Single Bells by Anna Martin
“Single bells, single bells,” Joel sang, off key, as he put one foot in front of the other and tried very, very hard not to fall over. “Single all the way.”
The snow storm had swept in furiously since he’d left the house earlier that morning; now the fat flakes were being dumped on the ground with increasing ferocity. And all he was wearing was jeans and a dumb Christmas jumper. No coat.
Stupid office Christmas parties.
Stupid snow.
Stupid Milly who suggested tequila shots to warm them up while they were huddled outside, fingertips going numb while sharing a cigarette outside on Grassmarket. Joel liked Milly, a lot, but she had terrible ideas when it came to alcohol.
Especially when they both had to go to work in the morning.
“Oh what fun, it is to ride on a….” He giggled to himself, thinking about all the things he’d actually like to take a ride on. “On a—oh fuck.”
Joel wasn’t entirely sure what happened. One minute he was edging very slowly down the very steep hill; the next he was on his arse, skidding to an inelegant stop.
Stupid shiny dress shoes that had no grip on the soles.
“Are you okay?”
Oh great. Even better. Someone had actually witnessed that.
Joel got to his feet—slowly, keeping both hands and both feet planted until he was sure of his balance—and brushed his palms on his knees. He’d scraped his hands badly enough to make them bleed. Fortunately, all the alcohol in his system was stopping it from hurting too much.
He looked around for the person who’d called out. And almost goggled at the sight.
The man was standing in the doorway of one of the cottages, wearing joggers, slippers, and a dressing gown that was open enough to show off a toned chest with a smattering of dark hair. Joel forced his eyes upwards. He was wearing glasses, too.
“Single bells,” he croaked again, mostly to himself.
“Hey.” Mr. Tall Dark and Handsome stepped off the front step and into his garden. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
Joel put both thumbs up and thrust them at his handsome stranger. “I’m great. Thanks.”
“Where are you going?”
He pointed down the hill. Way, way down the hill. “Church Street.”
“No. Absolutely not. You’ll never make it in one piece. Come in.”
“Oh, I couldn’t impose.”
“It’s freezing. Come in, please.”
“If you insist,” Joel murmured under his breath. He took very careful steps over to the charming front gate, not wanting to fall over again.
It really was cold outside, but the cottage was cosy and warm, with the embers of a wood fire dying in the grate. A sleek grey cat was curled on a rug in front of it, her face tucked under one paw.
“Here, sit down.”
“I don’t want to get your sofa all wet.”
“It’s fine.”
Joel blinked the snow out of his eyes and tried to focus again. Focus, Joel.
“Why are you awake, anyway? Isn’t it the middle of the night?”
“I’m on call tonight. I usually try and stay semi-awake, just in case someone needs me.” He flashed Joel a brilliant smile. “Looks like someone needed me, even if you aren’t my usual patient.”
“You’re the new vet,” Joel said as his brain woke up.
“That’s me. Nicholas McLeish.”
“Jolly old Saint—”
“Shhh,” he said with a laugh. “Please don’t. Though I do usually go by Nick with friends. I’m only Nicholas when I’m in trouble.”
“I’m Joel. Brodie. Joel Brodie.” That was definitely his name.
“Hello, Joel. Want me to take a look at your hands?”
Joel turned them over and stared for a moment at the red dots that were slowly blooming. He presented them for Nick to look at.
“Sit down,” Nick said. “I’ll be right back.”
Joel perched on the edge of the sofa, his hands palms-up on his knees. While he watched, the cat rolled over in an elegant stretch, spreading her claws and yawning widely, then curled back up again.
“That’s Bastet,” Nick said from the doorway, making Joel jump.
“Like the goddess?”
“Mhmm.” He seemed pleased with Joel’s answer. “This might sting a little.”
He cradled Joel’s hand in his own and quickly swiped an antiseptic wipe over the scrapes, cleaning away the dirt and grit. Joel stared at him, unable to come up with anything sensible to say. Nick had a long nose, strong eyebrows, and cheeks that were flushed pink from the cold. Joel thought that even if he wasn’t drunk, he’d find Nick exceptionally nice to look at.
Nick picked up a tube of cream that smelled faintly medicinal and gently massaged it into Joel’s hands with his fingertips. Joel’s hands had turned very warm, very quickly.
“There,” Nick said as he finished up. “All done.”
“Thank you.”
“Are you cold?”
Joel considered that. “Not really. I have had a lot to drink.”
