Chapter 1
Josephine
I drag the damp cloth across the countertop, collecting bits of dough and clumps of frosting as I wipe.
There are sprinkles everywhere.
I grin and wash out the rag at the sink before going back for another pass. I’m stretching as far as I can possibly reach when the garage door finally opens.
Glancing at the clock, I note that it’s already past nine. He’s going to be upset to have missed the kids; they begged him to try and make it home before bedtime.
Something heavy hits the hardwood floor—his travel bag, I assume.
I work at an extra sticky spot—it might be a day-old dried puddle of syrup, now that I’m really working at it—only giving up on it when his shadow enters the kitchen.
“Hey, Mama.”
I smile and drop the cloth, spinning around so he can crowd my space and pin my hips against the island.
“Hey, Papi. You played so well,” I praise, looping my arms around his neck.
An audible sigh pushes out of his lungs. Then he bends and lifts me up onto the counter on the next breath.
I gasp in surprise when my bum hits the cold quartz countertop. But then I pull him closer and absorb a little more of his body heat, desperate to be close and give him all the solace and comfort I can manage.
His team lost. Again.
And I wasn’t the only one to notice that he sat out on a pivotal drive in the third quarter. It was all the sportscasters could talk about during the post-game highlights.
December football is always tough. December football for a 12-year veteran running back with a chronic illness is a feat of superhuman stamina. And maybe a smidge of stubbornness.
Kendrick has had an amazing career. He’s broken records. Qualified for the Pro Bowl team multiple times. Three years ago he even received the Jim Brown Award for the most running yards in the entire league.
But he’s never won a championship. And now the South Carolina Cougars are starting a rookie QB, and they’ve been eliminated from the playoffs already this year.
This season I think it’s finally started to sink in for him that he may never get a ring.
“K,” I murmur into his neck, yearning to find the right words, craving the grace to navigate the coming weeks and months as we face what’s next.
I don’t know what to do, or how to comfort him. It’s become an unspoken hardship starting to weigh on our family. Is this his last season? Will he bow out and retire on his own, or will it take illness or injury to put him off the game for good?
“Did everyone watch?” he hedges, his forehead resting against mine as I link my legs behind his back.
I make quick work of digging my fingers into his traps, massaging away the lingering tension that tends to accumulate in his shoulders and up the base of his skull after a hard game.
He runs his nose along my jaw, down my neck. The softest kiss lands in the crook of my neck as we both savor a few stolen moments of peace.
“We all watched,” I confirm. “I took lots of pictures of the girls in their Cougars cheer uniforms, and Archie wore his Taylor jersey.”
The kids adore cheering on their Papi.
“Hey, speaking of pictures…”
I bite back a snort.
Kendrick still sends me a locker room selfie in various states of undress before his games. It’s a tradition we’ve maintained for years. Typically, I send him back a little something of my own.
“I was a little busy today,” I quip, tipping my chin to the cooling racks of cookies covering half the countertop.
“Excuses, excuses.” He reaches beyond me to snag a cookie from the stack. He pops it in his mouth, then instantly pulls a face.
“What the hell is that?” he chokes out. Looking past my shoulder, his eyes widen as he forces himself to swallow.
“It’s a cookie!” I defend, nudging his arm. “That your children made, for Santa.”
He smirks as he finishes chewing. “Those are pure sugar. I didn’t taste anything but sprinkles.” He shivers with a final swallow.
“Way too many sprinkles. Who let them commit that kind of crime on Christmas Eve?”
“Decker and I oversaw the decorating station,” Kylian declares as he sweeps into the kitchen, snags a cookie off the rack, and pops it into his mouth. “You can never have too many sprinkles.”
Kendrick chuckles, diverting his attention from me to the smiling baby strapped to Kylian’s chest.
“My boy!” Kendrick croons, reaching for our youngest son.
“He is already strapped in. This is part of our established bedtime routine.”
Kendrick strokes a finger along Brendan’s rosy cheek, eliciting a delighted giggle.
“Ahh, come on, Daddy Genius. You saw that shit show earlier. I need baby snuggles to console me. Give him here.”
Kylian glares, eyes hard, no doubt calculating how disrupting Bren’s bedtime routine will affect the flow of the rest of the night.
Or at least that’s what he wants us to think.
Deep down, he’s just a baby hog.
Still. I nudge Kylian with my barefoot, spurring him into action.
“Ten minutes,” Kylian grumbles, unclipping the neck of the baby carrier so he can lift our son out and hand him over to Kendrick. “Ten minutes, and then I have to give him his bottle. He likes his routine.”
“You like his routine,” Kendrick snarks back, lifting Brendan above his head to the baby’s joyful delight. He kicks and squeals in K’s arms as he flies him around the kitchen. I roll my lips and look everywhere but at Kylian, because I know he’s trying to be flexible, but he’s not fooling me.
“Me and B Boy are going to snuggle by the fireplace,” Kendrick declares. He cradles Brendan in his side like he’s carrying a football, then kisses me quickly on the lips.
“Maybe I should just give him his bottle tonight?”
The “No.” that comes from Kylian is so harsh and absolute I have to bite down on my bottom lip to keep from reacting.
“Relax, Daddy. I’m just messing. Give me ten minutes with my boy. Then you can put him to bed like normal,” Kendrick promises.
Kylian visibly relaxes, removes the baby carrier completely, then comes to stand between my thighs where Kendrick left me on the counter.
“Hi baby,” he murmurs, wrapping his arms around my low back and pulling me to the edge so I’m flush against his body.
“Merry Christmas Eve,” I whisper against his lips before I kiss him, soft and slow.
He matches my leisurely pace, teasing his lips along my jaw, grazing his teeth along my neck. Tingles of warmth collect in my belly as we kiss. I sink into his hold, craving more, but knowing we can’t get carried away.
At least not yet.
“Where are the others?” I hum contentedly as he cups my face in his hands and kisses me tenderly on the lips.
“Still putting together toys.”
I grin, and Kylian snickers.
Decker swore he could handle the assembly on his own. But we have four children. Based on the sixty-plus batteries I had to buy this week on Kylian’s instruction, Christmas Eve toy assembly is a massive undertaking.
Nicky took pity on him once the big kids were tucked in bed. The two of them have been down in the Den—which is a space we keep off limits for the kids—for nearly two hours.
Wrinkling my nose, I hedge, “Should we offer to help them?”
Kylian hits me with an unamused glare.
“You’ve been on your feet all day. Cooking. Baking. Attempting to harness the Big Decker Energy your husband so kindly passed on to our daughters.”
He’s not wrong.
The twins oscillate from sweet and docile to raging banshees just like that. I don’t even get upset when they kick it up ten notches on a daily basis. They’re a perfect balance of my hotheadedness and Decker’s stubbornness.
God help us when they’re teenagers.
“You’re done for tonight, Jo. You need to unwind. Sleep. Take it easy so we can wake up and do it all again tomorrow.”
He glances behind him toward the clock on the stove. “I’ve got six minutes until I can resume Brendan’s bedtime routine. Let me run you a bath.”
Grinning, I let him help me off the counter and follow him back to the bedroom.