The 25 Men of Christmas

by Cassie James

  Copyright © 2019 by Cassie James, Christine Kelsey, & B.C. Morgan

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  For Santa—

  Who still hasn’t told us yet if this book puts us on the nice list or the naughty one…

  Contents

  1. Gemma

  2. Gemma

  3. Gemma

  4. Gemma

  5. Mateo

  6. Cyrus

  7. Gemma

  8. Gemma

  9. Wolfie

  10. Gemma

  11. Gemma

  12. Gemma

  13. Gemma

  14. Gemma

  15. Gemma

  16. Ben

  17. Kyle

  18. Gemma

  19. Gemma

  20. Gemma

  21. Ryan

  22. Hunter

  23. Gemma

  24. Dillon

  25. Gemma

  26. Victor

  27. Mikey

  28. Ryan

  29. Gemma

  30. Anthony

  31. Gemma

  32. Gemma

  33. Luis

  34. Kellin

  35. Dillon

  36. Raf

  37. Gemma

  38. Eli

  39. Gemma

  40. Milo

  41. Gemma

  42. Gemma

  43. Lee

  44. Gemma

  45. Gemma

  46. Cara

  47. Oliver

  48. Epilogue

  Cassie James

  Christine Kelsey

  B.C. Morgan

  One

  Gemma

  “Let the record show—rom-com king Tom Hanks would never cancel a perfectly good date.”

  I roll my eyes as I shuffle my phone between my ear and my shoulder, trying to balance it there as I fill out paperwork the owners need about Ben’s rehab progress. As much as I know he’s ready to be back out on the field, it’s not happening anytime soon.

  “Two things. First of all, when’s the last time Tom Hanks even did a rom-com? Like ten years ago? He’s too busy doing real movies now.”

  Cara’s gasp is so loud it nearly scares me into dropping my phone. “You take that back, you rom-com hating monster!”

  “Sappy, unrealistic love stories just aren’t my thing. You know that. I’m a realist.”

  No way am I about to admit I spent last weekend having a Meg Ryan marathon alone on my couch. Maybe I could do the Kate Hudson movies this weekend. Or I could get really crazy and break out the Molly Ringwald collection…

  Damn Colin for cancelling again.

  Cara huffs. “Fine. Agree to disagree. Now what was the second thing?”

  I pause with my pen poised over the team paperwork as I draw a blank on the name of Ben’s specialist doctor. I just talked to the guy last week.

  “Hmm?”

  “You said you had two things. That was one, what’s the other?”

  “Oh, right.” I take a deep breath. “The second thing is I don’t need a romantic hero in my life because I’m happy with Colin.”

  She chuckles for a moment until she realizes I’m not laughing along. “Oh, you’re serious.”

  I catch myself hesitating before I rush to Colin’s defense again. “Maybe if you gave him another chance—”

  “Hell no,” she cuts me off. “Spending time with that douche-nozzle would make it seem like I approve of your life choices, and I definitely don’t.” Her voice is light and teasing, minus the part where she called Colin a douche-nozzle.

  “Douche-nozzle? Really?”

  Cara has a tendency to pick up insults from the youth hockey league she helps out with. Which means all her insults tend to sound like they came from an eleven-year-old boy… because they did.

  I’m just about to change the subject anyway when a hand catches on my office door and pushes it the rest of the way open. Milo steps inside, a bundle of fresh red roses in one hand.

  For one strange moment, I think he’s bringing me roses and my stomach does a somersault.

  “A delivery lady just dropped these off for you,” he explains.

  Nodding, I start to hold my hands out to take them but he drops them on the corner of my desk before I get a chance, the bundle unceremoniously hanging off the edge. I don’t bother reaching for the card because we both already know who they’re from.

  “Cara, I gotta go. I’ll call you later.”

  She starts to protest but I hang up on her mid-sentence. She’d stay on the phone forever if I let her because she doesn’t have a regular day job right now. If she doesn’t hear back about anything soon, I’m going to have to upgrade my phone plan.

  “Cyrus wants you on the field today.”

  I’m not surprised. When I first started this job, the sole full-time athletic trainer for the Strudford Storms rugby team, I spent most of my time in my office. Now, two years later, it’s a rare occasion when Cyrus—the team captain—doesn’t summon me out to the field. Not that they actually need me most days.

  I think he does it just to annoy me most days.

  “Sure, I’ll be out in a minute.”

  I stuff my phone in my back pocket as I stand and reach into the back cabinet for my bag. There’s a regular first-aid kit the coaches keep on the field, but I keep a more thorough collection of things in my own bag. Including a shit ton of instant ice packs, considering they’re the one thing I seem to hand out like Christmas candy.

  When I turn back toward the door, Milo is still staring at the flowers abandoned on the corner of my desk. I should probably get a cup of water for them or something.

  “What’d he do this time?” Milo looks pointedly from the flowers to me.