Nick smiled, and the corners of his eyes crinkled. “I got that impression, yeah. Do you want a cup of tea?”
Joel thought what he would really like was a large glass of Australian red, or a long slurp on whatever Nick was serving.
“Tea would be great. Thank you.”
But he still had his manners.
Silent Knight by Davidson King
EZRA ACKER: AGE TEN
The first time it happened, I was ten. I was living with the Kimbers, my fifth foster family. I got off the school bus and started walking the five blocks to their house. It wasn’t in a great part of town and, Natalie, my foster-for-now mom, always said to keep my head down and walk fast. So, I did and never had a problem… until today.
I’d made it three blocks when I crashed into something solid. I fell backwards, my school bag flattened on the ground under me.
“You should watch where you’re walking.” I didn’t recognize the voice but when I looked up, I did recognize the face. Morris Fieldman. He was sixteen and loved bullying younger kids. He’d never bothered me before but likely because I stayed off his radar. Until now.
“Sssorry, Morris. I was trying to get home; dinner will be ready soon and I have to be on time.”
Morris’s laughter was cruel and that was when I noticed two other people with him. Them I didn’t know but it likely didn’t matter.
“It’s not really your home though is it, Ezra? You don’t have one, or a real family for that matter. Mommy and daddy didn’t want you and left you on the doorstep of a church like an afterschool special. Only, there’s no happily ever after for you, is there?”
I swallowed down my sobs as Morris taunted me and his friends laughed. When I made to get up, Morris pushed me down with his foot.
“Stay down there, that’s where dogs belong.”
A sound in the alley behind Morris made us all jump and when the three of them turned to see what it was, I didn’t pass up the opportunity. I grabbed my bag and ran faster than I ever had before.
The Mystery of the Bones by CS Poe
MY MORNINGS at the Emporium were dictated by a comfortable and quiet routine:
Nat King Cole on the speakers.
Tolerable coffee from the cheap maker in my office.
Coaxing the thermostat until the ancient radiators pinged and hissed with steam.
And when someone disrupted that sense of order, it had a tendency to irritate me.
A sudden bang on the front door caused me to lose track of the till I was counting. I leaned over the counter and squinted at the blurry shape on the other side of the glass.
Whoever it was knocked again and called in a muffled voice, “Courier!”
I grunted and handed my assistant, Max Ridley, the wad of small change. “Count that for me.” I walked down the steps, made my way through the twists and turns of my cavernous store, then unlocked and opened the front door. A whoosh of bitterly cold, snowy wind entered. “We’re not open yet.”
The bike courier shrugged in her bulky winter attire. “Hey, man, not my problem,” she countered, speaking through a face mask. She thrust a clipboard at me. “Sign the last line.”
I brought the paperwork closer, but the details of the package’s origin were beyond impossible to read in the chicken-scratch handwriting of the courier’s office employee. “Hope you’re getting paid extra to deliver before business hours,” I said, signing my name on the form and handing it back.
The courier shoved the clipboard into her oversized bag, removed a square box, and all but threw it into my arms. “And many happy returns.” She turned, stepped back into the cold morning, and unlocked her bike from the lamppost across from the shop.
“Yeah. Happy holidays,” I muttered, closing the door. “What time is it?”
“Um… five ’til,” Max said from the counter.
I left the door unlocked.
Max shut the brass register’s drawer as I joined him once more. He picked up his mug and took a sip of coffee. “That’s not the Depression glassware, is it?”
“I hope not,” I replied, setting the box down. “Unless they sent the decanter in pieces.”
Max visibly cringed at the notion.
Depression glass was too new to have any sort of permanent residency in my shop, but I’d agreed to taking on a rare seven-piece drinking set in what was promised to be a ruby red color, as a project for Max. He’d been more adamant of late about helping with research and amassing contacts of his own. And since the market was always alive and well for Depression glassware, I decided what the hell.
I used a pair of scissors to slice the tape down the middle of the box. I pulled the cardboard flaps back and removed a single sheet of folded paper from atop thick, opaque plastic. Scrawled in what appeared to be a modern rendition of Spencerian script was: Mr. Sebastian Snow, Proprietor.
“What’s it say?” Max asked before I’d gotten any further than unfolding the note.
“It’s not a winning lotto ticket,” I remarked, glancing sideways at him. “So I’m already losing interest.”
“Life isn’t all about money, Seb.”
“You can say that. You don’t have a hospital bill the length of a CVS receipt.”
