Hockey Holidays

by Toni Aleo

  “I think maybe the idea of having kids is a good way to go,” he said, sliding his hands up over her breasts.

  “Oh? Did you want to start now?” she asked.

  “Why not?” he replied.

  Chapter Six

  At sunup, Kitty snuggled down under the comforter and pressed up against Harry. He grunted.

  “Wow. You were an animal last night. Four times?” she asked.

  “Yep. Can’t score a goal takin’ only one shot,” he responded, snaking his arm around her middle and closing his eyes.

  Taking a deep breath, she inhaled his warm, sleepy scent. Well satisfied, she let her mind wander. How long after ditching the diaphragm would it take to get pregnant? Surprised that Harry had taken to the idea, Kitty sighed. Unsure whether her husband would trade hockey for their marriage, she’d been living with a ball of nerves in the middle of her gut.

  Unable to get back to sleep, she padded down to the kitchen. French toast occupied her thoughts, with a little ham on the side, maybe? As she cooked, baby names flitted through her mind. She hummed a favorite tune as she melted butter in the pan. The aroma of fresh coffee tempted her. She poured a mug, then added sugar and milk.

  When the meal was ready, she arranged it on a tray and headed for the stairs. This would be a good time to tell Harry of her plan. Her body hummed as she climbed, slowly, balancing the plates and mug.

  “Get up, Harry. Sleepyhead. Time to rise and shine.”

  He groaned. “I did too much rising last night. Can’t a guy sleep in on a day off?”

  She laughed. “French toast?”

  Harry cracked an eye. “Thought something smelled good, besides you.” He pushed up to a sitting position and grabbed a pillow for his lap. Kitty set the tray down gently.

  “Not to sound ungrateful, but is there a reason for this grand gesture?”

  “Just because I love my husband.” She perched on the end of the bed.

  Harry cocked an eyebrow. “Why am I thinkin’ there’s more to this than that?”

  “The gratitude of a satisfied woman?” she replied, raising her eyebrows.

  “Wipe that innocent look off your face. I’ve known you too long. What’s up?” he asked, taking a sip of the steaming brew, then picking up his fork.

  “Well, I have something to discuss with you. It’s something I’ve been thinking about for a long time.”

  His eyebrows shot up. “Something bad?”

  She put her hand on his arm. “No, no. Something good, real good.”

  “Whew. Don’t do that. You scared me.” He cut a piece of the luscious toast.

  Kitty stared at him. Naked under the covers, with his chest exposed, he tempted her. She leaned toward him and rested her palm on his pecs.

  “More? Let me finish eating first.” He eyed the opening of her robe, revealing her breast.

  “Maybe in a bit. First, let me tell you what happened,” she said, following his gaze and closing her robe.

  “Damn. You cut off the view.”

  “Please eat and listen.”

  “Shoot.” He speared a piece of ham.

  “I got an offer for the gallery.”

  “What?”

  “Jefferson University approached me two months ago. First, they wanted to buy me out, but I refused.”

  “Buy you out? But why would you do that?”

  “I wouldn’t—at least not back then. Last week, they offered to partner with me. I’ve been thinking. Since you’re giving up hockey, I’d like to be here with you. So maybe I could partner with Jefferson in D. C. then, with the money I’d get from Jefferson, I’d start a branch here in West Hartford.”

  “How would the partnership work? How much time would you spend in D.C.?”

  “I don’t know. We haven’t worked that out yet. But if we have kids—”

  “When we have kids,” he put in.

  “When we have kids, if I worked here, it would be easier. If you took the coaching job, we could tag team. You’d be home with the children in the morning. Then I could come home early and take them in the afternoon, while you’re coaching.”

  She held her breath. Harry’d never been easy with change. And now his whole life had been turned upside down. Could he cope? He put down his fork.

  “You’ve been thinking a lot about this.”

  “I talked to the doctor.”

  “When?”

