Tangled with the Tight End (Evergreen Lake: Under the Mistletoe)

Chapter 2

two

GAbrIEL

Perfect. My head is pounding, my knee has ached all the way from the airport, and now it feels like a jagged hunting knife has been jammed through it after Ms. Graceful here knocked into it. To top it off, Ms. High and Mighty is questioning my parenting skills.

She can’t even walk and not knock someone over.

“Get your hands off my son.” I march toward the sofa she’s sitting on, but each step sends pain shooting through my right knee where the luggage rack knocked into it. “I’m capable of taking care of him.”

“Are you?”

“Yes, I am.” I snatch him off the cushion and wait until he settles against my waist. “Hey, Buddy, are you okay?”

“Yeah….” He nods and wipes snot and tears from his face with the back of his arm. Between that and the applesauce caked on his dinosaur T-shirt, it’s no wonder she’s questioning whether I can care for a three-year-old. “The sofa bounce.”

“Yes, they do.” I tilt my head and give him a stern look. “But we aren’t to bounce off the sofas.”

He raises his hand with the palm facing upward. “I okay.”

I bite back a chuckle. “I see that, but we don’t jump on the furniture. Especially furniture that doesn’t belong to us.”

“Oh….” His bottom lip trembles as he fights back tears. Shit. Do. Not. Cry. Just hold it together for a few more minutes.

“Come on. Let’s go to our room.” We both need a shower. I hitch him higher on my hip and glance over at the woman who tosses out barbed insults better than Gunner Sinclair zings a football.

After I collected Gino, she stepped back, but she’s still studying me like a bug on the sidewalk with her phone clutched in her hand, ready to hit dial. That’s just what I need–someone to call the Children’s Division to declare me a worthless father. “Thank you for checking on my son, but he wasn’t supposed to play on the furniture.”

“Okay.” She waits as if she expects me to say something else, and her finger remains poised on her phone.

Fuck. I’m too tired for this. I’ll talk to the manager later about her flippant attitude. She has no business greeting guests like she did.

Without a backward glance, I straighten my back and ignore the pain. I need to get to my room and elevate my leg. The hairs on my neck stand as I push the luggage cart to the elevator, but I refuse to turn around. The last thing I need is more disapproval in my life.

The second the elevator door dings, I hop on the lift with Gino and our gear. Why didn’t I stay in Kansas City for the holiday?

Because you have nowhere else to go.

Thanks for that. But the negative voice in my head isn’t wrong. The guys are at an away game and don’t need a useless player taking up space on the sideline. My parents are back in Texas. Or would be back in Texas if they weren’t traveling. My ‘wife’ is in Florida, and well, that’s not a welcome place at this point. And my brother and his family live here. So here it is.

I sag against the elevator wall and drop Gino down to the floor. As we go higher to the lodge’s top floor, Gino jumps up and down while laughing and yelling ‘jump’. What would it feel like to be that happy and carefree again? If I ever was, I can’t remember it. Or that quick to overcome an injury. I glare at my knee.

The elevator door slides open, and I lead Gino through the hallway and into our room with my hand resting on his silken curls. When I stop, he squeals while running around in circles and clapping.

“A tree. We have a tree in our room.” Except room sounds more like woom.

In front of the wall of windows that overlook the view of the valley is a 10-foot-tall Christmas tree decked out in old-fashioned ornaments, lights, and tinsel. Gino grabs a handful of the silver strands and tosses them into the air.

“Don’t touch that.” I race over to him and yank the remaining strands out of his hand. Isn’t this shit illegal? Who would put poison on a tree in the room of a little kid? My jaw flexes as I mark down another issue to discuss with the manager.

It’s bad enough we’re in the middle of nowhere. The last thing I need is for my son to need a hospital. Where in the hell is the closest hospital, anyway?

“I sorry.” He jumps back and stands stiff as a board. Shit. I’m racking up my own points for Worst Father of the Year.

“It’s okay, Buddy.” I ruffle his hair and scan my phone for the closest ER. Twenty minutes. That’s twenty minutes too long.

The suite is gorgeous. It combines modern and masculine leather with an overhead chandelier, a black pit sofa, and a full kitchen and dining room.

On the table is a tray of fruit and cubed cheeses with a large bouquet of brightly colored flowers behind it. The cut strawberries are so red they almost bleed with color. Beside them are green grapes and slices of yellow, red, and green apples. Tucked next to the vase is a bottle of champagne in a golden bucket with a smaller container of iced apple juice beside it.

I must give them credit; this place is nice.

A set of stairs leads to the upper level of the suite, where the bedrooms and bathroom are presumably situated.

I lift Gino off the ground and wrap my arms around his small frame. “I’m sorry I yelled at you, but I need to ensure those silver things are safe to touch. The government made some of this old stuff illegal.”