I’d been shot in May. That batshit crazy Pete White had nearly taken me out with an antique revolver, and all I had to show for surviving was a nasty scar and enough debt to choke a horse. Unsurprisingly, upon learning the value of the Dickson drafts I’d saved, the surviving Robert family members wanted them back and had zero interest in letting me handle their affairs at auction.
As if my percentage would even make a dent in what I predicted their payment would be. Which—fine. Good luck to them trying to maneuver the world of high-end auctions without contacts. Meanwhile, I’d be over here dodging phone calls from the hospital’s collection department. No big deal.
I pulled my magnifying glass from my back pocket and held it over the cursive that mimicked the aesthetic of business communications circa mid-nineteenth century.
An Intriguing Proposition for a Most Curious Man.
Who I am is of no great importance. What I am proposing is.
I, hereby known afterward as Party A, am looking to hire Sebastian Andrew Snow, hereby known as Party B, to recover a most unusual article lost to time and neglect.
I paused, touched the flap on the cardboard box, and tilted it to read, but the only address details were my own. Who the hell was this, and how’d they learn my middle name? I played Andrew pretty close to the chest. No offense to Pop, but I wasn’t a fan.
“What’s that smell?” Max asked suddenly.
I made a vague sound of acknowledgment before continuing to read.
Upon said article’s salvage, Party A is prepared to reward Party B with a most substantial sum.
A Collector.
“Boss?”
“What?” I lowered the magnifying glass to the bottom of the page in order to inspect a disturbingly realistic hand-drawn eye. But that was it. No other details, no contact information, no nada.
“Did you shower this morning?”
At the second disruption to my thoughts, I set the paper down and turned to Max. “Yes.”
“Then what smells like sour milk?” He raised his own arm before shaking his head and saying, “It’s not me.”
“What’s it say about you that you needed to double-check first?” But then I got a whiff of the—death.
And as if Max and I came to the same conclusion at once, we both turned to stare at the steps on my left. Almost one year ago exactly, we’d found a rotting heart under the floorboards and my life forever changed when a redheaded detective came to the Emporium to investigate the mystery.
“‘Villains!’ I shrieked. ‘Dissemble no more!’” I quoted under my breath.
“Don’t.” Max moved around me and tiptoed down the stairs.
“Don’t what?”
He crouched and began to inspect the steps for loose boards that would allow one to successfully conceal a human body part. “Don’t pull out your quotes. It makes everything go topsy-turvy real fast.”
“It does not.”
“It makes you obsessive.”
“Curious,” I corrected. “And it’s human nature to be curious.”
“Not you. And when you get obsessive, people try to kill you.” He looked at me briefly with an expression that read sort of like fight me.
“You act like you’re going to find me dead in a gutter on Staten Island by tomorrow. It stinks in here—I have a right to be curious.”
Max shook his head and continued checking for a floorboard that’d give way to a macabre surprise. “Hello, 911? My boss thinks he’s Columbo….”
“Keep it up and I’m going to trash your holiday bonus.”
Max glanced up a second time, considered, but ultimately dropped the conversation. “The floor’s fine.” He stood, took a step, then frowned as his gaze lowered to the package on the counter.
I looked at it too. It was a very unassuming box. I leaned in and took a sniff. The rancid stench coming from within the plastic made me gag.
“Who’d you piss off now?” Max whispered, a wobble in his voice.
“No one.”
We both studied the box again.
From the corner of my eye, I saw him raise his fist in the classic gesture of rock-paper-scissors. I followed, and on the silent count of three, threw scissors. Max knocked my hand with rock. I let out a breath, squared my shoulders, then grabbed the heavy plastic bag stuffed into the package.
I hoisted out a decapitated human head.
LUCKY CHARMS and coffee leave a decidedly offensive aftertaste upon coming back up. I didn’t have any mints or a toothbrush handy at the shop either, so I tried to mask the vomit-breath with saltwater taffy.
It didn’t work.
In retrospect, of course, it was the least of my problems. But since I had no control over the uniformed officers standing around my counter and inspecting a scene straight out of The Silence of the Lambs, I had to hyperfocus on something. I unwrapped another piece of candy.
“Did you call Calvin?” Max asked from where he sat on the floor, his back against the bookshelves situated in the farthest corner of the shop. Dillon was parked between his legs, enjoying the nervous scratches Max was giving him and not really all that concerned about the morning’s proceedings.
I turned from where I stood at the midpoint between the officers and Max and said, “No.” I tugged the taffy from the wax paper. It stretched into long tendrils and stuck to my hand. I raised my thumb and index finger to suck them clean.