  “A couple of months ago. Right around the time Jefferson approached me.”

  “Weren’t you going to tell me?”

  “It never seemed like the right time.”

  He nodded. “I see.”

  “Are you mad?”

  “Just surprised. You never keep things from me.”

  “Not usually. We were both keeping it from each other.”

  Harry chuckled. “That’s it.”

  “What do you think?” she asked.

  “I think you want me to take that coaching job.”

  “I do.”

  “I’m so proud of you. Imagine, the university wanting to muscle in on your operation.”

  “They’re not muscling in. They figure it would be a great place to show the work of their art students, and maybe even attract more and build up the department.”

  “That’s what they said?”

  “Yes. I had no idea my little place would draw their attention.”

  Harry took her hand and brought it to his lips. “You’re a star, Kitty. I’ve always said so.”

  She sensed color heating her cheeks.

  “I think the plan is brilliant,” he said.

  “You do?” Her heart took flight. “Really?”

  “I do,” he said, finishing off his meal.

  Kitty moved the tray and hugged him. “Thank you. Thank you so much.”

  Harry grinned in the shower. He couldn’t believe he had the stuff to make love to his wife again after breakfast. Maybe he couldn’t play hockey anymore, but he could still score with Kitty.

  As he dressed for the reception at Veteran’s Memorial Arena, Buzzy’s words came back to him. “Think about somebody else for a change, instead of yourself.” His buddy shared wise words. Harry had become self-obsessed. Living with the sexiest, smartest, most beautiful woman in the world, he’d ignored her. What did his giving up hockey mean for Kitty? Of course, she’d have a plan. Kitty had been a planner from the day she was born. He chuckled.

  Harry opted to ride this out, sit back and let others chart the course. He’d learn how to let go and give the wheel to someone else—his wife, and maybe that guy, Buster Callahan. He thrust his legs into his good corduroy pants, pulled a long-sleeved T-shirt over his head and plucked his sports jacket off the hanger.

  “Ready, Kitty?”

  “Almost,” she called from her vanity.

  While she applied makeup, Harry stuffed his wallet and keys into his pocket. She stood up, clad in an emerald green velour running suit. Her clear, porcelain skin shone, and her eyes sparkled.

  “I swear you are the most beautiful woman in the world,” he said.

  She kissed him. “Thank you. Ready?”

  He nodded and headed for the stairs. Emotion formed a lump in his throat, choking him. He tossed the car keys to his wife. The plows had cleaned the streets and a bit of sun melted what was left on the pavement. Kitty steered them safely on the twenty-minute trip.

  She took his hand as they walked to the front door. Once inside, a huge cheer went up from his teammates. They were on the ice, skating around the perimeter. There was a big cake in the center, on a table. The men sang, “For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow.”

  The cake was cut and pieces passed around. The players, coaches, and trainers sat together on the sidelines, talking and eating. Kitty sat with Coach Timmons and Buster Callahan. Harry glanced up at her from time to time. Though he tried with everything in him to control his emotions, his eyes watered anyway. He found the handkerchief his wife had tucked into his jacket pocket.

  Buzzy and a few of h
is teammates teared up, too. Harry passed the hanky around.

  “Gonna have kids, maybe?” Buzzy asked.

  “And that’s your business?”

  “Just wondering.”

  “Wonder all you like,” Harry said.

  “Of course, he’s gonna have kids. Deke’s gotta score someplace,” their star forward replied. A few more salacious words were uttered before the men made their way to the locker room. As Harry was about to join them, the doors opened, and twenty teenage boys hit the ice. They skated a circle, then stopped in front of Harry.

  “Look! It’s Deke Edwards!” said one dark-haired boy, pointing.

  They stopped in front of Harry.

  “Are you really Deke Edwards?” A blond boy asked.

  “I am.”

  “Are you going to coach us?”

  “Yeah. Of course, he is. Why else would he be here?”

