Summary:
There’s always that chance that your heart’s desire is one click away.
Someone needs to pinch web designer/humor blogger/Pittsburgh Ravens mega fan Mike Kneller. Hard. For years, Mike has been living his life for his younger sister Kelly and his four-year-old nephew Liam. He’d opened up his home to Kelly when she found herself pregnant at sixteen and facing having a baby alone. Sure, his days are filled with skinned knees, snotty noses, and the occasional mishap with stuffed superheroes, but he’s perfectly happy because he loves Liam as much as he loves his baby sister. Giving up a social life and going to bed alone is a small price to pay. Little does he know that someone on the Ravens is about to show Ravens goalie Bryn Mettler one of his vlog posts. Of course he’s not going to believe it when his phone rings and the world-famous netminder—and his goalie crush—is on the other end. I mean, life doesn’t work that way for ordinary, hardworking uncles like Mike. Does it?
Bryn Mettler is a superstar athlete and a major part of the Pittsburgh sports society. He seems to have it all. He’s well-dressed, handsome, wealthy, an elite goaltender, a famed philanthropist, and the holder of numerous medals and trophies. To date, there are two things that have avoided him: lifting that big shiny silver cup over his head and finding a man to settle down with. Now that he’s over thirty, Bryn is finding the gay club scene is wearing thin. His teammates’ wives have decided it’s their duty to the team—and to Bryn—to find him Mr. Right. He’s relatively sure the man who’ll capture his heart surely won’t be found on a humor blog. Funny how life likes to take the things that you’re most certain about and flip them—and you—on its ear. When Bryn meets Mike, he is instantly drawn to the warm, funny, sexy man who shares his hectic days with thousands of Pittsburgh natives. Now he just has to convince Mike he is who he says he is so he can get to know him better. Thankfully, Bryn isn’t a quitter. But does he have what it takes to leap into life with Mike, Kelly, and Liam?
Summary:
First Christmas as Mr. & Mr.
What a magical and romantic time for newlyweds. Unfortunately, Bryn and Mike won’t be spending Christmas Eve cuddled up alone in front of a fire roasting chestnuts. They’ve been unexpectedly called upon to play Santa for Mike’s precocious nephew, Liam, when his mother and her boyfriend are called out of state to attend a funeral. It should be easy to make this holiday a special one despite the unforeseen upset, right? All it will take is love, laughter, a little romance, lots of hugs, and a heaping helping of patience when Old Kris Kringle leaves the easy assembly for someone else.
Sometimes it takes a child to remind us that love and family are rarely perfect but an accepting heart can smooth out the imperfections.
Mike Kneller-Mettler’s life has certainly been on the fast track upward since he met his husband, Bryn. Now married for nearly a year to the starting goalie for the Pittsburgh Ravens, Mike’s found himself propelled into a new home, a new career, and a new role as a loving spouse. As his baby sister’s wedding approaches, Mike is going to be faced with a couple of monumental decisions that will affect not only his future but everyone he holds close to his heart.
Bryn Mettler and his team didn’t have the best ending to their season. Nursing a recurring groin injury, Bryn isn’t quite sure he’s ready for wedding chaos. But the nuptials are going to go off whether he’s able to dance with the bride or not. Amid the usual insanity that every wedding brings, unexpected guests show up to throw the beautifully planned affair into turmoil. As the adults slip into childish behavior, it might be up to Liam to be the voice of reason.
Life According to Liam #1
One
Mike
“Is it ready yet?”
I looked into eyes as green as a new leaf and opened the dryer for the fourth time in fifteen minutes. I stuck my hand into the wet, hot ball of clothes. My nephew Liam wiggled into my side to supervise. When I located the small black and green hockey jersey, I pulled it out of the wad of drying pants and shirts, held it to my cheek, and looked back into those anxious green eyes, eyes the same shade of green as my sister Kelly’s and mine.
“Sorry, buddy, but your Bryn Mettler jersey is still damp.” I had to tell the four-year-old. His eye roll was incredible as was his huff of aggravation. “I did tell you not to wear it before the game tonight in case it got dirty.”
“Can we make the dryer go hotter?”
“Not really.” I tossed the tiny wet jersey back into the dryer and shut the door. Liam stood staring at the dryer, willing it to dry his favorite Pittsburgh Ravens player’s sweater faster. I turned to go attend to trying to get the kitchen cleaned up after dinner. It had just been Liam and me tonight. Kelly was out on a date with some dubious looking character from work. I paused at the door to the laundry room and beckoned Liam to follow me. He came along but there was a real possibility he’d trip over his bottom lip. I ruffled up the already wild blond hair on his head as we entered the kitchen. “Why don’t you go play with Captain America while I get the dishwasher loaded?”
“Uncle Mike, the Ravens will lose if I don’t got my jersey.”
“You want to wear mine?” I tugged on the hem of my own Bryn Mettler jersey. We both loved Bryn, starting goalie for the Pittsburgh Ravens. I suspected my admiration for the sexy man in the Ravens net was probably slightly different than Liam’s was. There wasn’t a fan of pro hockey that did not have the hots for Bryn, be they male or female, straight or gay. Bryn was simply breathtaking and by the holy skates of Jacques Plante, could he tend goal. Liam poked me in the side. I jumped and giggled a little bit. “Sorry, I was daydreaming. So do you want to wear mine until yours is out of the dryer?”