“Why?” Max protested.
“I think it might constitute as crossing a professional line.”
“Yeah, because you’ve zero experience doing that,” Max said, voice dripping with sarcasm.
“Things are different now.”
To say the least.
I rubbed the last of the sticky candy residue against my trouser leg.
“I don’t like this,” Max continued. “When Sebastian has a reverse Ichabod Crane situation, Calvin and Quinn show up. That’s how it works. The universe has established this.”
“I’m one money-order-made-payable-to-the-City-Clerk away from really pissing his sergeant off,” I explained. “I have to follow proper channels these days. That means starting with 911, and letting the NYPD decide which lucky detective team is investigating this mess.”
I turned my head just then to watch a third uniformed officer enter the shop. He muttered some nicety to the man standing guard at the door before immediately making his way toward the counter where a female officer stood.
I turned to Max and held both hands out, indicating for him not to move. “Stay here.” I started after the newcomer.
The cop was tall. Broad shoulders, dark hair, and thick eyebrows. He was watching me approach while quieting the radio emitting gibberish from his belt.
“Hi,” I said. I held out a hand. “I’m the owner. I called—”
“Sebastian Snow,” he answered for me.
I slowly lowered my hand. “Er—yeah.”
“You’ve got a reputation.”
“I’ve been told that before.”
“I’m sure you have.”
I got the distinct impression this officer did not find me to be a charming sonofabitch.
“Now, I know you like to play amateur sleuth, Mr. Snow,” he continued, hands on his utility belt. His accent was so Brooklyn, it was practically a stereotype.
“I’ve recently retired.”
“I don’t think you’re funny.”
“Okay.”
“And I don’t think you’re cute.”
“Good.”
“Being a cop is a serious job,” he said in a chastising tone. “And when civilians stick their noses into our business—”
“I’m pretty certain I called you folks for help,” I interrupted.
The female officer leaned over the counter and whispered something to my new biggest fan.
“I know who he’s dating,” Dickhead retorted. He pointed a finger at me. “And this ain’t got nothing to do with you being gay.”
“Thank God,” I said humorlessly. Because I hadn’t heard that before.
“I wouldn’t care if you were engaged to my sergeant. You shouldn’t be allowed within a hundred feet of a crime scene.”
I tugged my sweater closed and crossed my arms over my chest. “So did you want to question me, or should I skedaddle and leave you to all this, Mr. Holmes?”
Dickhead’s nostrils flared like an enraged bull. He closed the space between us and stared me down—which didn’t work because I’ve been around the block a few times with cops—then something in his facial expression changed. Faltered, maybe.
“What’re your eyes doing?”
“Moving,” I answered, my tone more dry than white bread left on too high a setting in the toaster. My Dancing Eyes condition was hardly noticeable as an adult, but still they wobbled involuntarily at times. “I have achromatopsia. Sometimes my eyes move strangely when I get stressed.”
“You’re stressed?”
“Yes, Officer,” I said with a hint of mockery. “I’ve only had one cup of coffee and found a head in a box.”
“Your stressed is pretty calm, Mr. Snow.”
I shrugged. “Hysterics won’t change the situation. Although, I did vomit, if that’ll make you happy.”
“For Christ’s sake, Rossi,” the female cop said, loud enough for me to hear. She leaned over the counter a second time and asked, “Do you know the deceased, Mr. Snow?”
I stared at her, at Rossi, then back to her again. “Do I—know—the head? We’re not acquainted, no.”
Rossi started to speak, but the bell over the shop’s front door chimed for the umpteenth time and gave him pause. He looked around me, raised his lip, and all but rolled his eyes.
“Calvary’s here,” he muttered.
I turned around.
Rescue came in the form of Calvin Winter.
My most favorite detective of the NYPD.
Not that I was biased or anything.
He marched across the showroom floor, making a direct beeline for me where I stood at the base of the elevated counter with Rossi.
“Calvin—” I started, hoping I sounded cool and relaxed and not utterly relieved that despite our soon-to-be legally recognized relationship, he’d still been the one shouldered with another case involving yours truly.
But Calvin cut me off by grabbing my shoulders and pulling me into a bone-crushing embrace. His heavy coat was damp from melting snow. The wool was itchy and cold against my skin, but the discomfort was eased by the familiar warmth and hard body under the layers. Sure, I’d been in bed with this handsome man only a few hours ago, but I didn’t think I’d never not find comfort in the scent of Calvin’s earthy cologne or the ever-present cinnamon on his breath from obsessive mint-popping.
