Chapter 18 Jingle Balls
JINGLE BALLS
ROWAN
I stride down the hallway at the arena a little later feeling pretty good. I can’t date Isla for real—it’d be bad for her and for me, given that little matter of her being my best friend’s sister. And my best friend knowing I’m bad news when it comes to romance.
But a few practice dates will break this inappropriate crush once and for all. We’ll go out, we’ll spend time together, and I’ll practice-date her out of my system.
Bye, bye crush.
The brilliance of my scheme. The sheer brilliance, I could cackle. Fine, timing is tight this week with the hockey schedule, but I’ll figure it out. I always do.
“Who’s the evil genius now?” I ask Wanda as I walk her down the corridor on a black vegan leather leash with studs on it. It matches her collar tonight.
She turns her floppy-eared head to me, giving me a yes with her eyes.
“Exactly,” I say with a swagger in my step. We stroll past pink-haired Rae, and I give her a nod as she snaps the suit walk pic of my little dog and me.
I’m still patting myself on the back when I drop Wanda off at the doorway of Dog Tails a minute later.
Sawyer’s checking in pups on the tablet at the counter.
“Make sure she has time to play fetch. She’s obsessed with fetching,” I say to Sawyer, as my teammate Ford’s dog Zamboni chases a stuffed armadillo an employee tosses her in the open playroom beyond the counter.
Sawyer pulls a face, holds his arms out wide, gesturing to the dog fiesta. “Would I do anything less?”
“Just making sure.”
I hand him Wanda, and he pets her chin. “We always have a good time, don’t we, girl?”
She tips her head back, showing off her underbite, shamelessly indulging in his adoration.
I drum my hands on the counter, pleased with, well, everything tonight. Wanda’s happy, I’ve got a fail-safe fake-dating plan, and my kiddo will be in the house this evening, along with my parents.
I strut into the locker room, ready to take no prisoners when we play. “Boys, it’s going to be a good fucking night,” I announce.
Miles snaps his gaze to me. “Who are you and what happened to our mean-as-fuck D-man?”
I scoff as I unknot my tie. “Don’t worry. I’ll be a goddamn murder hornet on the ice.”
Tyler stretches an arm across his stall, offering me a fist for knocking. “We always fucking are.”
I knock back. “Every single game.”
Miles hums doubtfully as he grabs shoulder pads from his stall. “Yeah, but you never come in like you’re whistling a happy tune, Bishop.”
I stretch my neck from side to side. “Can’t a man just be in a good mood?”
Miles tugs on the pads. “Sure. Any of these other clowns. But not you, Mister Grump.”
Across the locker room, Ford—he’s our veteran forward—gives a sharp-eyed stare as he tapes his stick. “Put it on the DickNose board, boys. Rowan’s been bitten by the Christmas spirit.”
I scoff. “Please. I’m just ready to destroy my hometown team tonight. That’s all.”
But one glance at the DickNose board, and I heave a sigh. There’s a sixth item added to the Five Things the Future Mrs. Bishop Needs to Know About Rowan.
It reads: He collects ugly sweaters for Christmas parties. Just ask him about the first one his teammates got him.
With more dread than when I click on the news lately, I turn around to face them, pasting on a big-ass grin. Never let them see you sweat and all. “Aww, you guys are so obsessed with me you’re getting me gifts. So cute. So fucking cute.”
Ford snorts. “Oh, it’s cute all right. Your gift.”
Tyler dips his face, clearly trying but failing to hide a smile. “Would we call it cute?”
“It’s so disgustingly cute he’s going to want to wear it ASAP,” Miles puts in.
I stay strong, beckoning with my fingers. “Bring me the gift, boys,” I say, since I learned a long time ago that it’s best to go along with pranks, not to fight them.
Miles stretches an arm into his stall, grabs a messily wrapped package from the top shelf, and frisbees it my way.
I catch it one-handed, of course. If I didn’t, I’d have to retire in disgrace immediately. “It’s like a bunch of drunk monkeys wrapped this,” I say, flicking a finger at the misplaced tape, the curling corners of the paper and…what the hell? “Seriously?”
Tyler snorts, then barks out a laugh. “You don’t like it?”
Shaking my head, I get a good look at the wrapping paper and the words Jingle Balls scrawled on it. A cartoonish print of crudely drawn pairs of balls cascades across the paper, complete with Santa hats perched atop each hairy ball. “With friends like you…”
“Open it,” Miles goads, smirking.
