CHAPTER 10—DAMIAN
***
Alessandro: What do you get when you cross a snowman and a vampire?
Damian: ...
Alessandro: A frostbite.
THE DREAM STARTS OFF like some Hallmark bullshit. Bio Mom's twirling in a Mrs. Claus getup, all smiles and jingle bells. Bio Dad's there too, planting one on her like they're under mistletoe. And there's me, itchy as hell in some dorky Christmas sweater, but grinning like an idiot anyway. We're at the fire station, and kid-me thinks that's the coolest thing ever.
But then the warm fuzzies vanish faster than cookies left out for Santa.
My chest tightens, and suddenly there's a letter in my hand. The edges blur, but the words cut sharp. I toss and turn, fighting to wake up before the rest of the memories can crash down on me like a grand piano falling from the sky.
My brain's like a broken keyboard, jangling discordant notes. I know if I don't surface soon, I'll hit keys that'll unleash a symphony of darker memories. The kind that smell like gunpowder and taste like sand. Not tonight. Not again.
My eyes snap open, heart pounding like I've run a marathon. Sweat plasters my shirt to my chest, and for a second, I'm not sure if I'm in my bed or back in that nightmare.
At least I woke up before the real shit show could start its encore.
Sleep's fucked. Might as well put this adrenaline to use. I throw off the covers, the cool air hitting my sweat-slicked skin. My gym bag's right where I left it, always ready for a pre-dawn escape.
My phone lights up. Mom.
Mom: Morning, sweetie. Love you. Coffee later? We should talk. Got an email from HollywoodBuzz. Fact-checking? What's going on?
Shit. Of course they reached out to her too. As if that email from my bio parents wasn't enough. Now HollywoodBuzz is sniffing around, probably thanks to that interview they're going to publish. Fan-fucking-tastic.
Damian: Love you too. Coffee's good. I'll explain then. Nothing to worry about.
I hesitate, then add:
Thanks, Mom.
She doesn't need to know about the nightmares. Or how close I am to telling HollywoodBuzz where they can shove their fact-checking. Or that I keep thinking about how I opened up to Maddie last night—more than I thought possible in forever. Damn if her timing isn't always spot on.
The pre-dawn air hits me like a slap, shocking away the last wisps of the nightmare. My muscles ache for action, anything to burn off this restless energy. The gym calls, promising the mindless rhythm of punch after punch—even if the place screams Christmas, too with the windows décor that Ava added and the Christmas tree that got decorated by regulars with some happy memories.
My knuckles slam into the leather bag again, the impact reverberating up my arms. I sidestep, muscles tense, like I'm facing an actual opponent instead of the memory of last night.
As if the movement could erase those few hours when reality glitched, and I almost let my guard down.
But erase it? Not entirely.
No one in their right mind would want to forget Madison Smith playing F1 like she's been Lewis Hamilton's secret protégé. Or her laughter, warm and genuine, filling up the empty spaces in my apartment. Or the way she comes up with those ridiculous nicknames, "Bitey" echoing in my head. Or her scent, lingering long after she's gone.
And she was gone because I pushed her away. Because my parents emailed me. Then HollywoodBuzz. Because emotions were coming at me and I needed to compartmentalize, to not let myself get dragged down. If I start to feel everything, how will I ever function?
Punch. Punch. Punch. The rhythm's familiar, grounding.
"You're here early." Alessandro's voice cuts through the haze of my thoughts. He marches into the gym like he used to on missions - all power and purpose, like he can take on the world.
We both know better, though. There are scars that run deeper than skin. He's learned to live with his. Or so he says.
I grab the nearby towel, wiping the sweat from my face. "Did we really have to turn the gym into Santa's fucking workshop?" I growl, eyeing the tinsel and twinkling lights with disdain. "People come here to work out, not sing carols and sip eggnog."
The Christmas decorations mock me, a reminder of everything I'm trying to avoid. Everything Maddie seems to embody.
"Some holiday cheer won't kill you," Alessandro says, that knowing smirk playing on his lips. "Though from the looks of it, you might be allergic."
I grunt, turning back to the punching bag. It's easier than admitting the real reason I'm here at the ass-crack of dawn, trying to punch away the memory of Maddie's hurt expression as she left my apartment.
Easier than admitting that knowing she's still itching to leave Swans Cove digs like a radioactive thorn in my side. Or that for a split second, I wanted to tell her everything. The emails I got. The interview that'll get published. She'll probably research it anyways. Or maybe she already knows. I half expected a text from her. But nothing.
Probably because I acted like a petulant dick.
"I saw the preview of the interview, Imani sent it to Sorcha, too who sent it to Aisling," Alessandro rasps out without tilting his head the way people do. Without glancing away at first. "It's shitty."
"Assholes do what assholes do."
"Well, your bio parents definitely get a prize on asshole-ry."
I nod and turn back to punching. Because part of me wonders if that's not in my DNA.
