Chapter 27 Oreo Has Entered the Chat Emmett
WHAT DO YOU GET WHEN you take five grown men who are obsessed with their families out of Canada for a three-day road trip to the east coast of the United States over Valentine’s Day?
“This is fucking bullshit.” Garrett struggles to yank off his skate after he tosses his phone away.
“I’m just saying, they shouldn’t be allowed to schedule games on Valentine’s Day, you know?
It should be a holiday.” He hangs his head, running his fingers through his sweat-soaked hair.
“Now Jennie’s at home, and I’m here, and she promised she’d wait for me before she played with that toy, but that…
that picture…” He points at his phone, then gives up, shaking his head. “It’s not fair.”
“Oh, nooo.” Carter drops his head, cradling it between his legs before he whips upright again.
He shows us the photo of Ireland, Hunter, and Brodie that fills his screen.
While the boys are, without a doubt, passed the fuck out, Ireland sits in the middle, eyes closed and grinning, holding a sign covered in pink toeprints that says We toe-tally love you, Daddy!
All three of them have their pink-painted feet closest to the camera, and even Dublin’s there, rocking a headband with heart antennas, tongue lolling out of his mouth as he rolls around by the kids’ feet. “I missed arts and crafts!”
“Me too,” Adam says with the saddest smile anyone’s ever smiled.
He shows us his phone—a photo of baby Iris asleep in Lily’s lap, Lily and Connor grinning as they hold up a sign that says How could we be crabby when you’re our daddy?
Three small crabs made of little red handprints and googly eyes dance across the sign, and I’d definitely smile if it weren’t for the picture waiting for me on my own phone.
“This is my own personal hell.” I groan so long, so loud, nearly crushing my phone in my fist as I sink down to the bench. The timestamp shows Cara sent it only a minute into the first period, ten minutes after she sent the first picture.
The first picture? Scraps of red satin and embroidered lace laid out over the bed, a small metal plug with a red heart-shaped gem next to it. Score me a goal for Valentine’s Day and I’ll show you what’ll be waiting for you when you get home.
The second picture? Well, I’m sure you can guess. I didn’t bust my ass to sink that puck in the net on my first shift for nothing.
The thing is, it’s been a while since we’ve had the kind of sex we’ve gotten used to having in our relationship.
It makes sense that the fertility treatments stole the passion, not to mention our energy, but the worst thing it stole was Cara’s love for her body.
Things have been slow as she works through it, lets me love her body enough for the both of us, but every day I see that confidence build a little more.
And this? This is, by far, the boldest my wife has been in a long, long while. All I want to do is build on it.
Me: Look at that gorgeous cunt. Why’s it so wet, baby?
Thinking about my cock stretching it out, taking what I need, filling you with my cum just so I can lick it out of you after?
Or do you want me to use it as lube so I can pull out that pretty little gem and slide into your ass, fuck all that cum right back into you?
I stare at my phone. I stare for one minute, then two. Five minutes, and then I throw a fit, ripping off my skates, chucking them in my bag. “It’s been forever. Why isn’t she answering?”
Oh, by the way, the answer to my earlier question? What do you get when you take five grown men away from their valentines on Valentine’s Day? Big, big feelings.
A long, loud sigh comes from my right. I glance at Jaxon, elbows braced on his knees, head in his hands. “I want to go home.”
I know what you’re thinking: Why is Jaxon so gloomy?
Lennon travels with the team. Surely they’re having sex on Valentine’s Day.
And you’d be right. They showed up late to breakfast, the hem of Jaxon’s T-shirt tucked into the waistband of his underwear, which was showing on his left hip, because his pants weren’t on properly.
There was also the lipstick beneath his ear, the fact that Lennon had her hair covered in a silk wrap, and that they both went to the bathroom twenty minutes into breakfast and never returned.
But still: “It’s just… fucking look at that handsome floofy marshmallow face.
” He shoves his phone in my face, a picture of his huge-ass cat, Mittens, sprawled out on lush green grass, glowing beneath the sunshine in his mermaid costume.
“Gran sent him a Valentine’s cardigan, and Len and I can’t even be there with him while he wears it on this special day.
Jennie promised she’d put it on him and take pictures, but I dunno.
Are Becketts trustworthy? My gut says no. ”
Garrett tosses his glove at Jaxon’s head. “Jennie’s an Andersen now, you douchewaffle. Get it right!”
My phone vibrates as I chuckle, and I discreetly open the message from Cara, hoping for either more of my naked wife or some of her filthy mouth.
It turns out to be neither, and… I’m not upset about it.
It’s a photo of Abel, sitting at the kitchen counter in red heart pajamas that match Cara’s, a smear of pink paint on his forehead and brow, and the biggest, happiest smile I’ve ever seen as he holds up his creation.
One red, one purple, one pink, three big, furry-looking monsters, topped with heart sequins, at least eight eyes each, and smiles as big as his.
Cara: I talked him through making a love monster with his handprint. He wanted to make three, one for each of us. He said “take a picture and show my Emmett” *sobbing emoji* I’m not okay.
“Abel painted us as love monsters,” I announce, showing Carter and Adam the picture while Jaxon and Garrett continue to argue with each other. “He called me his Emmett. No big deal.”
