Hockey Christmas (A Holiday Sports Romance Love Story)

by Naomi Niles

  He struggled to his feet and I handed him his cane and stood up. He took my hand and said, “How about we come back later for your car? I’ve always wanted to make out in a limo…”

  I wasn’t sure if he was serious about the limo, but making out with him sounded like heaven. “I love you, Kyle.”

  He stopped walking and looked at me and said, “I love you more.” He was wrong, but I could live with letting him think that.

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  Bull Riders Baby

  By Naomi Niles

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places and incidents are products of the writer's imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2016 Naomi Niles

  Chapter 1

  Meli

  The plane pulled away from the DFW terminal as I stood watching through the huge, plate-glass windows from the boarding area. There goes my life, I thought. Sighing, I picked up my carry-on and it occurred to me that’s exactly what I was doing … carrying on. In fact, it’s just possible I could fit my entire life in that bag. I could feel the hot tears wanting to pool in my eyes and I quickly tapped my sunglasses down from my bangs to my nose. I didn’t need an audience to my heartbreak.

  Languages chattered all about me and excited children skipped and played tag on the carpeted expanse that stretched into the distance, dotted by clusters of traveler seating and boarding gate signs. For some reason I had always loved the patterned carpets of offices and public places; there was something reassuring in their symmetry. It was especially apparent in airports where the energies of joy and sadness ricocheted off one another like feuding blue jays.

  The practical shoes I’d chosen for travelling were something less than practical. They pinched my feet and I could feel a blister on my heel. Stylish they might have been, but hardly suited for a long flight from New York City and being ejected into this awful heat and humidity. Even indoors I could feel the difference and this did not add to my cheer in any sense. I was a northern gal, born and bred. I loved winters in the snow and to skate on the frozen ponds. I even liked pushy people who used one volume—loud. It was familiar and how I’d been brought up.

  I could tell from the voices around me that they sounded nothing like home. These people were also loud, but their voices boomed and were accompanied by back-slapping and posturing with boots and hats. I tried not to be judgmental; after all, these were going to be my new friends and neighbors.

  How had Jeremy let this happen?

  * * *

  Jeremy and I had finished the last two years of college together. We dated casually at first, but then as the end of our final term approached, something like a fire alarm went off between us. We both knew we were at a crossroads. We could either split and wave goodbye, or we could put some glue between us. We opted for the latter and pooled our pitiful furniture and found a grubby apartment we could afford in the city. We both needed to turn those shiny diplomas into paying jobs—and good paying jobs they had to be. He hit pay dirt first and suddenly we could afford to eat. He landed a legal secretary position at a so-so firm, but it was the start of something big.

  Or so he promised me.

  I, on the other hand, was a journalist; well, more of a photojournalist, and I was in the center of my world. I finally landed a job selling classifieds for a small, yellow journal in a bad part of town, but it was at least in my industry. Promotions and new companies could come later. We ate more regularly and even bought a used bed and threw away the futon that folded flat; well, flat if you didn’t mind rolling into one another at night.

  I’m not really sure that Jeremy and I were truly in love with one another. I think we were more like fond roommates who needed one another’s contribution to get a toehold in the uber expensive world that was the city. We made love once in a while, kissed one another goodnight if either wasn’t already asleep, and in general lived like an old, married couple right from the beginning. It was comfortable; it was safe.

  Jeremy got a promotion and started coming home later and later in the evening. I tried to ignore this; tried to bury my head in my own work, but there wasn’t much to bury it in. I kept waiting for my place in the line to come to the forefront. I wasn’t even entirely sure I was in the right line—but then my entire life had been like that.

  Finally, one night Jeremy didn’t come home at all. I remember lying in the dark and staring at the ceiling. I tried to force myself to worry about him, to play the role of a frantic wife who couldn’t decide whether to call the hospitals or the morgue first. It was no good. I knew at my core that he was in someone else’s bed.

