Honkers Under the Holly (The Cocky Kingmans)

3. Everyone Loves an Undergoose story

EVERYONE LOVES AN UNDERGOOSE STORY

I ’d seen some bizarre contract negotiations in my day—okay, that’s a lie. Outside of law school, I’d seen exactly two contract negotiations. The first when I signed Tommy to SMTM Sports Management two and a half years ago, and the second when I got him signed to the Bandits. But this definitely topped that.

My tiny home office, usually reserved for obsessively refreshing my email inbox hoping for potential client inquiries, now hosted a very different kind of meeting. Tommy sprawled across my secondhand leather couch, still in his L.A. Bandits practice gear, while Sara Jayne perched on my desk chair. Sir Honksalot waddled between us, systematically destroying my last remaining business cards.

“So let me get this straight,” Tommy said, his attention torn between scrolling on his phone and Sir Honksalot. “You want me to share custody of a pet goose? Like, an actual goose?”

“Sir Honksalot isn’t just any goose,” Sara Jayne replied, her voice carrying that warmth that was both sweet, caring, and turned me the fuck on. “He’s a rescue with special needs. And right now, those needs include a yard, which you have, and I don’t.”

I cleared my throat, switching into what I liked to call my agent voice. “This is an opportunity for some image rehabilitation, Tommy. You need some good press before the upcoming contract negotiations. That unfortunate karaoke incident at The Tipsy Pickle didn’t help.”

Tommy winced. We all winced. Even Sir Honksalot seemed to shudder at the inherent awfulness of Tommy’s tone-deaf rendition of Happy Birthday—to himself—while standing on the bar in nothing but his practice shorts, one sock, and a half dressed ball bunny who he clearly couldn’t care less about.

“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 media strategy 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.”

The bell above the shop door chimed again, and Sara Jayne’s voice floated down. “Mac? You might want to come back up. Tommy’s teaching Sir Honksalot to catch, and I don’t think it’s going well.”

I stared at my parents, then at the worn wooden floors I’d learned to walk on, then at the walls that had sheltered me my entire life. “Right before Christmas,” I repeated. “As in, six weeks from now?”

Mom squeezed my hand. “We know it’s sudden, honey. But you’re a successful sports agent now. You can afford your own place.”

I thought about my one client, my dwindling savings, and the current state of LA’s rental market. Success was a strong word for my career trajectory.

Another crash echoed from upstairs, followed by Tommy’s voice: “It’s cool. You needed a new lamp anyway, right?”

“I should...” I gestured toward the ceiling.

“Of course, honey,” Mom said. “We can talk about all the plans to pack up more later.”

I headed back upstairs, my mind spinning. Six weeks. I had Six weeks to figure out how to afford a place in LA’s ridiculous housing market, or I’d be homeless just in time for the new year.

The scene in my office temporarily distracted me from my impending housing crisis. Tommy stood on my desk chair, holding a mini football over his head, while Sir Honksalot honked menacingly from atop my filing cabinet. Sara Jayne filmed the whole thing on her phone, providing commentary.

“And here we see the beginning of a beautiful friendship,” she narrated. “Or possibly the start of a hostage situation. Stay tuned to find out! #FootballPlayerMeetsGoose #UnlikelyFriends”

Oh, god. Was this my life now? Mac Jerry, struggling sports agent, soon-to-be homeless, and now, apparently, goose custody mediator. If anyone had told me this would be my holiday season, I’d have asked what they were drinking and requested a double.

Two hours and seventeen takes later, we finally had something InstaSnap-worthy. Tommy sat cross-legged on my office floor, Sir Honksalot nestled surprisingly peacefully in his lap, both of them wearing L.A. Bandits caps that Tommy had signed.

“And that’s why Sir Honksalot, Sara Jayne, and I are teaming up to raise awareness for animal rescue organizations,” Tommy read from the cue card I held up. “Because everyone deserves a second chance—even if they’re a little different, a little messy, or sing karaoke very, very badly.”

Sir Honksalot honked right on cue, and Sara Jayne handed me the phone. “Follow us on InstaSnap and stay tuned for our first fundraiser. Can you say Bandit signed ball cap?”

She nodded at me and I stopped recording.

