Good,” I say, and I mean it. I want her brother to like me—I can already tell that he’s the only person in this family that actually seems to know Maddie.

“And he’ll talk hockey with you. He likes to watch it.”

“But you don’t.”

“Sure I do.”

“Yeah right. Wayne Jetski ring a bell?”

“Fine.” She smirks at me. “I like to watch when you’re playing.”

The compliment is unexpected. The type of comment that makes you feel warm inside, and then feel like an idiot for feeling warm inside.

But even stranger than those unexpected warm feelings is the fact that thoughts of my marriage have begun to take center stage in my mind. For the first time in forever, hockey is background noise—Maddie is my focus.

I really do like my temporary wife. More than I ever thought I might.

We’ve only been married for a matter of weeks, but I can already see when she’s tensing up. When she needs me to crack a joke to lighten the mood, or hold her hand to give her the confidence she deserves to have in the first place. Because Adam is clearly an idiot for leaving her, and I wish I could make her see that.

She deserves better. And if I can help her get anything from this marriage, it’s the realization that she deserves a gentleman who treats her like a queen.

After everything that she’s done for me, the least I can do is be the best husband in the world for her.