THE MORNING FLIES BY in a blur of client sessions and paperwork. I throw a few more punches, letting the familiar burn in my muscles ground me. As I wind down my workout, I check the time. Shit. The Move Mobility Lunch class starts in twenty minutes. I head to the locker room, my muscles aching in that good way that usually clears my head. Today, though, my mind's still a mess of last night's memories and emails.
"I've got to set up for the class," I tell Alessandro, grabbing my towel. "You heading out?"
He nods. "Yeah, Ava's school thing. Try to change your resting Grinch face into... something less scary before class."
I flip him off, but there's no heat in it.
As I arrange the mats in neat rows, I catch sight of my reflection in the mirror. Alessandro is right, I might as well be the Nightmare Before Christmas. I force my face into something resembling a neutral expression.
Speaking of clients, they start trickling in. I nod at the regulars – Anzel with her neon headband that says "Kind is Cool", Liz and her water bottle filled with stickers from Schitt's Creek and Marvel movies. They retired from teaching last year, but they both still volunteer at the after-school program at the school.
"Merry Christmas!" Anzel chirps, way too cheerful for someone about to sweat their ass off.
"Yeah, you too," I manage, proud that I didn't visibly wince at the C-word.
I'm setting up the mats when I catch snippets of conversation that make my ears perk up.
"I've got twenty on New Year's Eve," Liz stage-whispers.
"No way," Anzel counters. "Christmas Eve for sure. Have you seen how they look at each other?"
My jaw clenches. "What's this bet about?" I growl, turning to face them.
They freeze like deer in headlights. Anzel's face goes red faster than a Ferrari off the starting line.
"Oh, um" Liz stammers, avoiding my eyes. "Just guessing when the new smoothie bar will open."
Bullshit. I'm about to call them out when the door chimes. Maddie walks in, all curves and determination in her workout gear. My mouth goes dry, and I catch Liz and Anzel exchanging knowing looks.
Fuck me. The whole damn town's placing bets on my love life.
I turn away, focusing on arranging the equipment. But I can feel Maddie's presence, like a magnetic pull I can't shake. It's not just about how good she looks in those yoga pants. It's the way she moves, confident and sure. The way her eyes light up when she's passionate about something.
And I'm hit with this overwhelming urge to tell her... everything. About the nightmares, the email, all of it. I want to make her smile, to hear that laugh that somehow makes this shitty season bearable. Hell, I want to challenge her to another F1 race, just to see that competitive fire in her eyes.
Shit, I even want to play the piano for her. That broken-down piece of furniture I've been avoiding like the plague now seems like it might be worth fixing.
These thoughts crash over me like a tidal wave, and for a second, I'm drowning in possibilities I never even considered before.
I shake my head, trying to clear it. This small-town gossip mill is going to be the death of me.
Or maybe, a traitorous part of my brain whispers, it'll be the making of you.
Just as I'm about to start the class, the Walking Grandmas and a few Walking Grandpas parade in, decked out like a Christmas explosion. My jaw clenches, bracing for whatever holiday horror they've cooked up. Christmas and I aren't exactly on speaking terms, not since...
I shake off the lingering echoes of last night's nightmare. Focus, Damian.
Mrs. Bittel, playing Mrs. Claus today, marches straight up to me. "Damian, dear! We've got a surprise for you!"
She whips out a Santa hat. With bells. And... is that a tiny F1 car dangling from it?
"There's more!" Mrs. Lawson chirps, presenting a workout shirt. It's my size, decorated with twinkling lights around a sleek F1 car. My name's on the side, clear as day.
For a second, I'm speechless. They actually put thought into this. "You made this?" The words come out gruffer than I intended.
"Of course!" Mrs. Lawson beams. "We know our gym's very own F1 fanatic needs some Christmas spirit!"
I run my thumb over the stitching on the shirt. It's not half bad. Actually, it's pretty damn cool. A warmth spreads in my chest, foreign but not unwelcome.
"It's... thanks," I manage, surprising myself with how much I mean it.
Mrs. Peterson leans in, her voice conspiratorial. "You can thank Maddie, dear. When we asked her about you three weeks ago, she suggested the F1 theme. Said you'd be more comfortable with a shirt and hat than a full Santa suit."
My eyes snap to Maddie. She meets my gaze head-on, a mix of challenge and satisfaction in her eyes. No blushing, no looking away. She knows exactly what she did, and she's not about to shy away from it. That's Maddie all over - confident, helpful, always trying to make things better. The realization hits me like a punch to the gut, but not in a bad way.
"Well, put it on, dear! We're all festive today!" Mrs. Johnson insists.
I hesitate. A few weeks ago, I would've shut this down hard. But now... "Give me a minute," I grunt, heading to change.
As I swap shirts, I can't help but think about how different this Christmas feels. Swans Cove is... it's doing something to me. Making things better, somehow. And Maddie... she's a bigger part of that than I want to admit.
