Page 8 of Honkers Under the Holly

“The public loves a personal growth story,” I continued, pulling this pitch out of my butt. “League football player takes in rescued waterfowl? That’s pure gold. We could have you trending for something positive for once.”

Sir Honksalot chose that moment to demonstrate his approval—or possibly his disdain—by snatching Tommy’s phone off the couch and taking off down the hallway at a speedy waddle.

Man, that goose could move. I should sign him to my SMTM’s sports management roster.

“Hey,” Tommy yelped and jumped up. “That’s a brand new iPhone.”

“You’re going to scare him if you chase him,” Sara Jayne shouted, but it was too late. Tommy was already in pursuit, his years of training weirdly working against him as Sir Honksalot led him on a merry chase through my parents’ kitchen.

Mom stuck her head out from behind the curtain that separated the shop from our living space. “Everything okay up here, Maguire, sweetheart?”

“Fine, Mom. Just a little fowl situation.” I called back, then turned to Sara Jayne. “Well, at least they’re bonding?”

The crash from the kitchen suggested otherwise.

“I got him.” Tommy’s voice carried through the house. “And he only cracked the screen a little.”

Sara Jayne smiled and shook her head. Then she pulled up InstaSnap on her phone. “So, I’ve already started building Sir Honksalot’s social presence. He’s got five thousand followers just from the Oktoberfest videos.”

I leaned over her shoulder, trying to focus on the phone and not how good her shampoo smelled, or the way her tits seemed to be calling to me to press my face between them. Shit. That wasn’t a very gentlemanly thing to think. We weren’t going to make any progress if all I could focus on was her… nope, stop that right now.

I dragged my eyes back to the screen. The latest post showed Sir Honksalot wrapped in a tiny knitted scarf, looking surprisingly dapper for a honking menace. The caption read: “Looking for my forever home(s)! This special goose needs special arrangements. Stay tuned for a big announcement! #RescueGoose #SirHonksalot”

“This could actually work.” If I could get Tommy’s reputation out of the shitter, and make him a media darling, I might be able to make this dream of being a big-time sports agent a reality.

My mom called up to my office again. The first thing I was doing as soon as I got my percentage of Tommy’s new contract, was buying my parents that house they wanted in Florida.

“Maguire, honey, can you come down to the shop when you’re done? Your father and I need to discuss something with you.”

I knew that tone. That was the same tone she’d used when she told me my goldfish had “gone to live in a bigger pond” when I was six.

“Everything okay?” Sara Jayne asked.

“Yeah, just...you know,” I gestured vaguely. “Parent stuff. Look, why don’t you and Tommy work on the social mediastrategy while I deal with this? We can figure out the custody schedule after.”

Tommy returned, phone clutched protectively to his chest, Sir Honksalot waddling smugly behind him. “Did someone say social media? Because I have some ideas involving tiny footballs.”

I left them brainstorming and headed downstairs to the shop, trying to ignore the knot in my stomach. The bell above the door chimed as I entered Jerry’s Sports Memorabilia, the same sound I’d been hearing since I was tall enough to reach the door handle.

Mom and Dad waited behind the counter where they’d been buying and selling players cards, balls, and jersey’s and anything else with a signature for the past thirty years. The smell of leather and old paper wrapped around me like a familiar hug, but something felt off.

They were both smiling, but it was their nervous smile—the one they’d worn when they told me they’d “temporarily” converted my childhood bedroom into my home office six years ago when I left for college.

“Sit down, Maguire,” Dad said, patting the old stool behind the counter.

I sat, feeling like I was a kid again and about to be grounded for using some official Harlem Globetrotters basketballs as bathtub toys.

“We’ve had an offer on the shop,” Mom said, reaching for Dad’s hand. “A very, very good offer.”

The knot in my stomach turned to rocks, filled with lead. “What kind of offer?”

“The kind that would let us finally retire,” Dad said. “Buy that little place in Florida we’ve been eyeing.”

“Florida?” The word came out as a squeak. “But...”

I was hoping I’d be the one to retire them. “When?”

“Right before Christmas,” Mom said softly. “We’d close the shop, pack up, and be moved in time to have a palm tree for Christmas.”

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