  I didn’t see him until that next evening. He was waiting for me, perched on the retro bar stool that served as the company seating in our tiny apartment. I knew as soon as I saw his face.

  “You’re moving out.” I saved him the words.

  He nodded.

  “You sure?” I asked, but knew the answer.

  He shrugged but didn’t try to hedge. I felt even more miserable. He was leaving me and wasn’t even sure she was what he wanted. Evidently, he wanted anyone but me.

  There wasn’t a whole lot more to say, so that weekend I helped him fold his shirts and underwear and stow them in the big, plastic Macy’s bag that served as his suitcase. He laid a few hundred-dollar bills on the crate nightstand to get me through the end of the month until I could find another place, or so he said.

  I remember lying in the bed all by myself that night, wondering how the hell I’d gotten there and what I was going to do. The next morning, I called my sister, Jill, who was living in Dallas.

  “Can I come to stay a while?” I asked her with a request for pity in my voice.

  “You left Jeremy?” she asked simply.

  “Nah … he left me.”

  “No shit? Didn’t see that coming. Sure, c’mon. You don’t mind sleeping on the sofa, do you?”

  “See you as soon as I can get out,” I answered.

  I scooped up the hundred dollar bills, grabbed my clothes, wadding them into a suitcase, and put my important papers, my two favorite books, and my diploma into my carry-on and called a taxi. Within two hours, I was in the air. I had called Jeremy and told him the bed was still there, if he wanted it. I really didn’t care.

  My cottage and white picket fence disappeared behind the jet and what lay ahead was a life with my quirky sister, a sofa, and the promise of no income whatsoever. I won’t say I was entirely broken-hearted—at least not about the Jeremy part. He was sort of like a rest stop for me; somewhere to grab a few winks before you continued toward your destination.

  As the jet sailed high above the clouds, I tabulated my skillset. I could use a camera like a maniac, wrote some fairly comprehensible copy, and had a curiosity that should have spawned a middle name of “Curious.” I could do the drudgework—babysitting, cleaning motel rooms, slinging hash, or ringing up at a checkout—if I was forced to. It was with some chagrin that I realized that was exactly where I was; I would have to.

  Resolved to eat crow for a bit, I napped and awakened as we began our descent and the seat belt advisory dinged through the crowded cabin. It was an eventless trip in an eventless life; and it was mine.

  Perhaps I should have booked a seat to Mongolia, I thought as I waited to leave the plane. At least there I would be a little unique.

  I snagged my beat-up suitcase from the luggage carousel and made my way through the throng of people toward the light. That’s all I could see over the bobbing heads and used it like a beacon.

  The current carried me out the automatic doors and my knees buckled as I hit the heat. I looked around and everyone else seemed comfortable. Perhaps it was the joy of anticipation that ins
ulated them. Me? I had Jill and a couch. Jesus, it’s hot.

  I hailed a taxi and gave the driver Jill’s address. I’d never been to see her before; she had always come back to the city to stock up on Boho clothing and the newer Broadway requisites. Her stays were short, generally, three days. I wondered how it would be to share quarters again. We’d never done that well as children. I hoped we had matured by now.

  “First time in Dallas?” asked my driver. He was stealing glimpses in his rear view mirror. He had yellowed buckteeth and was wearing a bolo necktie. I tried not to roll my eyes and just nodded.

  “I can always tell, you know,” he went on.

  I gave up. “Really? How’s that?”

  “The heat. Ya northerners always come here with too many clothes on.” He sneaked another look in his rear view to see how I reacted.

  It entered my mind to ask him about his qualifications for style and design counseling, but I decided the less conversation with him, the better. Again, I just nodded. Then I had a thought. I leaned forward just a bit; enough to give him the idea that I might have cleavage without actually displaying any: this worked every time. If there was one thing I knew my way around, it was taxi drivers. “You know where I’m headed. That’s my sister’s place. I need a job. I’m a journalist and photographer. Anything close by in that area you could suggest?” I figured if he thought he knew something about clothing and design, he might also think he knew something about my line of work.