His head bobbed up and down. Fearing a juice stain on my brand-new sweater, I, nonetheless, peeled it off and pulled it down over his head. The sleeves drug on the floor and the hem of the jersey puddled on his red sneakers. Liam grinned up at me then ran off, tripping every other step. I tied Kelly’s pink apron around my waist and loaded dirty pots and pans into the dishwasher bare-chested. Such was the life of a thirty-year-old gay man who shared his home with his twenty-year-old sister and her young son. Pink aprons and cleaning up with your nipples exposed. I wouldn’t change one thing about asking Kelly to move in with me when she discovered she was pregnant at fifteen, though, naked nips and all. My parents had flipped out, which, given how they acted when I came out at eighteen, was not a surprise. I had opened my little Squirrel Hill brick townhouse to her after the folks had made their disgust with her “situation” known.
Now it was we three Kneller’s against the world. Kelly worked at a senior care facility during the day as an aide, so I watched Liam. As an independent—and moderately successful—web designer, I worked from home, so I could arrange my schedule to suit Liam’s. I also did a bit of blogging, nothing daily or hugely popular, but “Life According to Liam” did boast over five thousand followers. It always amazed me how many people enjoyed hearing about the upside-down life of a single homosexual man helping to raise his precocious four-year-old nephew and his quirky younger sister. Kelly may balk when I say that but trust me, the girl needs someone to keep her on track. Take the joker she’s seeing a movie with tonight. That baboon is completely unacceptable as a date for my baby sister. I could see the lust in his beady eyes when he picked her up an hour ago. The punk was trying far too hard to be hipster cool if you ask me. What kind of straight man wears skinny jeans?
“Lowlife dirty pervert,” I grumbled under my breath as I wiped up the kitchen counter with a wet sponge. “He’s probably pawing her right now…the bastard.”
“Uncle Mike, Captain America says it’s time to watch your land gauge.”
I grimaced and then slowly turned to look down on Liam, wearing a stern look, cradling his stuffed Captain America doll.
“I’m sorry, Cap,” I said to the battered superhero. “I’ll try to do better.”
“It’s okay. Your tongue is just bad,” Liam informed me then ran off with Cap to right a wrong somewhere else in the house.
I rolled my eyes to the ceiling and hurried to finish. The dryer buzzed just as I was turning off the overhead light in the kitchen.
“My jersey is dry!” Liam bellowed and raced around me. Where poor Captain America went was a mystery for the moment.
“Inside voice,” I reminded the tornado as it blew past me. A couple of minutes later, Liam, Cap, and I sat on my sectional in warm shirts. Well, Cap wasn’t in a warm shirt, but I’m sure the fires of righteousness that burn in his chiseled chest keep him warm. “Speaking of chiseled chests,” I mumbled as the Ravens pregame show hit the air with a stunning image of Bryn Mettler taking part in a photoshoot for swimwear. “What a great looking man,” I sighed wistfully while folding underwear emblazoned with PAW Patrol characters. He was tall, dark, and handsome. His brown hair and dark brown eyes made me stupid as did the perfectly groomed dark stubble that always lingered artfully on his firm jaw.
“Uncle Mike, are you going to date with Bryn Mettler?” Liam asked. My gaze flew from the TV screen to my nephew.
“Why would you ask that?” I enquired of the lad. He rolled to his back and stuck his little red sneakers into the air.
“Mommy said before she dated with Aaron tonight that he was handsome.” Liam stared at me as the pregame show slid into an interview with the Ravens defensive coach. “You likes handsome boys, so is you and Bryn Mettler going to be dated?”
I couldn’t keep the soft chuckle from escaping. There we had this week’s blog post. My nephew was a comedic gold mine. Liam’s fine golden eyebrows tangled as I battled to get myself under control.
“I wish Bryn Mettler would ask me out on a date,” I said to the boy. He reached up to touch the tips of his toes, a feat that made my hamstrings scream just looking at it and chewed on my answer like a glob of taffy. Kelly and I had always been open about my being gay. We wanted Liam to grow up in an accepting household. He already knew that men could date and marry other men and that if he liked boys instead of, or in addition to, girls, that was perfectly normal.
“Does Bryn like boys too?” Liam asked as he picked at his sneakers.
“Yes he does, I’m just not sure he likes boys who look like me.”
He took that at face value and then launched into a story about Hulk eating peanut butter cookies. I shook my head, smiling all the while, and returned to folding toddler clothing and watching the Ravens and that sinfully sexy Bryn Mettler roll over their competition. Liam had dropped off after the second period and was now slumbering peacefully with Captain America, who, earlier, had somehow gotten himself wedged into the tray of the Blu-ray player in my office. When asked how this had happened to Cap, Liam told me, straight-faced, that Iron Man did it. Now you can see how I keep “Life According to Liam” rolling along.