He’d shown up like a knight in shining armor.
The Lemon Drop Kid by Josh Lanyon
Prologue
“Well, well. If it isn’t the Lemon Drop Kid.”
Huddled in a booth at Cutter’s Mill Bar and Grill, Dax and I looked up from our drinks—and kept looking up—as Officer Raleigh Jackson, Little Copenhagen PD’s finest, gazed down at us with resignation.
Dax, being the goofball that he was, giggled.
Me, being whatever I was seventeen months ago, choked mid-swallow on my lemon drop martini.
Technically, it was a choke and a teeny-tiny splutter, made worse by Dax—still giggling maniacally—energetically pounding my back.
So, the teeny-tiny splutter became a full splashdown. I could see Raleigh—Officer Raleigh Jackson—prismed through the glittery drops of martini on my eyelashes. I think he was trying not to laugh.
But he sounded as serious as ever when he said, “Jeez, I hope neither of you juvenile delinquents plan on driving anywhere tonight.”
I found my voice and said, a little hoarsely from all the coughing, “You know we’re thirty, right?”
Raleigh’s lip curled. “You’re twenty-eight, Caz, and that’s a legal technicality.”
“Rude,” Dax observed.
We’ve been best friends since the sixth grade, Dax and I. No origin story. We randomly got seated next to each other in Mrs. Kaynor’s homeroom, and the rest was history
“I’ll say.” It did kind of sting, given it was Friday night and we weren’t doing anything that everyone else in the place—barring Officer Killjoy—wasn’t.
“You could drive us home,” Dax suggested. He flinched when I kicked him beneath the table, then grinned even more broadly.
Raleigh snorted. “Yeah, no. I’m on duty.”
“So?”
“So,” Raleigh shot back. A reminder that, sure, he was older, but not that much older, and snappy repartee had never been his long suit.
“I call bullshit,” Dax retorted. “You just ordered beer and a plate of potato skins to eat at the bar.”
That was news to me, and you’d have thought it was news to Raleigh, given his expression.
“Anyway, I’ve got a ride.” Dax added slyly, “You could drive Caz home, though.”
Dax always had a ride, literally and metaphorically. He was the original chick magnet: slim and blond with dark soulful eyes, which was false advertising because he was the least soulful person on the planet. He was also short, which I used to tell him was where the magnet part came in. He could have easily fit on the front of some lucky girl’s refrigerator.
Raleigh’s dark brows pulled into a straight and forbidding line. “Ha.”
Frankly, it was a pretty half-hearted effort. Like he was afraid he was going to be roped into driving the kiddy carpool, but knew it was his duty.
“HA!” I said with a lot more vim and vigor. Because thanks, but no thanks.
In fact, we got a few glances from our fellow drinkers.
Raleigh noticed the interested looks and retreated posthaste to the bar.
I glared at Dax. “Seriously?”
“Hey, he noticed you the minute he walked in here. I think he was going to grab his food and take off, but he changed his mind when he saw you. It’s mutual, man. You should go for it.”
“Go for it? What are we…” I groped for a suitably scathing descriptor because the idea that Raleigh might actually sort-of be even a little bit interested was way too… Much.
Dax supplied, “Horny? Yes, we are. And so’s he. Come on, you guys have been dancing around this since you were kids.
“He still thinks I am a kid,” I said a little bitterly.
“He’s only three years older than us.” Dax added slyly, “You know he’s not seeing that coach anymore.”
I grunted, but Dax grinned. “You don’t fool me. Your face is the color of your hair.”
My hair is brown with some reddish glints, so nope. I offered my middle finger in the hope he could still make out shapes.
But I can’t deny that the news Raleigh was no longer seeing Muskies football coach Harbin Folke cheered me up no end. So, when Dax eventually left with his girl du jour, I didn’t phone for an Uber.
I didn’t phone anybody. I sat there nursing my third lemon drop, watching out of the corner of my eye as Raleigh ate his loaded potato skins and chatted with the bartender.
When he finally pushed his plate away, my pulse picked up, because it was liable to look like I was waiting—hoping—
Because I was.
Raleigh half-turned on his stool, scanned the room casually, caught my gaze. We stared at each other. He glanced away, ordered a second beer, and when it came, he picked it up and wandered over to my booth.