  “Nothing.” I wave off the question. Despite what everyone else thinks, Colin is good to me. I’m not going to sit around bashing him for cancelling a silly date. Even if I did take the time to get my nails done this morning.

  “The guy buys you an awful lot of red roses considering your favorites are the yellow ones.”

  My cheeks flush as Milo stares me down. I’m not even sure why he knows that. I get along great with the team, but it’s not like we sit around talking about flowers and feelings and shit. The last real conversation we all had was an argument over whether pineapples belong on pizza.

  They don’t—by the way.

  “Flowers are flowers,” I answer diplomatically since Milo doesn’t look like he’s going to let it go. He hesitates in my office even as I brush past him. “Come on, then. If you’re late to practice the coaches will have the whole team running laps.”

  That gets him moving, though I can’t help but notice the careful way he watches me as he holds the door to the complex open for me to step out as we head toward the field. Self-consciously, I sidle up next to Marty—the head coach.

  He barely spares me a quick glance before focusing his attention back on the field. “Dillon’s slow today.”

  I study the player in question for a moment, already having a hunch what the problem is. Still, I watch him as he runs across the field, making sure there’s no limp hinting at a bigger concern.

  After a minute, I answer, “Tell him to lay off the late-nights.”

  I can tell from the way he winces that the idea is about as appealing as him asking the team to do a couple naked laps around the field.

  Marty shakes his head as he lets out a big belly laugh. “You tell him. None of these young
guys listen to me. You’re kinda like the mom of the team, though, maybe you can talk some sense into him, eh?”

  I go straight into internal pep talk mode.

  It’s okay, Gemma. Now is not the time to rant about sexism to the guy that makes sure you have a steady paycheck and a front-row seat to some of the... admittedly hottest practices in professional sports. Also, don’t get your feelings hurt about him insinuating this team of hot men see you as a maternal figure.

  Ugh.

  I glance down at my jeans—which I have been buying in a slightly higher cut than I used to. I silently vow to wear nothing but skinny jeans for the next week.

  Out on the field, Mateo takes Anthony to the ground way harder than necessary for a breezy practice like this. The two of them tumble to the ground in a heap of muscle and explosive cursing.

  “Damn,” I murmur under my breath.

  “Yeah,” Coach grunts in agreement. I turn wide-eyed toward him just in time for him to shout out to the team, “Watch it out there! No use getting hurt before the season even kicks off.”

  Oh, right.

  Injuries.

  That was what I was thinking about, too. Definitely not thinking about how tackling is the hottest part of rugby or how long it’s been since a man has tackled me like that.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I see Marty glance my way. “So, you’ll talk to Dillon then?”

  I start to answer with a resounding no, but the same hesitation as usual kicks in. Coach Marty Kringle, he gave me one hell of a gift by hiring me just out of college. I’d always expected to work in hockey or baseball, but it was rugby that gave me a home.

  “I’ll talk to him,” I finally agree. Because as much as I don’t want to play the role of team mommy—I want to disappoint Marty even less.

  The rest of practice is smooth-sailing. As they start to wrap things up, Marty tells me I don’t have to stick around for cool-downs. He’s itching for me to get Ben’s paperwork in to make sure everything is kosher with the team. As I turn to head back inside, I can feel eyes boring into the back of my head. I glance back to the field to see Cyrus staring at me as I retreat.

  He hates when I leave the field early. I don’t know what his deal is. It’s not like I don’t already spend an overabundance of my time with the team. But it seems like if it were up to him he’d have me hovering around them 24/7.

  Shit. Maybe I am the team mommy.

  Two

  Gemma

  “Wha ahhh ouu ooin ere?”

  Cara stares slack-jawed at me, horror in her eyes as she takes me in from my fuzzy turkey-print pajama pants to the mouthful of double-fudge ice cream I made the huge mistake of putting in my mouth just seconds before she came bursting into my house.

  “This is worse than I thought.” She looks at the pants again. “Much worse.”

  Before I get the chance to defend myself—a lady should be able to act like a trash monster in the comfort of her own home—she turns on her heel to storm down the hall toward the bedroom. An uneasy feeling settling over me, I push to my feet to follow her.

  I really shouldn’t be surprised when she throws open the closest door and visibly recoils. “Gemma?”

  I swallow the last of my ice cream. “Yeah?”

  “Why does your closet smell like the inside of a jockstrap?”

  Crap. I should have brought the ice cream so I could stuff my mouth full again to avoid having to answer this question. She keeps looking at me expectantly, though, so I know I’m not getting away without giving her some kind of answer.

  Sheepishly, I admit, “I told Hank I’d help him with some laundry after he bleached his practice shorts.” For the second time this year.

  Cara rubs at her temples and takes a deep, calming breath that she seems to regret almost instantly. She coughs for a second before letting out a long sigh and eyeing me like a serious lecture is coming. And considering Cara’s about the least-serious person I know—my cheeks heat with a proactive flush.