I was watching the Ravens post-game show while working on a blog post for next week when Kelly came in around midnight. She looked a great deal like her son, only with lovely feminine features. Her build was like our mother’s, both women possessing delicate, fine-boned beauty. She tossed her small purse on the table by the front door and gave me a look. I winced.
“So Hipster Aaron was a dud?” I asked as my fingers stilled on the laptop keyboard.
“Huge dud,” she replied then flopped down beside me on the couch. “Why can’t I find a man like you?” Her blonde head fell to my shoulder.
“You want to date a nerdy gay man?”
“At this point, yes, I would love to date a nerdy gay man. At least we’d have good conversation not laced with bravado and sexual innuendo.”
I patted her curls and closed my laptop. The post about dating Bryn Mettler could wait until tomorrow.
“I knew he was all wrong for you when I saw his skinny jeans,” I told her. She cuddled into my side.
“They were horrible, weren’t they?” Kelly giggled. “Oh well, nothing ventured nothing gained as Aunt Penny says. So, when are you going to venture?”
“When someone capable of sweeping me off my feet calls me,” I replied by rote. Kelly always nudged me about my lack of dates. I always gave her grief about her overabundance of dates. “Oh, and Captain America suffered a grievous injury tonight.”
She sat up and looked at me with humor in her green eyes. “Do I want to know?”
“Probably not, what with your delicate constitution and all,” I said and got a slug to the arm in reply. “I did get the mangled limb reattached so he should be ready to fight evil-doers come morning. The amount of cotton batting he lost was horrendous. It was touch and go for a little while.”
“You’re such a nerd. I love you. Thanks for watching Liam tonight.” She pressed a kiss to my scruffy cheek and then pushed to her feet. “I’m exhausted. See you in the morning.”
“I love you too. Goodnight,” I called as the tiny young woman wearing a sweater and jeans slowly climbed the stairs to the second floor. Once I heard her bedroom door close, I locked the front door, checked the back door, and turned out the lights. Now I could rest easy.
Christmas According to Liam #2
Chapter One
Michael
Oh my, what a day it had been. All my ho-ho-ho had gotten up to go-go-go.
“How will Santa know I’m at your house? I wrote my letter and put my house for gifts. How will he find me at your house?”
I looked up at Bryn, who was putting Liam’s suitcase into the backseat of my new Subaru Forester. It was hunter green, oh-so pretty, and had a black interior because I lugged a five-year old around all the time. Anything lighter than ebony seats and carpets was not happening. Which was why my husband’s Mercedes had taken an early retirement from boy transport. One episode of being hurled upon had been enough for him. His tan interior had been ultra-deep cleaned at the dealer’s and Bryn had managed to wrangle any kind of alternative transport when we went to pick up my nephew.
“Well,” I said, eyes pleading with Bryn to jump in. He merely smiled and shut the door. “Well, he’ll just know. Santa has magical kid radar.” Wow, that sounded super creepy.
Liam’s green eyes narrowed. “What kind of kid radar?”
“Magic kid radar.” I shut the back door, glowering at Bryn as he wiped some snow off his door handle. “Thanks for the assist there.”
“I had nothing.” He shrugged and lifted hands bound in leather gloves into the air.
“Pfft.” I flopped down behind the wheel, Bryn falling into the passenger seat. Liam, who was oozing upset, picked up the steady litany of questions and complaints he’d been throwing at us since we’d shown up to pick him up at school. My sister had called a mere two hours ago.
“Why didn’t Santa bring Mr. Pokémon a new heart?”
“It’s Polkman, buddy,” I gently corrected. “Santa’s only allowed to bring toys to kids, not body parts to grown-ups.”
“Did you know,” Bryn interjected after I gave him a poke in the thigh, “that only doctors can bring people new hearts. They put them into lunch boxes.”
I jabbed him harder. His dark eyes narrowed.
“Is there going to be a heart in my Captain America lunch box?” Liam asked with horror. I poked my hubby again just for good measure.
“No, of course not,” I hurried to smooth over the blunder. Bryn looked properly chastened as we crept along in late afternoon traffic. It was Christmas Eve afternoon and everyone seemed to be out doing last minute things. Kind of like us picking up my nephew from school so his mother and her boyfriend could fly to Maine to bury Adam’s grandfather, Miles Polkman. Mr. Polkman had suffered a major heart attack this morning and perished outside his home while filling up a peanut butter log for the birds. “That’s only for grown-up doctors.”
A moment passed.
“Why did old Mr. Poker Man die on Christmas time?”
Bryn’s lips flattened. Fat lot of help he was.
“I don’t think he chose to pass away during the holiday season. We don’t get to pick when we move over the bridge,” I replied, hitting the blinker to move into the left lane.
“The Bifrost Bridge? Is old Mr. Poker Man with Thor and Loki? I hope the big gold man lets him in so he can play hopscotch with Odin!”
The words to correct him were on the tip of my tongue but I swallowed them down. “Yep, Mr. Polkman is in Asgard with Thor and Odin and Heimdall.” Bryn’s dark eyebrows rose. I wagged a finger at the man. “They’re probably eating good Viking food and making merry with the elves.”
Bryn snickered softly as I pulled a sharp left that got us closer to our condo.
“Will we make cookies for Santa? Do you have tube cookies?”