So. Raleigh. Think of the boy next door in a 1950s rom com. His dad was chief of police and becoming a cop was all Raleigh wanted to be growing up. He was popular, he played quarterback three out of his four years in high school, and yep, right after college he became a cop. Also, he was tall, broad-shouldered, and long-legged. He had straight dark hair, light gray eyes, and a handsome, serious face. He did not look like someone who smiled much, and that was true, but he had a great laugh. His nose wrinkled just a bit, the corners of his eyes crinkled, and his chuckle came out all husky and boyish. It was one of my favorite sounds way back when making Raleigh laugh had been one of my goals in life.
I gazed up at him, and my heart was in my throat.
“Waiting for someone?” He looked very serious, so maybe he was just concerned with me driving while over the legal limit.
But Dax was right. It was now or never. So, I smiled. “I hope so.”
Raleigh tipped his head, like he was trying to see me better, then he gave a half-smile and slid into the booth across from me.
“It’s been a long time, Caz,” he said. “How’ve you been?”
“Great.” I shrugged. “Busy.”
“They make you vice president over at Bredahl Cookies and Cakes yet?”
“Nope. But there’s no escape.”
“You can run but you can’t hide?”
“Exactly. I can’t even run very far since I live in my sister’s backyard.”
Raleigh laughed that soft, husky laugh, and I got that warm, funny feeling in the pit of my stomach. There was a little twinkle in his pale eyes as he said in seeming commiseration, “Family business.”
“Yeah. Speaking of which. Have you made detective yet?” I mean, I knew he hadn’t. For one thing he still wore that snazzy navy-blue uniform that hugged his shoulders, thighs, and ass. For another, I’d have heard about that. The whole town would have heard about that.
Raleigh grimaced. “Still working on it. Pop says, the problem is nothing happens in Little Copenhagen that requires detecting.”
I grinned. Not only was Raleigh’s pop chief of police, his father before him, and his father before him had also been Little Copenhagen’s chief of police. There had never been any question of what Raleigh was going to be when he grew up. Just like there had never been any question of me eventually running Bredahl Cookies and Cakes.
The difference was, Raleigh loved being a cop. I couldn’t think of anything I wanted to do less than become a corporate executive for a cookie company. Even some of the most delicious cookies in the world cookie company.
Raleigh glanced at my empty martini glass, said lightly, “If you want another drink, I’ll drive you home.”
I gazed into his eyes, smiled. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” Raleigh held my gaze, slowly smiled.
Christmas Lights by RJ Scott & VL Locey
Chapter One
Ryker
Coach Carmichael paced the full length of the locker room, his gaze landing on each of us before he stopped right in front of Alex. This was what he did before every game. He zeroed in on one of the guys and imparted words of wisdom. Sometimes it was just a quick “get this done” with a lift of an eyebrow; other times it was this whole speech about teamwork and how good the picked-on player could be if only he did X, Y, or Z. On most occasions, he lightened the tone. Sometimes he even made a joke, although none of us laughed in case he was being ironic; none of us wanted to get on Coach’s bad side after all.
Before the last game, it had been me under the spotlight, being reminded that scrappiness in the corners was a prerequisite and not a choice. I’d held his gaze, even as Alex had snickered next to me, and Jens had scrubbed his face with his hands, trying not to laugh. One turnover against Boston and I would be labeled as the guy who got sloppy in the corners for the rest of the damn season, but what everyone had failed to mention was that I’d had Brady Rowe all the fuck over me and I’d been intimidated. Every rookie had their first time breaking under intimidation, and that had been my moment, and I’d sure as hell wanted to own it. But that was the last game. This game it was Alex who would get the pep talk. I waited with bated breath and a barely held snicker at this payback.
Coach crossed his arms over his chest. “The Railers will put Tennant Rowe’s line out against the JAR line.”
I exchanged glances with Jens, who was the J in the Jens/ Alex/ Ryker line, or JAR as we were now known by pundits, haters, and fans alike, and he gave me a look that spoke volumes. Going up against the Railers was something that only happened a few times a year. After all, the Pennsylvania team was in the Eastern Conference, and we were in the West, but given they were third in the overall table to our scratchy twenty-third, we all knew that tonight was going to be one long-ass fight to come away with any points at all.
That’s defeatist, my dad’s words flew into my thoughts. He always told me that the game was won in a man’s head way before he started to play, and I respected the hell out of my dad, who was coach to the same damn Railers team we were facing tonight.
“You know you’ll have their best D-Men out against you, Ulfsson and Sato-West, so for fuck’s sake keep your heads up and stay on task.” He waved to include me and Jens. “To quote the Great One, 'skate to where the puck is going to be, not where it has been’, okay? Watch for any space and play the game. I want shots on goal because tonight we’re playing the statistics game.”
