Honkers Under the Holly (The Cocky Kingmans)

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.”

Chris’s smile turned gentle. “She always was.”

“Ready?” I asked, as he prepared to walk out onto that stage.

He grinned again, pure joy and determination. “Born ready.” He glanced at his phone. “Think we can get Sir Honksalot to do his touchdown dance at the press conference? For old time’s sake?”

Some things, thankfully, never change.

Sara Jayne

“He’s going to cry,” Declan announced from his spot on the couch, phone already poised to capture his older brother’s moment. “Chris always cries at big moments.”

“Like you won’t cry at your draft next year,” Everett shot back, grabbing a handful of chips.

“I don’t cry, I brood.” Declan’s attempt at a scowl was undermined by his obvious excitement. “It’s my brand.”

I settled deeper into my favorite armchair, taking in the controlled chaos of the Kingman living room. The twins, Flynn and Gryffen, were trying to teach Sir Honksalot a new touchdown dance, while Hayes and Isak argued about whether their brother would beat Johnston Manniway’s stats in his first year on the team or not.

Jules perched on the arm of my chair, decked out in her Denver State jersey, fiercely debating with her Aunts May and June about their theory that Chris needed to start thinking about settling down.

“All I’m saying,” May sighed, “is that now that he’s going to be a big League star, Chris needs to find a nice girl to support him.”

“Or maybe,” Jules fired back, her young face so serious for a ten-year-old, “he needs to find someone whose dreams are just as big as his, and they can support each other.”

“Ten going on thirty,” June laughed.

May smiled too. “And just as hardheaded as her mother was.”

Sir Honksalot chose that moment to waddle past with his latest prize—April’s “In This House We Bleed Green” lucky pillow clutched triumphantly in his beak.

“How is he still stealing things at his age?” Isak wondered out loud.

“Don’t be ageist, Isak.” Jules chastised and then stuck her tongue out at him.

“Don’t be a brat.” Isak shot back.

Jules grinned and gave a little tip of her head, ready to deal her final blow. “I own that moniker proudly, thank you very much.”

One would think they were bickering, but in the Kingman family even teasing your siblings was a form of sport.

“It’s simply dedication to his art,” I replied, watching our mid-life goose arrange the pillow right in front of the TV and plop down on it, waiting for the results.

The commissioner took the stage on TV, and the room went almost silent. “That’s mom’s lucky pillow, so Chris has to go first now,” Hayes whispered to me.

When the commissioner announced Chris’s name and the Mustangs, the explosion of joy nearly knocked Sir Honksalot’s carefully arranged pillow fort over.

“He’s crying,” Declan crowed, filming the TV. “Called it.”

“Your brother just went first round to Denver,” Aunt May wiped her own tears. “Of course he’s crying. April would be so proud. Of all of you.”

“Boys are allowed to show emotions.” Jules said with absolute certainty, climbing into my lap. “And Mom’s always proud of us. Even when the twins tried to teach Bear number two to play running back.”

“That was one time,” Flynn protested.

“This goose had more potential,” Gryff added.

My phone buzzed with a text from Mac: Coming home soon. Bringing the newest Mustang and his multi-million dollar deal. Sir Honksalot better dust off his old referee jersey.

I smiled, remembering that first big bowl game so many years ago. Back then, I never could have imagined this life—being part of this beautiful, chaotic family, watching these kids grow up, building a life that was better than any fashion campaign.

Mac

The Kingman house erupted in cheers when Chris walked through the door. Sir Honksalot, not to be outdone, announced our arrival with his signature honk—still impressively loud, despite his age.

“There’s my boy,” His Aunt May pulled Chris into a hug while his Aunt June tried to fix his “TV hair.”

“First-round draft pick and his hair’s still a mess,” June tsked.

“Some things never change,” Bridger laughed, watching his oldest son get mobbed by his siblings.

“Uncle Tommy!” Jules squealed as Tommy and his husband Martine arrived with their twins, five-year-olds Jayne and Jerry, racing to join the chaos.

“Sorry we’re late,” Tommy grinned. “Someone had to make sure his tie was perfect for the photos.”

“You’re the one who spent twenty minutes fixing your hair,” Martine countered, earning laughs from everyone who knew exactly how long Tommy took to get ready.

In the happy chaos of Tommy’s kids teaching Sir Honksalot to dance to some new pop star who’d won a singing competition show they loved, while the Kingman boys argued over draft statistics, I found Sara Jayne watching it all with that soft and knowing smile I’d fallen in love with years ago.

“Pretty amazing family we ended up with,” I murmured, wrapping my arms around her from behind.

She leaned back against me. “Better than anything we could have planned.” Her hand found mine. “Though I still can’t believe Jerry asked Sir Honksalot to be his show-and-tell last week.”