  “Really?”

  “I saw you in the playoffs against Montreal.”

  “Me, too. On TV.”

  “You saved the game.”

  “Yeah. You kept them from scoring.”

  “That last shot. Wow.”

  “How’d you know he was gonna shoot?”

  “Well, boys. It was like this…” Harry began.

  The teens gathered around. Some stood by the railing, others filled the seats next to Harry. Words flowed like a good day on the ice.

  Harry shot a look at Kitty. Sure enough, she blushed. She’d been part of this ambush. Probably her, Timmons, and that Buster guy. Three against one—he’d been seriously outnumbered. He wove his tale of hockey excellence, painting himself the hero. Damn, he deserved to be the hero, because he’d defended their lead and played a key role in winning the game.

  “Okay, boys. Let’s see what you can do,” Harry said, rising to his feet. Glancing up, a puck appeared, as if by magic.

  “Go on now. Half forwards, half defensemen. Go out there and try to score.”

  “So, you are going to be our coach?” a tall boy asked.

  “Guess so. Can’t let you all down now, can I?”

  “No, sir.”

  The boys looked like a mishmash, all skating in opposite directions, trying to steal the puck, falling down, hitting the boards. They were committing a hundred fouls and infractions. Harry clucked to himself. What a disorganized bunch of hooligans who didn’t know one end of a hockey stick from another. He shook his head. Turning these novices into hockey players would be a challenge. They’d need a firm hand, someone who knew hockey inside and out. How could he turn them down?

  Once inside his home, Harry went into the living room to start a fire. It was five already and their movie marathon awaited. He started the logs and then joined his wife in the kitchen.

  “Turkey sandwiches are ready,” she said, wiping her hands on her apron.

  Harry pulled her into his embrace for a long, passionate kiss. When they broke, he spoke.

  “You did that, didn’t you?”

  “Did what?”

  “Arranged to have those boys there.”

  “I might have had something to do with it.”

  “I’m the luckiest man alive,” he said, taking her hand and leading her over to the sofa. “Now about making babies…”

  THE END

  Author’s Note

  Final Slapshot was inspired by the true story of Trent McCleary, a professional hockey player whose career was ended by a slapshot to the throat. Read more about him on Wikipedia here: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Trent_McCleary

  Books by Jean C. Joachim

  The First & Ten Series (football romance)

  Bottom of the Ninth Series (baseball romance)

  Now and Forever Series

  Manhattan Dinner Club Series

  Hollywood Hearts Series

  About Jean C. Joachim

  Jean Joachim is an award-winning, international best-selling romance author, with books hitting the Amazon Top 100 list in the U.S. and abroad since 2012. She writes mostly contemporary romance, which includes sports romance, rural romance, and romantic suspense.

  With over 45 books in ebook, print and audio, she spends her days writing. She’s an avid dog lover, enjoys all sorts of music, especially classical, and has a fondness for black licorice. Jean’s married, has two sons and lives in New York City. She’d love to hear from you, email her at: sunnydaysbook@gmail.com

  Email | Website | Blog

  Lisa B. Kamps - Christmas Interference

  The Baltimore Banners

  Shane Masters no longer believes in happy-ever-afters. Can the woman who knew him best thaw his heart with a little holiday magic before it's too late?

  In memory of my dad, Paul Belbot, who gave me my love of words and encouraged me to put them to good use. Miss you, Dad!

  Chapter One

  Shane Masters stared at the house, dread filling him as the festive lights twinkled in the cold darkness. White. Red. Green. Alternating flashes of holiday cheer, beckoning visitors in from the cold.

  It was enough to give him a fucking headache.

  He didn't want to be here. Didn't know exactly why he was here. Misplaced loyalty? A twisted sense of obligation? Both. Neither. Maybe for some other reason, one he didn't want to acknowledge, one he couldn't face.