“I own tube socks, does that count?” Bryn quickly tossed out. That made me giggle. Liam, not so much.
“No, not socks. Cookies! They got green trees inside them and come in tubes. You have to make tube cookies for Santa or he’ll be mad!”
“Jeez, Bryn, don’t you Nordic people know nothing about Santa?” I teased, the light snow that was falling was hitting the warm windshield and melting instantly. His handsome face puckered. I jabbed him in the thigh again, making his lips twitch. “Everyone knows about the tube cookies. We better stop at the supermarket so we can grab a few dozen.”
“Speaking of Nordic customs, Liam, did you know that Father Christmas was an old—”
“Where will Santa land on your apartment house? Will his reindeer fall off the roof? How will he find us with all them neighbor people you have? What if he brings me a big boy bike and he gives it to that mean lady with the asshole ankle biter?”
I blinked at the deluge of questions. Bryn grimaced. I glanced in the rear view at the blond boy in the back seat. Wisps of gold hair escaped the edges of his Pittsburgh Ravens knit cap.
“Okay, so, calling Mrs. Dawn’s poodle an asshole ankle biter isn’t nice. A-hole is a bad word, remember?”
“Uncle Bryn calls it that all the time,” Liam replied and tugged on a string from his now discarded mittens. The yarn he was playing with was at least two feet long. Was there anything left of the mitten?
“Uncle Bryn says a lot of things that little boys and Captain America would never repeat because he forgets big ears are nearby.”
“Uncle Bryn has a potty mouth,” Liam proclaimed. I nodded and Bryn blushed. God, it looked good on him. “Where will Santa land on the apartment roof?”
“Uncle Potty Mouth, why don’t you take that one?” I waved at him ala Vanna White gesturing at a vowel. My husband made a face, then launched into some scientific sounding mumbo-jumbo about reindeer being aerodynamic and able to land on any surface due to the winter traction on the bottom of their hooves. He was totally winging it, and doing a fantastic job, if I dared to say so. It had taken him some time, but he was learning how to be a great uncle. Aside from being a potty mouth, of course.
We made a quick stop at the Shopper Mart for tube cookies, milk, extra toilet paper, vanilla ice cream, and a two-liter bottle of root beer. Then, another fast dash to Primanti Brothers for dinner because who wanted to cook on Christmas Eve? Also, we loved the food there. We’d be doing a big meal tomorrow, so tonight, it was a couple of turkey and bacon sandwiches, some retro tots on the side, and a chicken tender meal for Liam.
After we had the grub, we headed to the elite apartment building that Bryn and I called home. After our marriage in June, we’d moved into one of the bigger condos, one that had more room for a growing family. Not that we’d talked seriously about a child of our own, yet, but Liam was here as often as we could get him. The small bachelor pad Bryn had lived in before just hadn’t worked for a married couple with sketchy expansion plans. This one on the top floor of the Silver Vue Apartments was reserved for the upper crust of Pittsburgh society, which we were. Well, Bryn was; I was still dorky Mike from Squirrel Hill who blogged and worked at Blue Bell Design, an up-and-coming website design company on Muriel Street, just off the 10th Street Bridge.
We’d settled in nicely here and set up the second bedroom for Liam. He cared little for the amenities of the building that overlooked the Steel City, but it had quickly grown on me. Aside from the stunning corner view of Pittsburgh, we were close to all kinds of downtown dining, entertainment, and museums. The ten minute walk to the Pittsburgh Gas & Energy Arena was something Bryn enjoyed, as it kept him in daily contact with the fans. He found that grounding, which it sure was. Ravens fans weren’t shy about letting him know if he’d played poorly the night before. The town was looking for a repeat of last season’s Cup win, and so far, the Ravens were playing like the finely-oiled machine they were.
"Will Mom be home from saying goodbye to Mr. Post Man when I wake up?” Liam asked over his tenders and fries. We’d climbed into our seats, elbowing up to the island in the middle of our kitchen, Liam fastened into his booster and my foot on the rung. The thought of him tipping backwards gave me nightmares, not unlike I’d had after visiting the proctologist for the first time.
“Polkman,” I gently corrected. “No, she’s not going to be able to say goodbye to Mr. Polkman that quickly. She’s really sad that she has to miss Christmas. She’ll be calling tonight so you can talk to her about how you’re feeling.” I ran a hand over his back to comfort him. Change in his routine did not generally sit well, and Mom leaving with Adam without warning? Well, that was just about too much for a little guy to take. So far, he’d been pretty brave, but I wagered the more tired he became, the closer to tears he’d get.
Dinner ended and Bryn tidied up the kitchen after the tube cookies had been baked while I got Liam bathed and into his Captain America pajamas. Cap was everywhere. His room was nothing but bulging biceps and chiseled abs, from bedding to drapes to the posters on the walls. Not that I’m complaining…
We’d just gotten situated in the living room with some root beer floats—our desserts—and Age of Ultron queued up to play—when my phone chirruped. Seeing it was my sister, I put my glass down on a coaster and hurried to answer her call. Liam sat beside me, the battered stuffed Captain America doll Bryn had bought him ages ago resting beside him. He’d stopped taking Cap to school, but he clung to the star-spangled Avenger when he was home, upset, or tired. Tonight, he was two out of three.