“You mean the wrapping paper isn’t the gift?” I deadpan.
“Our generosity is boundless,” Ford says. He’s stopped taping his stick. In fact, all the guys have stopped getting ready. They’re staring at me.
The dread mounts. I can’t even imagine what’s on the sweater.
But I man up and rip open the sloppy wrapping job.
I pull out the ugly sweater, holding it up.
Santa’s kneeling in front of a tree, setting down a present, while his pants ride low.
His big white ass is on full display for his reindeer, along with the little black thong he wears.
There’s something else under the sweater too. I’m almost afraid to look. But I brave the sloppy Jingle Balls, and gingerly reach for…yup. A thong.
A matching black thong.
I raise my face, and the assholes I call teammates can’t contain themselves. They erupt in doubled-over laughter. When it subsides a minute later, Miles chokes out, “You can wear it…to a…date.”
My jaw falls open. “You assholes bought the damn matchmaking package for me!”
But logic has no home here.
“And you’re welcome,” Tyler puts in with a smart-aleck nod.
“Be sure to let the future Mrs. Bishop know it’s the first of many ugly Christmas sweaters,” Miles adds, in between catching his breath.
I toss the sweater and the matching underwear into my cubby. There will be no future Mrs. Bishop, but I keep that to myself.
Once I’m in uniform, I tap the pic of Mia I keep in my stall.
It’s a shot of her leaping in front of a graffiti wall in the Mission District, and it’s my good luck charm.
Then I tap the spot above my right pec, also for good luck—that’s where my favorite tattoo is.
With those twin superstitions done, I stretch and warm up.
Then I head to the tunnel with Tyler, skates and helmets on, sticks in hand.
He tips his forehead my way. “Seriously though. How did the cookie swap go?”
“Now you want to know how it went? After buying me a thong?”
He shrugs off the question. “Yeah, I do. We might be giving you a hard time, but I still legit want you to be happy.”
“So you guys don’t have to babysit me at the gala,” I toss back, using Miles’s words from the night of the auction. But I’m not mad. I’m just reporting the facts.
As we wait for the announcer to invite us onto the ice, Tyler presses again. “Come on, Bishop. I’m serious.”
Fair enough. Since he’s being earnest, I give him a serious answer. “I’m doing my best.”
His eyebrows rise. “That so?” He sounds doubtful, but hopeful too.
“I am,” I confirm. Because committing to be real on a practice date with Isla feels a whole lot like trying. And that has to count for something, right?
With a hint of a smile, he claps me on the back. “Proud of you.”
We hit the ice, and I block Christmas, dates, and thong-wearing Santas from my head as I jostle for the puck, picking it off from Vancouver one minute into the first period and feeding it to Devon, who sprints down the oval in a breakaway.
Then scores.
Yes. That’s my favorite kind of gift. An early lead.
We don’t squander it. A couple hours later, the horn blares and “Tick Tick Boom” blasts in the Sea Dogs arena.
I high-five my teammates, then look up to the family suite on the second level, where the world’s cutest kid is dancing in celebration and waving my way.
Mia’s smile is huge, fueled by the electric excitement of a child. My heart floods.
A few suites over, I spot Jason. Huh. I hadn’t realized he’d be here tonight, but it’s part of his job to see his clients in action, and he reps some of the guys on the Vancouver team too. He’s probably here to visit with them.
I head off the ice, eager to see my kiddo.
But not so fast. In the locker room, Coach McBride praises us for a well-fought win.
“You played hard. You never stopped battling for the puck or defending the net. Keep that up,” he says, and briefly, I wonder if he tried any dating sabotage when Isla set him up with his girlfriend.
But he’s a straight shooter so I guess the answer is no.
“Now I need you all to stick around for a few minutes for a quick marketing meeting.”
Most of the guys groan. No one likes post-game meetings.
Coach sighs with exasperation. “Really? You play a demanding game for a living, and you can’t handle a fifteen-minute chat?”
“Now it’s fifteen whole minutes,” Max grumbles, but our goalie’s being borderline playful.
Still, Coach deals him an intense stare. “You’d think I was pulling your teeth.”
“Less painful than a meeting. Of any length,” Max adds.
Once we’re changed, the team’s publicist, Everly, strides into the locker room, tablet in hand, her sleek ponytail cinched low.
Max gives her an eyebrow wiggle as he knots his tie, but she ignores her fiancé and focuses on her job.
