Page 37 of Honkers Under the Holly

“Don’t remind me.” Sara Jayne showed them her phone, where #PorchGoose was still trending. “Apparently, we accidentally started a movement.”

Tommy pulled up his own phone. “Ooh. I’m gonna need to order some V-day outfits for Honksy.”

He tapped on his phone for a moment and then turned the screen toward me. “Wait. Have you seen the latest? People are recreating your love story. There’s a couple who got engaged at a farm animal sanctuary where they’ve adopted a rescue goose.”

“The internet is weird,” Chris declared with all the wisdom of his thirteen years.

“But entertaining,” Bridger added. “Christopher, I think Sir Honksalot is getting antsy. Go see if you can get him some snacks, will you?”

He waited until the teen trotted off and then looked over at the three of us with a slightly disapproving dad vibe. “Though the internet is not always, shall we say, factual. How much of Tommy’s press conference story was actually true?”

“All of it,” I said, squeezing Sara Jayne’s hand. “Well, except the part about it being his master plan. He just got lucky that his chaos worked out.”

“Excuse you,” Tommy protested. “I am a strategic genius. Tell them, Sir Honks—” He stopped, looking around. “Where did Chris and our feathered friend get off to in the two whole seconds they were gone?”

Right on cue, a commotion erupted from the direction of the breakfast buffet. We turned to see Sir Honksalot waddling proudly back to our table, a stolen croissant in his beak and a trail of admirers with phones out behind him. Chris trailed behind with two more pastries in his hands.

“Some things never change,” Sara Jayne laughed, then looked at me softly. “Thank goodness.”

I kissed her, not caring who saw. We were done hiding anyway.

“Well,” April said, “at least your wedding photos will be interesting.”

They would be the best. Because they’d capture what would become my all-time favorite day ever. The day when Sara Jayne would become Sara Jayne Jerry. Forever my love, forever my life, forever my wife.

EPILOGUE: A VERY SERIOUS GOOSE

TEN YEARS LATER

Mac

The green room at the NFL draft buzzed with nervous energy, but Chris Kingman looked perfectly calm in his custom suit. Then again, being the son of legendary Coach Bridger Kingman probably helped prepare you for moments like this.

“Your tie’s crooked,” I said, more to have something to do with my hands than because it actually needed fixing.

Chris grinned, that same grin he had every time he won a game, or Footballopoly at Kingman family game. He knew he was hot shit, and so did every team in the league. I’d been on the phone with all the team owners from Detroit to Dallas and back again. They all wanted the hottest quarterback to win a college championship since... well since me. “You’re looking as cocky as your Dad right now.”

“It’s not cocky if you know you’re the best.” Bridger clapped a hand on my shoulder. “You’ve done enough deals for championship players to know that.”

That I had.

We’d come full circle, somehow. From my own draft day dreams cut short by injury, to representing Tommy, to this moment—watching the kid who’d once begged me to tell him stories of my college football glory days about to get his own shot at the NFL.

“First pick’s coming up,” Chris said, checking his phone. “Tommy says the Mustangs’ front office is suspiciously quiet.”

“Tommy needs to stop trying to get insider information from the equipment manager,” I laughed. Tommy would have the insider knowledge since he’d married that equipment manager. Only wedding I’d ever been to that was almost as great as mine. But honestly, any wedding party that included a goose, ranked right up there in my book.

The Mustangs had first pick, and Chris in Denver would be perfect. Too perfect, maybe. Because Lord knew Denver needed a comeback after the last couple of years of losing records. Manniway had won a couple of rings his first few years, but he needed to pass the torch now, and I couldn’t think of anyone better to lead Denver into a new era of success than Christopher Bridger Kingman.

The NFL commissioner took the stage on the monitors. The room went quiet.

“With the first pick in the NFL draft,” his voice boomed through the speakers, “the Denver Mustangs select... Christopher Kingman, Quarterback, Denver State University.”

The room erupted. Chris hugged his father first, then me, then his father again. Cameras flashed. Someone handed him a Mustangs jersey with his name on it.

“Your mother,” Bridger’s voice was husky with emotion, “always said you’d play for Denver one day.”

He slid the Mustang’s hat onto Chris’s head, but that didn’t hide the glisten of tears in either of their eyes. “She knew, and she would have been so damn proud of you today.”

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