“It’s your mom,” I whispered as I put the phone to my ear. His big blue eyes lit up and he scurried to his knees. “You want to answer?”
“Yes, yes!” So I passed the phone to him. No need to show him how it worked. He was more adept at phones, tablets, and computers than Bryn was, no lie. You should see my husband try to cross post things on social media. “Mommy!”
I sat back, smiling and sipping on my float as the lad talked non-stop for ten minutes barely surfacing for air. When he had exhausted all his pent-up anxiety and questions, the phone was passed back to me. Bryn had pattered in by this time with a latte instead of a float. Wish I had his willpower. I glanced down at my tummy, sighed, and sucked up a bit more melted ice cream.
“Hey there, buttercup,” I said while Liam began to fidget. I nodded at Bryn to start the movie. It wasn’t like I didn’t know how it went. This was probably our four hundredth viewing. I could recite some of Tony Stark’s dialog verbatim. “How’s Adam?”
“Meh,” Kelly replied. “He and his grandfather were really close. It’s hit him hard; so unexpected, you know? Is Liam okay?”
“He’s fine. A little out of sorts and upset that you won’t be here to see what Santa brings him, but I think he sort-of maybe understands. The whole Frankie Fins thing might have helped.” Frankie Fins had been a goldfish that Bryn and I had bought for Liam at a nearby Petco during a moment of weakness. It was either the fish or a parakeet. Bryn was rather uptight about the condo being neat, so a bird was out, but the fish we could handle. Liam had bonded with that fish instantly. For a month, every time Liam had come over, he sang to Frankie Fins, told him secrets, and overfed the poor fish. Four weeks after we’d bought Frankie, I went into his room to check that the windows were closed during a thunderstorm, and there floated Frankie at the top of his bowl. The lad was heartbroken. We buried Frankie Fins over at my old place on Squirrel Hill because there was no yard here to speak of, only a small shared garden. We’d assumed the neighbors might not want a fish buried among the marigolds. Frankie Fins was the first time Liam had experienced death close up. It had taken lots of talking from all the adults in his life, but we were pretty sure he grasped the fundamentals of dying, or as much as he could, given his age.
“Mr. Pork Man is with Frankie,” Liam repeated to me and Bryn, then began talking about Winter Soldier and his metal arm.
“Good. He sounds okay. Was he freaked out when you showed up at school?” Kelly asked. She sounded tired.
“Not overly, just anxious. And maybe a little perturbed at Martin for dying during Christmas time.”
“Ugh, I feel terrible. I’m still not sure I did the right thing coming with Adam. He was such a mess when he got the call, and I felt like he needed me, but my son needs me to be there for Christmas and…Gah! I’m totally torn.”
“Kelly, baby, you did the right thing. Liam is fine here with us. We’ll do the big day, take lots of videos and pictures, and when you come home, we can have another day where Bryn and I give you the presents that Santa left here for you and Adam.”
“Uncle Bryn, why does Santa leave presents here for Mom and Adam? Why don’t he just leave them at our house?” Liam enquired. Bryn’s dark eyes flared. I pretended I’d not heard that sticky wicket of a query.
“Santa knows that grown-ups go to other places for Christmas parties, so he leaves gifts at different houses for that purpose,” Bryn answered. I gave him a wink over the top of Liam’s damp head.
“Oh, okay.” And back to the movie the boy went.
“Bryn is going to be great dad. Have you two…?” Kelly asked.
“Oh, no, not yet. It’s too soon. Someday. But now? No, no. Too soon.”
“Sure, yes, of course it is. I’m super tired. So, yeah, the viewing is, like, in ten minutes and then we’re burying him tomorrow. God, what a miserable way to spend Christmas. Poor Adam, and poor Grandma Polkman. Everyone in this family will always associate Christmas with burying Martin.”
“Well, perhaps they can try to focus on the happy memories they have of Martin,” I offered, lame as it was. Trite, too. Blech. “That was super mundane. I’m sorry.”
“No, it’s fine, and true. It’s hard to know what to say at a time like this.” There was a shuffle of the phone. “Okay, we’re about to start the viewing. The funeral parlor is packed with people and family I don’t know. Eep!”
“You’ll be fine. Just focus on Adam and Grandma Polkman. They’ll all love you. Now go. We’re off to watch Ultron get his tin backside handed to him. Talk to you early tomorrow.”
“Yes, call me as soon as you guys are up, I don’t care what time it is. Oh! Don’t forget to run to my place to get the presents that are hidden all over. Adam’s calling me. Bye. Love you guys.” The line went dead. Shit. The presents. I’d forgotten about them. I glanced at Liam and Bryn sitting snuggled up together, enjoying their chosen drinks. As soon as the movie was over or Liam had conked out, I’d make the gift run. That settled in my mind, I sat back to ogle Thor’s hammer. And his guns. Mostly his guns.
Liam made it through the entire movie. Bryn and I had nodded off a time or two, but not Liam.