“Oh my God,” Adam murmurs, scrubbing his hands down his face, over his mouth.
I chug half a water bottle to hide my ridiculous smile. “What?”
“I just realized we’re all officially… grown up.”
Carter gasps. “No.”
Garrett tilts his head. “You think?”
“When did that happen?” Jaxon whispers.
“Fuck if I know,” I mutter.
Carter holds up a finger. “Well, if I may interject. I think I’ve always—”
“No,” we all say in unison.
Carter hangs his head. “You guys can’t be mean to me. It’s my birthday.”
“What are you gonna do?” I strip the rest of my equipment off, grabbing my toiletry bag as I head for the showers. “Tell on us?”
“Obviously not. I’m all grown up, remember?”
“LENNOOON. THE GUYS WERE BEING mean to me.”
“Oh my God,” Garrett groans, shoving Carter into our hotel room an hour later. “You said you weren’t gonna tell.”
Lennon gasps. “It’s true, then? Not the birthday boy!” She pops a fist on her hip. “Apologize, boys. Right now.”
We mumble out a string of half-assed apologies, and Lennon arches a brow, pinning her arms across her chest.
“Now I know you four can put on a better show than that. He has four-week-old twins at home, for fuck’s sake. Be nice!”
“Sorry for cutting you off before you could finish saying you’ve always been grown up,” we rumble out in unison, and Lennon makes a face.
“Oh, sor-ry for suggesting that I, the first to enter fatherhood—and therefore the wisest—have always been grown up.” Carter nabs his box of Birthday Cake Oreos and pulls from the mini fridge the random plate of treats he had room service bring up earlier today.
“It’s crazy that nobody believes in me, and especially on my birthday.
You’ll rue the day you ever doubted me when Oreo finally gives me my own cookie flavor. ”
I have to admit, there’s a certain level of focus and dedication to Carter when he’s fine-tuning his craft.
For clarity, his craft is Oreos. Whether he’s coming up with ideas for new flavors or creating an over-the-top dessert with an Oreo feature, it’s clear he puts a lot of thought into it.
Honestly, it’s only slightly alarming that he thinks about Oreos this much.
“Aha!” He presents his creation to us in a clear jar, also brought by room service. “For the base, we have crushed Birthday Cake Oreos, followed by sliced banana, brownie chunks, and a mixture of chocolate pudding and whipped cream—hand-whipped, not canned, obviously.”
“Of course,” Lennon murmurs, nodding along.
“And on top…” He carefully places a whole Birthday Cake Oreo on top. “Bon appétit.”
“Looks bomb.” Garrett grabs a spoon. “Let me get a—”
“No!” Carter judo chops Garrett’s wrist, the spoon falling to the floor as Garrett screams. “I have to take a picture first.”
He does, and we sit in silence as he uploads it to his Instagram story, complete with his favorite hashtags: #oreo #sponsorme #loveme #considerme
“Well.” I clap a hand to the arm of my chair, climbing to my feet as Carter digs his spoon in, producing a massive bite that surely wouldn’t fit in any normal-sized human’s mouth.
Carter shoves it into his mouth.
“Yeah, that tracks,” I mutter, nodding. Glancing at Lennon, I check to make sure she’s recording from her phone. She is. “Anyway, as I was about to say… this seems like a good time to give you your birthday gift.”
“Birfday gif?” He struggles to swallow, licking the chocolate pudding from his lips. “You guys didn’t have to get me anything.” He sets the dessert aside, rubbing his hands together. “What is it?”
I root around in my bag, pulling out the letter that came in—finally, and just in time—last week. I don’t want to detail what we had to go through to make this happen, but this has been six months in the making.
I hand it to Carter, watching as he turns it in his hands.
“Oooh, Oreo,” he says, reading the logo on the envelope. “Oh, fuck, did you guys get me some of those custom Oreos? Did you get Oreo to say Happy Birthday?”
“You could read the letter,” Adam suggests. “But hey, what do I know?”
Carter narrows his eyes as he opens the envelope.
“So grumpy when you’re away from your babies.
” He clears his throat. “Dear Mr. Beckett. Ha, Mr. Beckett. So formal. Okay, let’s go again.
Dear Mr. Beckett. First, we’d like to wish you a very happy birthday.
Word has it you’re turning thirty-one, but if we may be so bold, you don’t look a day over twenty-five.
All those Oreos must be keeping you young.
” He chuckles to himself, skimming his jaw as he murmurs, “So true. We’re honored to be your favorite snack, and are impressed with all your delectable creations.
We hear you have some ideas for some flavors, and we’d love to have you—holy fuck.
” Carter’s jaw drops. “Holy fuck.” He looks up at me, at everyone, then back to the letter.
“Holy fuck.” His eyes move as he keeps reading, and then uses the letter to flap at his face.
“Holy fuck. Oreo wants me to… Oreo said… Oreo’s giving me my own flavor! ”
Not just his own flavor, but a box with his name on it, his jersey number on the cookie, and a commercial too.
His eyes water, and when he blinks, a single tear runs down each cheek. He clutches his letter and empty box of cookies to his chest as he whispers, “This is the best day of my life,” and then quickly follows it up with a terrified “Don’t tell Ollie.”