“That’s was great. Magda was right about InstaSnap being a great way to get some notice. I can’t do that at a photoshoot.”

I handed the phone back to her, and she clicked away, posting the video. When she was done, she looked up at me and smiled, so happy and carefree. God, she was beautiful.

I wanted to cross the three feet between us and pull her into my arms. I’d dip her in that classic way and give her a long, deep celebratory kiss.

“Honk.”

That was Tommy, and he was staring deep into Sir Honksalot’s eyes. This looked like the beginning of a beautiful friendship indeed.

The phone dinged in Sara Jayne’s hand. Then it did it again, and then it blew up with incoming notifications. She glanced down and her eyes went as wide as basketballs. “Whoa. They weren’t wrong when they said this InstaSnap was the next big thing. We’ve already had a couple thousand views and hundreds of hearts. It’s only been three minutes.”

“That’s fantastic.” I was trying to focus on work instead of the fact that I’d be sleeping in my car by Christmas.

Sara Jayne refreshed the page on her tablet. “The teaser posts from earlier today have already gotten ten thousand hearts. I didn’t even know there were that many people on this media picture sharing thing. Magda’s going to be thrilled—she’s been pushing me to build a bigger social presence. Says the plus-size market is all about engagement these days.” She trailed off, frowning at her screen. “Oh wow, speaking of Magda...”

She turned the tablet toward me. There, right under our post, was one from Magda Krol, owner of the Elite One modeling agency.

It was a picture of her and her husband hanging up some twinkle lights over the doorway to their McMansion. The caption read: Annual Fall Holiday Bash next Friday! Celebrating another year of breaking boundaries and making headlines. Special guests include models, football players, including Denver State’s legendary Coach Bridger Kingman and supermodel April de la Reine! #ModelLife #FootballRoyalty #HolidaySeasonBegins

My heart did a little flip. Bridger Kingman wasn’t just any college coach—he’d led the Denver State Dragons football team to three national championships in the past five years, and his DSU youth development camps had become the pipeline for top college recruits. His eldest son Chris was already being called the next great quarterback prospect…at twelve.. If I could just get my foot in the door with anyone in their world, it would be literally life changing.

“You should come with me,” Sara Jayne said, as if reading my mind. “Magda’s parties are legendary. Everyone who’s anyone in L.A. shows up.” She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “Plus, she specifically told me to bring a date. Says the football crowd can get a little... enthusiastic when they see a beautiful woman alone.”

“You think I’m good holiday date material?” I tried to sound casual, not pathetically hopeful.

“Well, you did help me catch a rogue goose at Oktoberfest.” She smiled. “And Magda’s husband Jones played pro ball—apparently he and Coach Kingman go way back. Could be good for your agency to make those connections.”

Tommy looked between us, grinning. “Oh, he’ll be great at connections. He’s been practicing connecting with—ow!” He rubbed his shin where I’d kicked him.

Sir Honksalot chose that moment to snatch Tommy’s phone again and made a break for it.

Tommy bolted after him, his voice echoing down the hallway. “Come back here, you feathered menace!”

Suddenly alone with Sara Jayne, I noticed how the late afternoon sun caught the gold highlights in her hair. She fiddled with her phone, not quite meeting my eyes.

“You hesitated,” she said softly. “When I mentioned the party. If you don’t want to go?—”

“No,” the word came out too quickly, too eagerly. Real smooth, Jerry. I took a breath and tried again. “I mean, I definitely want to go. With you. I just...” I ran a hand through my hair. “You’re this amazing model who gets invited to fancy parties, and I’m just a guy who spent his morning reorganizing baseball cards in his parents’ shop and making business plans on a color-coded spreadsheets.”

She looked up then, and something in her expression made my heart skip. “You know what I was thinking about during that whole photoshoot with Tommy and Sir Honksalot?”

“How my office needs redecorating?”

“How you didn’t hesitate at all at Oktoberfest, or to help me find a home for Sir Honksalot, or... anything else that needs to be helped or fixed.” She took a step closer. “When I went off acting before thinking, trying to catch a runaway goose, you just... jumped right in.”

“To be fair, you’re pretty impossible to say no to.”

“And now?” Her voice was barely a whisper.