“Okay, sport, time for bed,” I tapped my wristwatch. “Santa won’t come if kids are awake.” I stood, stretched, and offered him my hand. “We can read one chapter. No more than that.” Been there and played that game before. Fool me once and all that.
“We have get Santa his cookies and milk,” he informed me with a look that screamed “Doh, Uncle Mike.”
It’s amazing how long a kid can stretch out putting five cookies onto a plastic plate. It was like watching a sloth in slow-mo. The milk pouring also required at least five minutes, then he had to have a glass. Oy vey.
“Can you and Uncle Bryn read me a story together? With voices?” He turned the green puppy dog eyes on me, then on Bryn. Long story short, five minutes and a good toothbrushing later, Liam was in bed and Bryn and I were acting out Where the Wild Things Are. With his head on his pillow, his eyes finally closed. We read for another page or two, just to ensure he was really asleep and not faking, then we crept from his room, making sure the nightlight was on and the door closed before we scurried out to the living room.
Bryn grabbed me from behind as I rushed past, yanking me into his chest. I giggled and wriggled in his arms. His lips found my throat.
“Bryn, no, honey, not now. We have presents.” I slipped free, or he let me slip free, was more accurate. I turned to look at him. “I have to run to Kelly’s and gather up all the gifts she has hidden all over the house. And you have that big boy bike to assemble.”
His eyes rounded for a moment. “I forgot about the bike. I was hoping to get a Christmas Eve treat.” He waggled a brow. I picked up a tube cookie from Santa’s tray and handed it to him. “This is not exactly the treat I was hoping to get,” he deadpanned.
Love According to Liam #3
Chapter 1
Bryn
“You okay, Mets?”
I blinked at our captain, Brent Prott, as I clutched the puck to my chest. I shook the sprayed ice from my face, nodded, and then got to my skates and vacated the crease. The Ravens had taken offense at the frosty shower I’d gotten from one of the Manchester Mavens’ players. As the teams shoved, pushed, and called each other impolite names, I tossed the puck to a linesman and waited for the crowd to disperse.
The officials soon had my net cleared out and the game continued. I settled onto my skates, rapped the posts with my stick, and dropped down into my butterfly stance.
The faceoff was quick, the puck picked up by one of the Mavens. The shot came from center ice, a scorching slap shot that hit the crossbar and flew up into the netting, stopping play yet again. It had been one of those periods. Hell, the whole game had been a series of starts and stops, both teams having difficulty finding their flow. We were all exhausted. Some of my team seemed to be held together with popsicle sticks and prayers. This is what a game seven eastern division final team looked—and played—like. The first game of the season way back in October seemed a lifetime ago. It felt like several lifetimes ago. I’d never tell Michael but the ache in my hips and knees was constant now. He would fret if he knew. My husband was a champion fretter.
Another faceoff, another few shifts played then another whistle. A high sticking call on the Ravens. Wonderful. Generally, I tried not to let such things upset me. People made mistakes. God knows I’ve made my share during this long march to the Cup finals: soft goals, a few poorly judged puck handling mishaps, and a horrid poke check attempt and fail in game three. And those were just in this series. Still, as tired as I was I grumbled a bit at the young forward and his inability to keep his stick on the ice.
I grabbed a quick drink, tossed my water bottle back into its holder, and lowered my mask down over my face. I gave it a soft tap, knowing that Liam would be watching. That was our signal. A tap to the intimidating blackbird painted on my mask meant I was thinking of him.
“Tighten up some now,” I murmured to the team as the Mavens’ power play unit faced off against our penalty kill. We had a good PK, second in the league behind the team in Boston that the Mavens had beaten to play us. I flicked a look up at the clock. Four minutes left in the third. One goal each. This was a dreadful time to get a penalty. Suspecting the puck would be snapped back to the Mavens’ leading goal scorer, I zeroed in on the big Russian parked in his office to my left. I got a small break when our captain won the faceoff and shuttled the puck back to Rory Zolotnik, a Ravens’ winger, who then cleared it. I was back in the net, facing yet another penalty kill for my team.
I checked the time again. A minute forty left on the penalties, less than three minutes left in regulation time. The Mavens regrouped, leaving Petroff out because, well, he was Petroff. The man was lethal and had severely tarnished my goals against average during this round. I disliked him a great deal right now even though he was a delightful and giving man off the ice. At this moment he was a bastard who, of course, picked up the pass from one of his men and drew back to take a shot.
The puck was a blur. I threw up my blocker, knocking it aside. The rebound dropped to my right. I dove to cover the puck as at least six men converged on my net, poking, and swatting at the puck. One stick caught me up under the mask, jarring it loose. A whistle blew the play dead, and I rose out of the melee just as a fight broke out. The net was shoved off its moorings. My mask lay on the ice, and I gave the nearest Maven a piece of my mind. The young kid had no clue what the irate goalie was shouting at him about as all of it was in German. He took a lame swing at me, more a playful sort of swat then an actual punch. Derrick Robbie, our elder statesman—along with me—and the backbone of the Ravens’ defensive players, lost his ever-loving shit.