“That’s our godson.” I chuckled. “Following in his dad’s footsteps with the goose-related chaos.”

“Speaking of chaos,” Sara Jayne nodded toward where Sir Honksalot was now waddling past with his newest prize—Chris’s sock, somehow stolen despite his shoes being firmly tied.

“How does he do that?” Chris demanded. “I do not understand how people have birds as pets. They’re nothing but trouble.”

Tommy snorted. “That’s what I said before Sir Honksalot changed my life.” He scooped up little Jaynie who was trying to chase after the sock-stealing goose. “Though I have to admit, watching him teach my kids his tricks is a little concerning.”

“He’s just passing on his legacy,” Martine said, catching Jerry before he could knock over Aunt May’s carefully arranged celebration snacks.

I pulled Sara Jayne closer, thinking about legacies and family and how the best things in life rarely follow your carefully laid plans. We’d tried for years to have kids of our own, but somehow the universe had given us something different—and maybe even better. Seven honorary nephews who came to us for advice, one fierce little honorary niece who thought we hung the moon, two perfect godchildren, and a goose, while getting up there in fowl years, still thought sock theft was an Olympic sport.

“Wouldn’t change a thing,” Sara Jayne whispered, as if reading my thoughts. “This is exactly the family we were meant to have.”

Jules bounded over, Sir Honksalot trailing behind her with the sock still in his beak. “Uncle Mac, Aunt Sara Jayne, tell the story about the time Sir Honksalot made you fall in love.”

“Oh no,” Everett groaned. “Not the Oktoberfest story again. I’m telling you, chasing a goose or a girl is not the way to fall in love.”

“Always the Oktoberfest story,” Tommy grinned, settling on the couch with both twins. “It’s a classic.”

Later that night, after the celebration wound down, and we’d said our goodnights, I stood on the back porch of our Denver home watching Sir Honksalot arrange his stolen sock collection in the moonlight. Ten years, and he still treated every new acquisition like a precious treasure.

Mac’s arms slipped around my waist. “Janynie wants to take him to kindergarten for Career Day.”

“As what, exactly? A professional sock curator?”

“According to her very detailed plan, he’s going to teach her class about ‘being your authentic self, even if that self is a little chaotic.’” He chuckled against my hair. “Tommy swears Martine’s the one who taught her that phrase.”

“Smart kid.” I leaned back against him. “Though I suppose Sir Honksalot did teach us all something about embracing our most authentic selves.”

As if hearing his cue, our silly goose looked up from his sock arrangement and let out a proud honk. The same honk that had started it all at Oktoberfest. The same honk that had approved our fake engagement and then our real one. The exact same honk that still announced every family gathering and holiday celebration.

Some people might think it’s strange that a temperamental rescue goose with a sock-stealing habit changed our lives. That he led me to the love of my life, helped create a family bigger and more beautiful than we could have imagined, and somehow turned chaos into magic.

But then again, the best love stories usually are a little strange.

Just ask our silly goose.

Sir Honksalot

I conducted my nightly inspection of the neighborhood, waddling down the sidewalk, shaking my head, regally, of course, at the lack of proper porch decor. These homes were woefully under-goosed. Where was the elegant accessorizing? The artfully arranged chaos? The stolen sock displays?

Not that any decorative goose could match my natural gravitas. I had single-handedly or rather, single-wingedly, started the trend, after all. Though perhaps it was time for humans to branch out. Those roosters had potential—loud, opinionated, excellent at creating the kind of chaos that brought humans together.

Just look at what I’d accomplished with my humans. Mac and Sara Jayne were clearly my finest work, though Tommy had been an excellent student in the art of controlled mayhem. And young Chris... well, I had plans for that boy. He just needed the right feathered companion to?—

I stopped mid-waddle.

There, illuminated by moonlight in the Dawes’s front yard, was the most beautiful goose I’d ever seen. Her feathers gleamed silver, her neck curved with impossible elegance, and she was rearranging the Dawes’s garden gnomes with exquisite taste.

“You might try putting that one by the fountain,” I honked before I could stop myself.

She turned, fixing me with eyes that sparkled with mischief. “I was thinking the same thing.”

Her voice was like the soft splash of fountain water. “Why don’t you come over and help me?”

I’d never waddled so fast in my life. “I’d be happy to, my lady...?”

“I’m Juliet. Juliet Montegoose.”

My heart fluttered like a newborn gosling. Well, well. This was an unexpected turn of events. I’d spent a long time matchmaking for my silly humans.

Perhaps it was time for me to become a serious goose, and do a little matchmaking for myself. “It would be my pleasure. It’s so very nice to meet you. I’m Sir Romeo Honksalot.”