Page 18 of Honkers Under the Holly

“And after that?”

The way she smiled up at me, the way it made my heart forget how to do anything else but beat for her. I knew I was falling so fast and so hard for her, I would never get back up. “After that, we won’t have to pretend we’re pretending anymore.”

She settled back against me, her head tucked under my chin, one leg tangled with mine. Her breathing slowly evened out, but I stayed awake a while longer, memorizing the feel of her in my arms.

Six weeks. Six weeks to turn this beautiful chaos into something real. Into something that felt as right as holding her right now.

I was pretty sure we wouldn’t need nearly that long.

SLIP A GOOSE UNDER THE TREE FOR ME

“Left a bit. No, my left. The tree’s left? Just... everyone stop moving.”

I watched from the sidelines as Sun Chen, the legendary female photographer, tried to wrangle a six-foot-four hockey player, a willowy model, and a twelve-foot Christmas tree into the perfect holiday tableau.

Magda had called me a few days ago to emphasize how important this Illustrated Sports shoot was and asked if I would be onsite to make sure it went well. My job was supposedly just to be there to help in any way anyone needed. So far, that had mostly involved keeping Sir Honksalot from eating the artificial snow.

“Sara Jayne, sweetie,” Sun called out. “Can you adjust Svetlana’s hat? It’s throwing shadows on her face.”

I approached Svetlana, who perched on a ladder while wearing what had to be the shortest Mrs. Claus dress in history. She glared down at me like I might contaminate her with my plus-size cooties. She’d looked the same way at Sun, but had put on an excellent fake smile when she realized exactly how this shoot could make or break her career. Sun was that powerful.

“Don’t mess up my hair,” she snapped.

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” I reached up to tilt the fur-trimmed hat, catching Sun’s approving wink in my peripheral vision. The photographer had made waves last year by refusing to Photoshop any of her subjects, claiming genuine beauty didn’t need digital enhancement. The fashion world had been scandalized. Sun had been booked solid ever since.

“Much better,” Sun adjusted her lens. “Now, Leo, honey, try to look less like you’re planning to check Santa into the boards.”

Leo Iverman, star goalie for the Denver Blizzard, grinned sheepishly. “Sorry. Force of habit.”

“We want ‘Sexy Santa,’ not ‘Santa’s Going to the Penalty Box.’” Sun snapped a few photos and frowned down at her camera. Then she turned to me. “This isn’t working for me. Something is just off about the whole shoot.”

Uh-oh. That wasn’t good. Magda wouldn’t be happy if this photoshoot didn’t go well and right now the look on Sun’s face was looking like she was ready to throw in the towel. “How can I h--“

“Honk.” I was definitely wishing Sir Honksalot hadn’t chosen that moment to waddle past with one of Derek’s hockey socks in his beak. Why did he love athletes’ stinky feet so much?

Sun raised an eyebrow and her eyes sparkled with mischief. “That’s what’s missing. We’ve got sexy shirtless hockey Santa supposedly cozy at home before the holidays, and that should be whimsical, and this looks all too boring and like manufactured perfection.”

I knew that tone. It was the same one everyone seemed to get around this crazy goose. “What did you have in mind?”

“I want to put the goose in.”

“Oh no,” Svetlana interrupted. “No birds. I don’t do animals. What if it shits on me?”

“Perfect.” Sun clapped her hands like it was a done deal. “That’s exactly the energy we need. Get the goose.”

Sir Honksalot, apparently believing his big break had finally arrived, and decided to let everyone know he was ready for his close up. He honked at Svetlana, who screamed and toppled off her ladder. Leo, showing off those legendary goalie reflexes, dove to catch her. Unfortunately, his face met her elbow while her face met his shoulder, and suddenly we had two broken noses and no cover models.

“I’m calling my agent,” Svetlana wailed through the ice pack the assistant had produced. Of course, her agent worked for Magda, so I was definitely getting a phone call momentarily.

“Not the first time or the last time breaking my nose,” Leo mused, examining his reflection in a nearby ornament. “Very hockey player chic.”

Sun lowered her camera, surveying the carnage of fallen garland and scattered artificial snow. “Chic, and honestly, kind of hot. But not what Illustrated Sports wants for the cover.”

“Magda’s going to kill me,” I muttered. I guess Mac and I should start packing now. I hoped Tommy was in town and not traveling for some away game and could take Sir Honksalot in. Otherwise, the three of us were going to be homeless. Nobody wanted a homeless goose on InstaSnap.

“Unless you’ve got another sports media darling hidden in your back pocket, we’re going to have to cancel this shoot.” Sun shrugged like this was no big deal to her.

“I have an idea.”

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