“You should come here every year,” Sophie announces, like it’s the most obvious solution in the world. “Then you can share ours.”
The innocent suggestion hits harder than it should. Because for a moment, I let myself imagine it—being part of this family’s traditions, having somewhere to belong during the holidays, being someone worth including.
“That’s very sweet, Sophie,” I manage.
Across the table, Tom clears his throat. “Speaking of traditions, I hope everyone’s ready for the pond hockey game tomorrowmorning. I’ve been looking forward to showing Clare how real hockey’s played.”
“Real hockey?” Mitch raises an eyebrow. “When’s the last time you laced up skates, old man?”
“Last week, smartass. And I can still outskate you.”
“We’ll see about that.”
The conversation flows into playful arguments about who’s the better player, family legends, and increasingly outrageous trash talk. It’s just the dynamic I’d expect from a house full of competitive personalities.
Then Evan’s friend Mike, who apparently stops by every Christmas Eve, makes an appearance. He’s loud, slightly drunk, and has opinions about everything.
“So Clare,” he says, settling into the conversation like he belongs there, “what’s it like dating a guy who plays with pucks for a living?”
There’s something dismissive in his tone that immediately puts my back up. Like Mitch’s career is some kind of joke instead of the result of years of dedication and talent.
“Pretty amazing, actually,” I reply smoothly. “It’s not everyone who gets to watch their boyfriend be the best at what they do.”
“Right, but what’s he gonna do when he’s too old to play? These athlete types, they never think ahead.”
The comment is casual and thoughtless, but I catch the way Mitch’s shoulders tense. This is clearly a sore spot, criticism he’s heard before.
Before I can formulate a response that won’t get me banned from family dinners, Mitch’s hand covers mine on the table.
“Clare’s actually helping me look at some investment opportunities,” he says easily. “Planning ahead is important.”
It’s a lie—we’ve never discussed his finances—but it’s the kind of protective deflection that makes my chest tight. He’s shielding both of us from Mike’s ignorance while making me look good in the process.
“Smart man,” Tom says approvingly. “Listen to the woman who knows about money.”
The conversation moves on, but Mitch’s thumb traces lazy circles on my knuckles, a silent acknowledgment of what just happened. He protected me from rudeness, included me in his future, and made me feel like someone worth defending.
It’s those small acts of care that are dismantling my defenses faster than any grand gesture could.
After dinner, as we’re cleaning up, Karen pulls out a box of new ornaments—delicate glass baubles that catch the light like tiny prisms.
“These need to go on the tree,” she announces. “But they’re fragile, so be careful.”
I’m examining one particularly beautiful piece—an intricate snowflake that seems to hold the kitchen light—when Mitch appears beside me.
“That one’s perfect,” he says, his voice close to my ear.
“It’s gorgeous.”
“Like someone else I know.”
Heat creeps up my neck. “That’s a terrible line.”
“But you’re blushing, so it worked.”
He’s right. I am blushing, and he’s looking entirely too pleased with himself about it.
“Come on,” he says, taking the ornament from my hands. “Let’s find it a good spot.”