  “Gem.” She knows I hate when people call me that. It sounds like a boy’s name—Jim. “Isn’t doing the players’ laundry kind of a… girlfriend sort of thing to do?”

  “Hank doesn’t have a girlfriend.” In fact, I can’t remember the last time any of them had a serious girlfriend.

  “That is so not the point.”

  She shakes her head like she doesn’t have time for this even though she’s the one that brought it up. She was perfectly welcome to ignore the filthy-man-laundry smell radiating out of my closet. Actually…

  “Why are you even in my closet?”

  I try to step around her to close the door but she stops me with a sharp look and a pinch to my forearm.

  “Ow!” I protest.

  “We are not doing this mopey thing.” She gestures to my pants. “Maybe for Tom Hanks—but not for a guy named Colin Seaman.” I open my mouth, ready to defend him like always, but she puts a hand up. “Seaman, Gemma.”

  “Okay, it’s an unfortunate name, I get it,” I concede, hoping it will shut her up. It’s just another item on the long list of arguments Cara makes against Colin. But it doesn’t really matter if she likes him or not because I do.

  “Gemma Seaman,” she deadpans.

  My shoulders stiffen as she says the name like it’s some foreign concept that would never actually happen. I’ve been with Colin for two years, the idea of marrying him someday isn’t so far-fetched.

  “Where’s that red dress?” I hear her mumbling to herself as she dives back into my closet.

  “Cara, no. This is not a red dress night.”

  She reappears with the dress held up triumphantly in one hand. “Honey, if this isn’t a red dress night then I don’t know what is. Life cannot be so cruel that someone with your ass is sitting home alone all weekend.”

  “It’s Wednesday.”

  She waves off my correction as she thrusts the dress into my hands. It’s this tight red number with a sweetheart neckline that puts all my curves on display. It’s the same dress Cara always wants me to wear when Colin cancels plans because she swears it’s the dress that’s going to “convince someone much, much hotter” (her words, not mine) to steal me away.

  I wore it just a couple weeks ago—ironically the last time Cara drug me to a club after I was stood up—and only just remembered to pick it up from the dry cleaner’s a few days ago. A nervous panic starts to well up in my chest as I realize just how often my best friend’s been pouring me into this dress lately.

  How have I not noticed just how bad things have gotten with Colin?

  I try to picture what my dad’s going to say when I tell him about this... because I will. I always do. Next to Cara, my dad’s my best friend. But he’s also still a dad. He’s going to be even less understanding than Cara about Colin bailing out on yet another date.

  “I’ll plug in the curling iron,” Cara offers with a thin, knowing smile as I stand there holding the dress without any more protesting.

  At least if I go out tonight, I’ll be able to tell my dad I didn’t just sit around doing nothing. Or worse, rather—admit that I’d been in my ugliest pajamas eating ice cream out of the carton and debating whether it was too early to start watching Christmas movies.

  I take a deep breath, having already forgotten about why that’s a mistake. Spluttering into a coughing fit, I shove the closet door closed, hoping it will contain the smell without tainting all of my own clothes before I get to Hank’s laundry this weekend.

  Why did I even agree to take his stinky laundry?

  I think back to the way his hazel eyes shone, eyeing me hopefully when he asked if I had any suggestions for him. Hank’s a little… dirty. But he does have eyes to die for. And me? I’m a sucker for the team.

  There’s no getting around it. I have a hard time telling any of the guys no. We’ve all become close friends in the two years since the team was started. And okay, yes, maybe I’m a little bit of a pushover when it comes to the players. But ask any woman to try
to deny a team of hot as hell rugby players and see how she does.

  Cara pokes her head out of the bathroom. “Why aren’t you dressed yet?”

  “I’m working on it,” I grumble as I move toward the dresser. If I’m going out in this dress, I’ve got to find better underwear than the cotton panties I’m currently wearing under my festive turkey pants.

  She disappears again as I trade my night-in undies for a heavy-duty strapless bra and a pair of lacy panties that I know are Colin’s favorites. It’s the only act of rebellion I’ve really got right now—putting on his favorite underwear of mine when I know he won’t be seeing it.

  This passive-aggressive thing has got to stop.

  Things were different when we met. I’d been finishing up college when Colin was just a first year attorney at his father’s firm. We’d eaten a lot of late night dinners together, talking about our ambitions and the future.

  I’d thought it was enough that we seemed to generally want the same things in life. Stability. Recognition. Success. Now I’m not so sure.

  As I pull the red dress over my head, preparing myself for whatever Cara’s got in store for us tonight, I push thoughts of Colin away. Stable, workaholic Colin is not the kind of man a girl wants to think about when it’s red dress night.

  Two hours

  That’s how long we spend in the fancy new club Cara dragged me to before I’m much, much drunker than I’ve been in a long time. The shots we did back at my house before our car showed up didn’t help. And neither has the steady stream of guys buying me drinks that Cara’s been encouraging all night.