Derrick threw off his gloves and leaped on the poor kid who’d dared to take a swipe at his goalie. It took at least three minutes to separate all the combatants and assess penalties. Both penalty boxes had angry men stuffed into them. After a quick check of my throat by Wallace Briggs, the Ravens’ trainer, I was back in the net, facing a four-on-four situation. My lower back ached like a bad tooth, but I tried to push that to the side. I had to find my focus. Everything was riding on this game. If we won we’d advance to the Stanley Cup finals to face either San Jose or Calgary. They were playing tonight as well, their game starting within minutes out on the West Coast.
Sometimes destiny is a funny thing. People tend to think that their future rides on something big happening. A birth, a death, a marriage. And while those events are indeed life altering, there are those tiny little happenstances that occur, which lead us down paths we never envisioned. Such a thing took place after the next faceoff. The Mavens lobbed the puck at me from the side. It was a weak shot, nothing of great consequence. I would have simply swatted it away with my stick, but a Mavens’ player was shoved into me at the same time as the puck was bouncing toward me. The impact knocked my stick out of my hand. So, I threw out my left leg to block the shot, hearing a pop in my inner thigh. A millisecond later the pain hit me, and I went to my belly. Whistles blew. I slowly got to my skates, knowing exactly what had happened. I’d pulled my groin muscles several times over the years. Each time from a sudden quick change in direction with my legs.
The play on the ice stopped as I tried skating it off. Coach Bingham called a time out. The trainer hustled over to me.
“Groin again?” Wallace asked. I nodded, made another pass around the net, and then shook my head. There was no way I was playing the rest of this game. The pain was too intense. If I pushed it, I’d do severe damage. Wallace waved at the head coach. With the trainer’s hand on my elbow, I eased off the ice as Jacob Turner, the back-up goalie, got ready to take my place. Limping down the tunnel, I threw my mask at the nearest wall. Walking off now irked me. My competitive nature clawed at me to throw caution aside, turn around, and reclaim my net. Perhaps, a few years ago I would have. Now, I was thirty-five and had a husband to consider. Michael must be a nervous wreck at home, knowing I’d been injured but unable to speak to me to see how bad things were.
The more I walked the more pain blossomed. By the time I reached the end of the tunnel, I could barely go. The team physician met me at the start of an incredibly long corridor, sliding an arm around me.
“If I asked if you needed a wheelchair would you be honest with me?” Dr. Garrows asked, his hip next to mine. I shook my head. “Yeah, I figured as much. Which is why I didn’t ask.”
He steered me to a wheelchair parked by the Mavens’ laundry area. Easing down into it, I had to lift my left leg onto the footplate. I bit back a moan.
“We’ll get that taken care of,” he assured me while unlocking the brakes. The Mavens’ fans roared overhead. We both looked back down the tunnel as if we could see through cement and steel. “Sounds like the Mavens scored.”
“Yes.” I sighed, anger at myself welling up inside. I should have stayed in despite the pain. Making Jacob come in cold at such an important moment with only ten games under his youthful belt had been a terrible thing to do. I could have played out the third, then if we were still tied we’d have had a rest period before the twenty minute overtime. With enough ice, I could have gone back out and—
“You couldn’t have done anything differently, Bryn,” the doctor said as the din up in the stands grew louder as each second ticked off. “This isn’t on you.”
Listening to the Manchester Mavens’ fans yelling in glee as the final buzzer went off, I knew that this loss was indeed all on me. That realization pained me more than the burning agony in my thigh.
* * *
The entire team was somber on the ride back to our hotel. We’d given all we had to try to bring the Cup back to Pittsburgh for the second year in a row, but we’d fallen short. Logically, we all knew that winning back-to-back was a rarity. Sadly, we were too mired in emotion to be thinking logically. It was a bit of a flail to get off the bus in front of the hotel with crutches. Thankfully, I was only to use them for a couple of days. I doubted they’d be used again once I got home tomorrow. I could hear Michael fretting already.
We all went to our rooms, the glum mood weighing us all down. All the Ravens simply wanted to sulk for a bit in private, lick our wounds, and talk to our loved ones back in The Burgh. I’d replied to a few texts after the game, but they were succinct replies to my husband and parents as I’d then been deluged by the press. It was one of the most unpleasant things about being a well-known athlete, the spotlight never wavered. Be it good times or bad, there was a camera in your face. Being a somewhat private person I’d have much rather worked out my sullen mood alone, but that was simply not an option.
At least now I was in my room, away from the sometimes mundane questions. What kind of fool asks a man how it feels to lose a championship game? What do they think it feels like? It sucks. I eased myself down into a dark blue wingback, tossed the crutches aside, and dialed home. I wanted to hear Michael’s voice. I needed to hear it.
“Hey, you,” he said in lieu of hello. “I’m so sorry. We’re all sorry. Are you okay?”
“Hey, you,” I said in reply, easing my left leg over a bit. “I’m sorry too. Grade two groin strain.” I sighed, wishing I’d have thought to get an ice bag ready before I sat down. “It should be fine if I rest it and keep it iced.”
“I’ll make sure you follow doctors’ orders.”
“Yes, I’m sure you will. Are the others greatly upset? Liam?” I glanced out the window to see the beauty that is Manchester at night. Such a lovely town. A town filled with happy hockey fans. I knew that the Ravens’ fans were upset with us, with me.