I return, decked out in my new gear. I feel ridiculous, but also... okay? The Grandmas cheer like I've just won the Monaco Grand Prix.
I pass Maddie's mat, pointing a warning finger. "Not a word, Princess."
Her eyes are lighter, happier. "Wouldn't dream of it, Speed Racer."
But after class, she's gone before I can approach her, slipping out like a ghost. As I'm shoving the last mat into the storage closet, Mrs. Cooper stage whisper to Paul hits me like a sucker punch.
"I can't believe she's still here. Her podcast for the Gazette is decent, I suppose, but did you hear about that viral video? My grandson showed me. Proposing to that football player, then writing that scandalous article when he said no." She does that tsk-ing thing that has my shoulders tighten. "Some say she's the reason Chase Parker's considering early retirement. Using people for stories, that one. And now that totally inappropriate Dear Santa letter? She clearly wanted the clicks. That's what my grandson said."
Shit. I said similar shit about her before. But I meant it when I was trying to be better. Plus, Mom actually framed the portrait Maddie wrote: "The Heart Behind the Happily Ever Afters: This Romance Author's Why." It's hanging in her office.
The CASA article she wrote years ago still has me all up in my feelings. And her #DearSanta letters have people waiting for the next edition with baited breath. Plus, she's been using said popularity for good. For the shelter. For the dogs and cats waiting for families.
I've seen Maddie work. She doesn't just interview; she listens. Highlights the voices that need to be heard. Digs deep into the stuff that matters, the stories that need telling. She's not some vulture circling for the next scoop. Yes, she's made a mistake, but she owned up to it—in articles that didn't get viral the same way. I read them. I saw the video where she apologizes about not telling Chase about her plans, about being wrong to put him in the spotlight like that.
She's got more integrity in her little finger than half the town combined. And she's not responsible for his decisions—especially when it's been clear Chase's been thinking about retirement for two years already.
"I'm pretty damn sure Chase Parker's a grown-ass man who makes his own decisions," I growl, my voice low and dangerous. Mrs. Cooper's eyes drop faster than a rookie in his first firefight, but then she glances back up, that gossip-hungry look still there.
"Oh, I'm sure," Mrs. Cooper simpers, not backing down. "But you can't deny that letter she published was... well, rather explicit for our little town online newspaper. At least it didn't make it in print. I mean, I'm sure you enjoyed it."
"Didn't she issue an apology for that?" I counter, my jaw clenching.
"She... did," Mrs. Cooper admits reluctantly.
"And as you said, wasn't it only online and not even in the paper? It was taken off rather impressively quickly."
"Sure, sure... but..."
"I wasn't aware an honest mistake required some kind of fucking apology tour," I bite out, leaning in close enough that she has to take a step back. "Last I checked, no one in this town is perfect." I fix her with a look cold enough to freeze hell over. "Some of us hide our mistakes better than others."
Mrs. Cooper's mouth opens and closes like a fish out of water. She mumbles something that might be an apology before scurrying away, Paul in tow, muttering to her that I'm right. But his mutters don't drown her vitriol. "I always knew there was something wrong with him. Bless his heart, you know. With parents like him. And the woman who adopted him? She writes those.... Books."
"Books that make people smile. People happy," I call out, remembering Maddie's well-read copies of my mother's books. How she and Aisling light up when they talk about romance novels. "Mrs. Cooper, you can write that in the neighborhood's chat: Today's lesson from the gym: Kindness is like a muscle. Use it or lose it. And some of us clearly need a workout. Hashtag something. You'll think of it." I stand there for a moment, my heart pounding, fists clenched at my sides, as Eleanor Cooper huffs and puffs, slamming the door behind her.
So much for not letting my emotions run wild.
As I turn to head back to my office, I catch sight of a flash of curly hair through the gym's front window. Maddie. She's standing there, eyes wide, like she caught the tail end of my little outburst.
Our eyes lock for a moment, and there's something in her gaze—surprise, maybe even a hint of gratitude—before she turns and walks away, leaving me standing there, wondering what the hell just happened.
I watch her go, feeling a mix of frustration and longing that I can't quite shake. This Christmas Eve adoption event can't come soon enough. Maybe then I'll finally figure out what I'm doing when it comes to Madison Smith.
Decision made, I march back to the locker room, needing to get ready for coffee with mom and grab my phone. Defending Maddie felt right, like maybe I wasn't just punching at shadows anymore. I needed to do more. To show her... something. Maybe just that I'm not the asshole I used to be. Before I can talk myself out of it, I type out a message.:
" Hey Princess, thank you for last night. For not pushing. For being there. And I was a sparkling dick. Christmas Adopt-A-Thon. I'm in. Let's make it happen."
I hit send before I can overthink it. Whatever happens next, at least I'm not sitting on the sidelines anymore.