My brain went immediately to another well-timed Gretsky quote, ‘you miss a hundred percent of the shots you don’t take’.
Yay for that to pop into my thoughts when we were potentially going to come away losing ten-one to one of the best teams ever fielded in the NHL.
“Coach,” Alex murmured, and we all said the same. The pep talk wasn’t just for Alex. It was for all of us, really, and we knew that. “We can do this,” Coach added and slowly turned a full three-sixty.
“We can win against this team. We have the pieces in place. We just need to move in the right direction. Let’s call the starting lineup,” he instructed and handed the clipboard to Colorado, who was our backup goalie tonight, nursing a sprained groin muscle. Whether or not it was from hockey or one of his particularly active sex marathons he talked so much about , we didn’t know. Still, he was there if we needed him, but on the other hand, we really hoped we didn’t because just recently he’d become even more erratic than he’d been before. Colorado grinned wolfishly, then tapped the board in an imitation drum roll.
“Forwards: Jens, Cherry, Madsen; D-men: Novikov, Myers, and Lemon is our starting goalie.” At that point, he fist-bumped Andre LeMans, who just sighed at the fact that his nickname had somehow become Lemon, just as Alex Garcia had become Cherry. Part of me wished I’d get a cool nickname as well, but Mads was already taken by my dad, and even though other players used it, I kind of wanted my own. One day.
Each name was met by a small cheer, and by the time we were lined up in the tunnel, waiting for warm-ups, I was pumped. This was going to be good. I just had to forget it was the Railers and focus on the fact that I’d practiced against Ten, my unofficial/ official stepdad, for so long over the summer I’d begun to learn some of the things he did so well. Of course, seeing him tonight wasn’t going to be fun like we’d had in the heat of summer. This was serious shit. The Raptors needed the points desperately, and I couldn’t even look at my dad on the Railers bench in case he smiled at me with encouragement or was in coach mode and scowled at me as an opposing player. Unfortunately, Ten hadn’t gotten the memo about avoiding me as he was waiting at the center line as I passed.
“Ry.” He nodded and skated slowly away, giving me a smile that was half love and half we’re-gonna-crush-you. I smiled back and returned his nod, sending a puck across the ice to land on his stick. He passed it back, and that was all we did by way of acknowledging each other as opponents.
Then after a short break, it was game on, and the Railers were three goals up in the first period with Ten’s line out every single damn time the JAR line was out. There wasn’t a hope in hell of them making a mistake so we could steal the puck.
But then, early in the second period, Adler Lockhart, made a mistake. He turned over the puck, and I could hear the collective gasps in the arena and probably from every single person watching this game on TV. The Railers didn’t do turnovers, and at first, our line froze, and then it became obvious what had happened. Lockhart’s stick had tangled after a heroic dive from our best D-Man and captain, Vlad.
Vlad shuttled the puck to Alex, and what Alex did next was a thing of beauty. He hared up the rink toward Stan Lyamin, making it look as if he was going straight to shoot, and then in a highlight reel move, he passed left to Jens, who sent it streaking from his stick onto mine. There was no way I could dust this pass off; we didn’t have time. We’d caught the Railers off guard, and I had to shoot now. Otherwise, Stan would close that tiny gap he’d left, thinking Alex was firing a slap shot from the other end. Everything slowed down, instinct kicked in, and I visualized where it was going. I could feel every muscle in me screaming to make this the right shot for this moment.
When the puck left my stick, it didn’t even wobble or waver. It headed straight for the hole between Stan’s glove and his beloved pipes— a hole that was closing, even as the puck flew. He missed the flying rubber disc by an inch, the net straining as the puck hit it, and somehow the Raptors had scored against the Railers, and we had pulled a goal back. The siren sounded in the arena, the Raptors fans going wild, and I went to one knee, celebrating in the most dramatic way I could. That goal, the first I’d ever scored against my dad and Ten, was one I would remember forever.
After that, it was almost okay that we lost by four goals.
Alex and I met Dad and Ten after the game. With only three days to go until Christmas, it was hard to find any suitable place we could meet up, so we’d asked them back to our place, which had a tiny tree in one corner and lights around the arch into the kitchen. We were done with official games before Christmas, with five days off because of the way the game schedule fell for us. Not so much for the Railers, who had games in Dallas and Florida close to Christmas Day.