  “Huh. Nope. The kind of thing ya want is downtown and your sister doesn’t live in the high rent district. Sorry,” he finished.

  I must have looked a bit crestfallen, because he tried again.

  “I’ll tell ya what I’d do,” he began and I prepared myself for a come on. Men were always suggestive to me, and over my lifetime, I’d gotten used to it. I knew I was attractive, but wasn’t about to fall to that depth to make money. He was saying something and I tried to catch up. “You’re new around here. What I’d do is get out and get some pictures and write a few stories and then try to sell them. Kind of like a portfolio, ‘cept ya write about things people around here like. Not that Yankee stuff.”

  Yankee stuff? I knew I would have to get used to that expression. “What sort of thing has a market here?” I asked him. There was no one else to talk to and there was a slight chance he might actually have a valid idea. It wouldn’t cost me a penny to find out.

  “Tourist stuff. Ya know, the landmarks, ranches, the skyline, restaurants, guys with boots and Stetsons, horses, steer, oil …”

  I could hear him going on and on, but I’d tuned him out so I could think. I nodded, just to be polite. Maybe he’s got a point. After all, if this was New York City, that’s exactly the kind of thing I’d be doing anyway. Broadway openings, the Statue of Liberty, Macy’s windows at Christmas, skating at Central Park, Times Square. “Where can I buy a car? I mean a cheap, really cheap car?” I asked him.

  He was looking me over in his rear view again. “Ya any good with that camera?” he asked me.

  “The best; why?” I asked and steeled myself for an invite to do a porn film.

  “I got a daughter, ya see? She’s gettin’ married next weekend and well, them photographers ain’t cheap, ya know?”

  I had no vanity. “What’s it pay?” Haggling: now I was on familiar ground.

  “Well, what would you say to having a tour guide and a chauffeur?”

  I cocked my head and frowned. “What does that mean?”

  He understood my hesitation and rushed on. “Oh, no, no … nothin’ like that. This here …” he slammed his hand down on the taxi dashboard, “it’s about all I got to my name, but it’s paid for and it’s mine. I was thinkin’ that I could sort of take you around to some of those places one day and you could take your pictures and get whatever you need for the writin’. Sort of swap your time for mine.”

  He was studying my reaction in the mirror. I leaned forward and asked, “What’s your name?” I knew it, it was right on the license in full display.

  “I’m Bob. Well, Robert, as it’s wrote in the family Bible, but nobody calls me that ‘cept the preacher on Sundays.”

  “Well, then Bob, Robert on Sundays, you’ve got yourself a deal. I’ll take the pictures and give you a disk, but the prints are on you.”

  He grinned broadly as he pulled up to a curb and stopped. “Ya got a deal. Ride’s on me.”

  Surprised, I looked out and saw we had stopped before a very seedy apartment building. There wasn’t a blade of grass to be seen and the dirt was littered with broken bicycles, empty wine bottles, and a few piles of something brown upon which I didn’t want to speculate. “This is it?” I asked, feeling depressed suddenly.

  “Yep. Want some help with the luggage?” he offered.

  “No, I can handle it.” I put my hand on the door handle and hesitated.

  “What’s the matter? Not look like the right place?” he asked, a frown of concern on his face.

  “I’ve never been here. Don’t know what I expected, but it wasn’t this. Well, Bob, it appears we’re to be in a one-day business together. When and where is the wedding?”

  He nodded and seemed satisfied. “It’s on Saturday and I’ll stop by at noon to get ya. Don’t worry ‘bout dressin’ up; we’re havin’ it real casual like. Oh, and what’s your name?” he asked, realizing he had no idea.

  “I’m Meli; that’s short for Melissa Christian,” I said over my shoulder as I proceeded to get out.