“Everyone is fine, bummed out sure, but we’re all adults.”
“And Liam?”
“Well, he’s five so you know…”
“He’s mad at me.”
“No, babe, no. He’s worried about you. Be prepared to be peppered with totally inappropriate questions about your groin.” That made me smile a little. “When I explained where the groin was on a man he asked if you’d be able to use your penis again.”
“I certainly hope so.” I chuckled.
“My exact words.” His loving humor was the perfect balm for my bruised ego. “Kelly nearly choked to death on her coffee. Speaking of Kelly, there’s wedding news to update but we’ll touch on that once you’re home and comfy on the couch.”
“No, please, tell me about the wedding news. I’ll have all summer to dwell on this loss.”
There was a long pause as he contemplated. “Are you sure? I don’t want you to feel as if the wedding is more important than what you’re experiencing.” I shifted in my chair, wincing at the ache in my inner thigh. Ice. I needed ice and another couple of Advil. “Are you okay? You grunted. I should have come out there for game seven.”
“Michael, I’m fine. It’s manageable pain. You have a job and a family that needs you. So, please, tell me the wedding news.”
“Hmm, I’m not so sure I shouldn’t have taken a few days off, but you were so adamant and—”
“Michael, my sweet, please? The wedding news?”
“Oh, sorry, I’m fretting.”
“That you are.”
He sniggered then sighed. “You know me so well. Okay, well, there were several important items for the brother-of-honor to attend to as we hit the one month away from the big day marker. Flowers being one. I hope she’s happy that I went with Monique’s Floral Arts. Monique did such a wonderful job with our wedding. Do you remember that arrangement on our table?”
“Mm, yes, I do. It was stunning. Silver and blue with cascading vines and baby’s breath.”
While most of my memories of our wedding centered on Michael, I did take special note of the flowers, the music, and the food.
“Yes! It was just beautiful. Anyway Kelly hasn’t said a thing about using Monique. Does that mean she’s not happy with my choice? Is she just being polite but deep down inside loathes the idea?”
“You’re fretting again,” I gently told him.
“Ack, yes, I am.” He took a deep breath. “This brother-of-honor duty is hard! I don’t think I was this nerved up over our wedding.”
“Yes, you were.” I pushed up to stand, easing my weight onto my injured leg, then limped toward the bathroom. “As a matter of fact, you were so nerved up that during the tux fittings you—”
“Please, let that embarrassing sleeping dog lie,” he pleaded, and in my mind, I could see his face pinking up with embarrassment. “Your point is made. I fret. It’s what I do. Anyway, so this Friday we have the florist appointment then Kelly has a final dress fitting. I don’t know where my official wedding notebook is right now, but I’m pretty sure there’s something else too. Catering? Music? Ugh. My brain is strained.”
“Perhaps you should ice it,” I tossed out, flipped on the bathroom light, frowned at my image, and dug around in my small personal bag for some ibuprofen.
“If only I could. You sound really tight, Bryn. Are you sure you’re okay?”
“I’m fine, darling, please, don’t worry over me. I’m going to take some Advil, fill up my ice bag, get into bed, and watch something fluffy until I fall asleep. I sorely wish I had you here next to me. I sleep better with your cold feet pressed to my calves.”
“I’ll remember that the next time you call me names in Swedish after I tuck my toes between your thighs.” I smirked and he rambled on for a bit longer, mostly about his sister’s upcoming wedding plans until he heard me trying to cover a yawn. “Okay, I’m going to invoke my husbandly rights and demand that you get into bed and rest.”
“I can talk to you while I rest,” I pointed out, rummaging in my suitcase for pajamas.
“I know but your parents are probably trying to call through and you sound exhausted. Pull up an old Doris Day movie. Oh! Even better, something with Gregory Peck and Audrey Hepburn. Roman Holiday! That will ease you right off to sleep.”
I found my clean pajamas but realized how difficult it would be to undress then dress. I opted to simply sleep in my underwear tonight even if I were in a hotel and disliked being caught in my briefs should a fire break out. Silly, I know, but it was a quirk. Apparently, I had many. My husband pointed them out with regularity. Of course, I also mentioned his on occasion.
“My parents are sleeping now, I’m sure, but I am feeling done in. I’ll see you tomorrow at the airport?”
“Yes, of course. Me and all the WAGs will be there with sugar cookies and smooches.”
The thought of Michael greeting me with treats and kisses helped to ease the pain of the past few hours as well as ice and Advil did.
Saturday Series Spotlight
V.L. Locey loves worn jeans, yoga, belly laughs, walking, reading and writing lusty tales, Greek mythology, the New York Rangers, comic books, and coffee.
(Not necessarily in that order.)
She shares her life with her husband, her daughter, one dog, two cats, a flock of assorted domestic fowl, and two Jersey steers.
When not writing spicy romances, she enjoys spending her day with her menagerie in the rolling hills of Pennsylvania with a cup of fresh java in hand.
EMAIL: vicki@vllocey.com
Life According to Liam #1
Christmas According to Liam #2
Love According to Liam #3
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