After tomorrow’s practice and postgame analysis, my Christmas break started, although losing to the Railers five to one wasn’t a brilliant result for us to discuss as a team. Whatever. Nothing was going to mess with my excitement at spending an entire five days with Jacob.
Ten waltzed into our place, looking all kinds of badass, then hugged me so tight I couldn’t breathe.
“So proud of you, Ry,” he wouldn’t let me go until Dad pried him away.
“Nice goal, son,” Dad said gruffly and held me almost as tight. “So fucking tight.”
“What about my feint and pass?” Alex teased when we all separated, and he got included in hugs as well, along with congratulations from Ten. Alex was spending time with his family, and that included his partner, Sebastian, and I know he was apprehensive, although things had been better recently. At least Sebastian had been invited to spend time with Alex’s family, so that was a win.
“Presents!” Ten announced, and I heard Dad groan. Ten had this way of going into a shop and buying everything. No joke. From a bargain-bin bobblehead to expensive skates, he just wanted to give everything to everyone, donating a shit ton of money to local charities anonymously and helping to make peoples’ Christmases good ones.
Even Alex was in on the gift exchange, and we spent a good hour laughing and drinking beer and celebrating Christmas early. Part of me was sad that I wasn’t seeing Mom and Dad in the break, but Dad was down south, and he had Ten, and as for Mom, she was on vacation in Mexico with her husband and my little sisters. Everything had worked out so well for both of them, but I knew if I’d been alone, then either Mom or Dad would have been there for me.
Only this year, I wasn’t going to be alone at all.
I was going to Jacob’s farm, staying in some old cabin he and his dad had spent the fall renovating. Scott was coming with Hayne, and Benoit was visiting with Ethan for at least three days. The six of us had been planning this Christmas break since the NHL bigwigs had released the schedule, and it would be so good to catch up with Scott and Ben, if only to shoot the shit and remember life before everything had gone to hell. Owatonna College seemed so long ago, and chilling with friends was exactly what I needed. Not that it was only a college reunion. After all, we’d invited Henry as well, but he was only coming out of the therapy facility for a few days and spending the time with his family this Christmas, although he didn’t seem all that happy with that particular state of affairs. He was getting more morose and confused with every visit, so much so that his key therapist had suggested we stop visiting for a while.
Alex went to bed a little after two a.m., Ten pleaded exhaustion, and then it was just Dad and I, sitting by the tree in silence, enjoying each other’s company, and sipping coffee, which I knew would likely keep me up.
“Is it okay if I ask you something, Dad?”
He glanced up from his coffee and smiled at me. “Always,” he murmured. We’d had our bad times, Dad and I, but there was no man I wanted more in my corner in my public and private life. The question I had was very relevant to the thoughts spinning in my head right now. Jacob and I. The future.
“Did you know Ten would say yes when you asked him to marry you?”
His eyes widened a little, and then he nodded. “You have to remember Ten wasn’t in a good place back then, with his injury and with the residual…” He tapped his head, and I couldn’t help but recall the awfulness of that Christmas. Through it all, Dad and Ten had fought the effects of the injury to stay together and in love, and then the wedding, it had been so beautiful.
“But you knew he’d say yes, right?”
He paused, but that was my dad; the focused, calm one, he never let words fly that weren’t considered and thoughtful.
“Ten is the other half of me, and despite everything, in my heart, I knew he’d say yes. Why?”
“No reason, just been thinking about things, is all.”
“Is something worrying you? Is someone on the team messing with you about me and Ten?” Abruptly, he was fiercely defensive of his son, and I loved him for that.
“No way would Coach Carmichael let any of that fly,” I reassured him. “I just…” I couldn’t finish the sentence. The enormity of what I felt for Jacob was difficult to put into mere words.
“What is it, Ry? Are you okay?” He looked so concerned, and it didn’t take much for me to see that I was coming over as a weird-ass kid who was worrying his dad.
I wanted to tell him that Jacob and I would be together forever. But he might’ve thought I was stupid, and say that we couldn’t know what we wanted yet. Dad loved me whatever I did, but what if he said I was too young to think about tying myself to one person?
I’m twenty-four, and Jacob is my forever, I defended myself in the imaginary scenario in which Dad might think less of me or question my decisions. Of course he could be good with everything, but on the off chance he wasn’t, I kept my truth that Jacob was my everything to myself for now.
“I’m fine, Dad, just happy to see you and Ten so good together.”
Dad pulled me into a sideways hug.
“Love you,” he said.
“I love you too.”
“Merry Christmas, son.”