  “Well, Meli, nice name. I’ll see ya on Saturday at noon.”

  “See you, Bob,” I agreed and stood on the sidewalk with dismay as his cab pulled away.

  Chapter 2

  Blake

  “Blake Andrew Temple,” the man in the cheap suit called my name and I got to my feet and walked toward him.

  “Raise your right hand. Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God?” he uttered for probably the ten-thousandth time in his life.

  “Yup.” I wondered what had happened to the left hand on the Bible part.

  “Step up toward the judge,” he ordered in a humdrum voice.

  The judge behind the raised desk looked meaner than usual today. I wondered if he’d gotten any lately; the sour look he gave me as he peered over his reading glasses just about confirmed he hadn’t.

  “How do you plead?” the judge asked.

  “Not guilty,” I said in a clear, adamant voice.

  “You sure on that?” the judge asked.

  I was puzzled; I didn’t know the judge was supposed to argue with you. He could read it on my face.

  “Mr. Temple,” the judge began, laying his spectacles down on his desk in frustration. “You’re a regular customer in here. Now, you and I both know that it was a rodeo night and you won again and that always leads to a few beers and a few more fights. We’ve talked about this before. You can plead not guilty and waste my time and your money, or you can plead guilty, I’ll slap you with another two hundred and fifty dollar fine, and you can get on out of here and back to the ranch,” he said, making his case.

  I hadn’t brought a lawyer this time. “Guilty, your honor,” I re-stated in a somewhat less adamant voice.

  “Very well,” he responded. “That’ll be two hundred and fifty dollars,” he slammed down the gavel. “Pay the clerk on your way out.”

  I could hear a few gasps from the others in the courtroom. They were looking at far more serious punishments for even lesser crimes, but I knew what they didn’t: the judge and I played poker on the third Saturday of every month.

  Turning, my boots scraped the wood flooring and I walked in an exaggerated style down the aisle, like a man on his way to the gallows. I knew from the titters that I had some appreciative fans and I turned my head to wink at one of the prettier ones. She was Lolly, and her blonde hair was piled high on her head. I remembered taking out those pins a couple of weeks earlier and how that hair had just sort of flopped over. I hated h
airspray. Lolly was good, though; I had to give her that.

  I paid my fine and busted through the door of the courthouse. The light hit and my hangover bloomed like a cactus rose. I groaned and headed for the bar on the corner, my eyes intent upon my goal. Once inside, I sighed with relief. The air was cool and smelled of cigarettes and old bourbon. They ought to bottle that smell as cologne, I thought to myself and made my way toward the bar.

  “Howdy, Blake,” roared Henry from behind the bar and his greeting was echoed in various voices from around the room. Immediately a dozen voices ordered Henry to give me a drink on them. Worked every time.

  “Fellas,” I nodded in general and settled onto a stool. I was instantly the center of a crowd who wanted talk about Cain, the 1800-lb. Brahma who had become my nemesis. He was coal black and had the spirit of a demon in him. More than once I’d eaten dirt just seconds out of the chute.

  The men speculated while I kept silent and kept a sort of half grin as I listened. I knew that the sport was as much about the fans’ speculation as the reality of the outcome. In fact, it didn’t matter as much whether I won as it did whether they felt the outcome made sense. They all had excuses and blind eyes when needed.

  I had two of the beers offered and tipped my hat to the group as I left. I figured even if the judge was in my pocket, there was no point tweaking his nose with it, especially in his own neighborhood.

  I found the pickup where I thought I’d left it and headed out of town. I owned a ranch south of the city limits, and while I wouldn’t consider myself a rancher, I did like my privacy. I did own a few horses and rode my ranch regularly for exercise and solitude.

  This last was especially important to me. I had three brothers and that made for a very competitive childhood. My parents couldn’t afford four of everything, so the hand-me-down plan was utilized. The problem was that although I was the eldest, I wasn’t always ready to hand it down yet.