“Good game, guys,” she begins with a cheery smile, “and as you know we have one road game in Seattle before we head to Evergreen Falls to play at the minor league arena before the holidays.”
I nod, along with my teammates.
“I wanted to remind you that marketing’s goal is for the entire team to help promote our new minor-league affiliate. That means I would love it if you could be available for local PR.”
I fight off a groan. But it’s futile. It comes out anyway.
“I don’t think I need to remind all of you that anyone can be good with the press with a little bit of effort,” Everly says as she swings her gaze to the formerly grumpy goalie, flashing him a smile at last. Everly turned Max’s surly reputation around with a PR makeover a few seasons back.
Max flashes an over-the-top grin, then points menacingly at all of us. “You fuckers have no excuse then.”
I frown. I do my part in talking to the media, but it’s my least favorite part of the job.
“I know a lot of you don’t love publicity,” Everly adds, practically reading my mind.
“But please remember how valuable it is to the organization to have you out there in such a lovely town, and we appreciate you in advance.” My Spidey senses tingle, and my frown digs deeper before she turns to me.
“That includes you, Rowan, since I know you have a cabin there and that gives you a little bit of a connection to the place. It would be great to get a couple photos of you around town.”
My jaw twitches. I’d rather eat batteries than be the face of a Christmas village.
I bought the cabin far, far away from Main Street for a reason.
But I think of Tyler and his pre-game pep talk, of how my teammates are trying to have my back, and I think of my own plan to try with Isla on the practice date.
Fact is, as much as I loathe public appearances that don’t involve pets, I should do my best for the team.
That’s part of being a team. “Okay,” I say evenly.
“Wonderful. Thank you,” she says, then flips her tablet case closed. Good. This meeting’s almost over. “One more thing.”
One more thing is hardly ever good, so I brace myself for further pain.
“As part of this effort we’d like to move the Christmas Eve gala to Evergreen Falls.
You’re all going to be there on the twenty-third anyway for the game that day, so we hope you’ll stay in town another night.
We will of course cover the costs for you and your families—for those of you traveling with family—to stay on Christmas Eve, too, should you wish.
What better place to spend the holiday! And for those who need or want to return to San Francisco for Santa’s early morning arrival, we’ll have the team jet to take you back to San Francisco less than an hour after the gala ends. ”
Kill me now.
That means more time in Christmas Town. I swear, the universe is out to get me at this time of year. But, on the flip side, Mia loves it there and I never want her to have a bad day, let alone a bad Christmas.
I grab my gag gifts, and my phone, then exit, ready to collect my favorite person. But before I can track her down, I bump into Jason waiting in the hallway, his eyes focused on his phone. He looks up right as I tilt my head his way.
“They let riffraff like you in here?” I ask.
“Shocking, I know,” he says, then knocks fists with me. “Good game. And I hear that the team is doing a PR push in Evergreen Falls.”
Talk about a super-agent. “Is there anything you don’t know?”
“It’s my job to know things,” he says, “and on that note, I think I’ll come over to your place and have a drink to chat about how the hell you’re going to pull this off.”
“One minute you think you’re gonna have a nice night alone, and the next minute your agent shows up.”
He rubs his ear. “I’m sorry, did you say how nice it is that your best friend is coming over?”
I stare at him, unblinking. “No, I don’t believe that’s what I said.” But he knows he’s always welcome, so I turn the other way and beam when I spot my mom, dad, and Mia walking down the corridor. Mia runs the final feet toward me, and I scoop my kid up in a hug.
“Dad, what does a cat like to eat on a hot day?”
“Tell me.”
She grins impishly. “A mice cream cone!”
My mom laughs, her green eyes crinkling at the corners. She tugs on one of Mia’s braids. “We looked them up during the game. Cat and mouse jokes.”
“You didn’t watch every play?” I ask, with faux shock.
My dad wraps an inked arm around her, the snakes on his forearm curving down his skin. “We watched the good ones,” he says.
“Every play I’m in is a good one,” I say.
“Most are,” my mom teases, as she smooths a hand down her Def Leppard concert tee. I’ve given up trying to get them to wear team gear. It’s just not their style.
“Thanks again for coming tonight, and for taking care of Mia,” I say to them.
“I wouldn’t have it any other way,” Mom says.
Dad nods toward her. “What she said,” he seconds, then smacks a kiss to her cheek.
I might have been served a shit sandwich in romance, but in the family department I have everything.