Instead of answering, I closed the distance between us and kissed her like I’d been wanting to for the past hour. Her lips were soft, tasting faintly of sweet lip gloss, and when I cupped her face in my hands, she made this tiny sound that nearly undid me completely. She wound her arms around my neck, pressing closer, and for a moment I forgot about everything—my housing crisis, the party, my struggling agency—everything except how perfectly she fit against me.

A loud honk and Tommy’s yelped “Ouch,” from the hallway broke the spell. Sara Jayne pulled back slightly, her cheeks flushed, but she didn’t unwrap her arms from my neck.

“So,” she said, a smile playing at her lips, “that’s a definite yes to being my date?”

“That’s a definite yes to everything,” I murmured, stealing one more quick kiss before Tommy returned, rubbing his ass, with a smirking goose trailing behind. Did geese smirk? This one did.

“Great.” Sara Jayne’s smile did funny things to my chest. “It’s at Magda’s estate in Beverly Hills. Very fancy, lots of important people.” She gathered up her things, then paused. “I can’t believe April de la Reine will be there. Magda said they met when April was about to give up on modeling. She took some kind of vacation to Colorado, and the rest is history, I guess. Well, history and seven kids.”

“A football player and a super-model,” I repeated, my mind spinning with possibilities. “That’s quite a power couple.”

“Magda says April’s been looking for fresh faces for her new clothing line’s campaign.” Sara Jayne bit her lip. “And Coach Kingman’s youth development camps are renowned for finding amazing up-and-coming talent.”

“Dude!” Tommy interrupted, finally retrieving his cap from Sir Honksalot. “This is perfect! You can pitch yourself as Chris’s future agent while Sara Jayne networks with April. It’s like... destiny, or whatever.”

“When did you become such a smarty smartpants?” I asked.

“Since Sir Honksalot taught me the power of the sneak attack strategy.” Tommy cradled the goose, who looked suspiciously smug. “And speaking of strategy, you better figure out what you’re wearing because Magda’s parties are legendary fashion fiestas. Last year’s theme was ‘Winter Wonderland’ and someone showed up riding a real reindeer.”

I made a face at him like I he was some kind of circus clown who’d just popped out of a car the size of his ass. “Wait, you’ve been to these?”

“Yeah.” He shrugged. “Jones is my godfather.”

I gaped at him. Why did I not know he was related to the most legendary tight end in Bandit history? All I knew about was how cruddy his parents were.

Sara Jayne nodded. “This year it’s ‘Hollywood Holiday.’ Very glamorous, very festive.” She gave me a quick once-over that made my ears burn. “Need help shopping?”

“He needs help everything-ing,” Tommy muttered. “You should see his closet. Oh wait, you can’t, because he’s losing it.”

“What?” Sara Jayne turned to me, frowning.

I shot Tommy a look that promised revenge, possibly involving Sir Honksalot and his favorite shoes. “It’s nothing. Just... my parents are selling the shop. And the apartment above it. Before Christmas.”

“Before Christmas?” Sara Jayne’s eyes widened. “But that’s less than six weeks away. Where will you go?”

“There’s always Sir Honksalot’s luxury doghouse,” Tommy offered. “He’s got that heating lamp and everything.”

“I’m not living in a goose house,” I said for what felt like the hundredth time.

“Just trying to help, man.” Tommy settled Sir Honksalot more comfortably in his arms. “But seriously, something will work out. I mean, you’re going to a fancy party with a beautiful woman, meeting Coach Kingman and a bunch of models. That’s got to be a good sign, right?”

I watched as Sir Honksalot nestled contentedly against Tommy’s Bandits jersey, looking like he’d been attending football practices as an emotional support goose his whole life. Maybe Tommy was right. Maybe this party was exactly what we both needed—Sara Jayne’s chance to break into the big leagues of plus-size modeling, and my shot at proving I could handle a star prospect like Chris Kingman.

Or maybe we were about to humiliate ourselves in front of L.A.’s sports and fashion elite while wearing something “Hollywood Holiday festive.”

Either way, at least we’d be doing it together. And right now, that made even the prospect of homelessness seem a little less terrifying. Though I was definitely drawing the line at the goose house. A man had to have some standards, even in a housing crisis.