  Guilt slammed into him, forcing him to acknowledge it no matter how hard he tried to bury it. How long had it been since he'd last been home? Two years?

  He frowned, thinking back. No, three years. Christ, had it really been that long? Yeah, it had. Three fucking years—even longer since he'd been to this particular house. And he wouldn't be here now if not for his uncle quietly insisting he show up; if not for his aunt slyly throwing that guilt trip on him the minute he walked through the door this afternoon.

  It's time, Shane. You've been gone too long. Don't let your inaction turn into regret.

  Regret.

  Yeah, that pretty much summed everything up. Regret and guilt, his adopted life mantras. The emotions that had been tearing him apart for the last five years. The emotions that wouldn't quite stay buried, no matter how hard he tried, no matter how deep he shoved them into the black corners of his worthless soul.

  And still the question came back to haunt him, the single question that had been eating at him all this time: why? Why had it happened? Why Wyatt and not him?

  It would be easier to find an answer to the mysteries of life than answering that one single fucking question. He'd know, since he'd been trying to do just that for the last five fucking years.

  Yet none of that was helping him move, encouraging him to leave the comforting warmth of the rental SUV. Big. Shiny. Black. With all the luxuries he was used to now. Yeah, because somehow choosing the most expensive, most luxurious, most over-sized and pretentious vehicle the rental place had to offer somehow made him more of a man. Somehow proved he'd made it. Somehow proved that he was a somebody. He glanced around the interior, at the expensive black leather and state-of-the-art digital instrumentation. Ran his hand over the buttery-soft leather cradling his worthless ass, the seat's heater keeping him warm in spite of the night's plummeting temperature.

  He should have never come here. Should have never come home. He should have stayed in Baltimore for the Christmas break. Four fucking days. Being by himself for four days wouldn't have killed him. He could have spent it just hanging around his monstrosity of an empty four-bedroom home. Maybe had a few of the single guys from the Banners stop by for a night of partying that had nothing to do with the fucking holidays.

  There were a hundred different things he could have done—until his aunt had called and asked him to come home. The aunt who had raised him since he was twelve years old. The aunt who had opened her house and her heart to him after his parents had passed away.

  The aunt who had never asked him for anything before in his life.

  He couldn't say no.

  Now here he was, sitting outside the comfortable rancher that had been like a second home to him while
he'd been growing up. Not his aunt's house, but his best friend's.

  His former best friend.

  "Fuck."

  Shane killed the ignition, grabbed the wrapped present from the passenger seat, then shoved open the door. He misjudged and shoved too hard. The door swung back on its hinges, nearly smashing his fucking knee as he climbed out.

  Yeah, wouldn't that be poetic justice?

  He shoved the thought away and trudged up the sidewalk, doing his best to ignore the tacky inflated Santa and the hideous plastic reindeer surrounding him. The decorations brought back memories from all those years ago—some funny, some bitter, some nostalgic. How many times had he helped lug boxes of decorations up from the basement, laughing and groaning? They'd joke, him and Wyatt, about the sheer tackiness of every single item being placed on the lawn. Their good-natured complaints always went ignored by Mr. Hunter. Tacky decorations were his main goal, after all.

  It looked like that hadn't changed, even after all this time. But who helped drag everything up from the basement now? Not him. Not Wyatt, not since—

  Shane shoved the thought away and opened the storm door, raised his hand to knock. The door opened before he got that far and he stepped back in surprise, nearly stumbled off the edge of the small porch when his addled brain finally recognized the girl standing in front of him.

  No, not a girl. A woman.

  Tall, her slender form covered in a bright holiday sweater that hit her mid-thigh. Black leather boots encased her legs just below her knee, blending in with the black knit leggings covering her long, lean legs.

  Shane swallowed past the anxious lump in his throat, let his gaze travel up to her face. Instead of seeing anger or hurt in her eyes, hatred or animosity on her face, he saw...a smile. A glimmer of delight. Of hope.