“Ill-egal?” His eyes are wide as he stares back.

“Yes.” I grin despite every single ache in my body. “Some tinsel….” When he frowns, I say, “The silver stuff….” He nods as if he understands what I’m talking about. “Is poison.”

“Oh….” Those big blue eyes get even wider. “Like Cin-rella and the apple?”

“Yes, just like Cinderella and the apple. So please don’t touch it until I find out if it’s safe.”

“Yes, Sir.”

Damn kid. I give him a quick hug and set him back on his feet, and off he goes, snooping into everything. He dodges from the tree to crawl under the coffee table and races to the table, snatching a strawberry off the tray.

As he chews on the fruit, he pulls out a chair.

“Be careful.” I rub my fingertips on my forehead. At this point, I don’t know which hurts worse, my head or my knee.

“Yes, Sir.” He scrambles onto the black cushion and leans over the table, yanking open a lid. The box is white with a black and pink logo, like the truck out front–Lips & Hips. He pulls out a cookie and laughs. “Yum.”

Just as fast as he dashed away from me, he comes back. “Here a cookie.” He shoves it into my hand and runs back to retrieve another one.

The cookie is a masterpiece. It’s a perfectly decorated melted snowman and smells like heaven. I sniff it again–butter, sugar, and vanilla. I savor the scent and frown. And something else. Probably the secret ingredient.

I take a bite, and my eyes roll back into my head. Delicious. The cookie is soft and holds together without flaking. And the frosting…. I need to walk away from this thing.

The doorbell rings, causing Gino to run to the door at full speed with his cookie in hand. “I get.”

“Be–” Fuck it. I’m tired of always telling the kid to be careful, like I’m a broken record. I take another bite of cookie and sit the rest on a black napkin.

Gino yanks the door open to my brother, Marco, and his son, Angelo.

“Hey, Gino.” Marco laughs as he walks inside the suite, shuts the door, and wrinkles his nose. “You look like you’ve been on a month-long bender. Is that apple sauce on your shirt?”

“Kiss my a….” Little ears. Little ears. “Mind your own business.” I flop onto the oversized sofa and pull my pant leg up, exposing a jagged crisscrossed scar with red puffy skin and black stubble where the hairs are starting to grow back in. I shift my leg from left to right and back again, looking for any new injuries, but it looks fine. The scars are tender, which is likely what was hurting when the woman ran into me.

“Like your new accessory? It probably gets you all the women since they love the wounded, alpha hero with an adorable kid.”

“I don’t have time for women.” I yank the fabric back over my leg.

“Be good, baby.” Marco kisses Angelo on the top of the head and calls Gino over to play. This is going to end badly. My kid is a wrecking ball, and Angelo is barely over one.

“I don’t think you should–”

“Gabriel, kids aren’t as fragile as you think.”

“How would I know?” I slump farther into the cushions and drop my head back.

“Brother, you’re going to figure it out. You’ve kept him alive, and if the food on both your shirts is any indication, you’re feeding him.”

“Thanks.” I close my eyes and sigh. I don’t have enough energy to laugh at his attempt at a joke.

These last ten weeks have been hell. I broke my knee during the last pre-season game on the first play. My wife just flew in from Florida and dropped our kid off, and then returned to her non-injured lover. The one she’d apparently started hooking up with when I was traded to Kansas City. She had said it would be better if our son stayed with her while we sold the house.

The house never sold, and I’ve barely seen either of them in close to two years. Every time I had a break, she had something planned and couldn’t fly in, or Gino was sick, and she didn’t want me to get his germs and miss a game. Yeah, I was stupid and fell for it. Or maybe I was relieved when I didn’t have to see her. But now, I don’t know my own kid and suck at being a dad.

“I’m sorry Sloane left you.”

I open one eye and smile. “No, you’re not.”

“Fine.” He laughs as Gino chases Angelo around the table. One of them is going to fall and bust their chins. If I had any energy left, I’d tell them to stop but I can’t get the words out of my mouth.

Marco says, “She was a snake in the grass who got knocked up by a player to ensure her life was easy.”

“Why didn’t you say that at the time?”

He shrugs. “Angelo, why don’t you grab your toolbox from my bag so you and Gino can fix the table.”

Fix the table? I close my eyes again. This isn’t going to turn out good, either.

Once Angelo drags the cloth box out of the diaper bag, he opens it and pulls out a fabric screwdriver. Thank God. They shouldn’t get into too much trouble with soft tools. The boys drop to the floor. Distraction. I should do more of that.

“You already knew it, but you were too responsible not to take care of your obligations, so there was no reason to kick you when you were down.”

“Responsible? That’s a joke. My responsibility was to not get drunk and have a condom malfunction, but I failed miserably at that mission.” Mr. Responsible. First to Succeed. Mr. All Work and No Play. I don’t make mistakes. Until I met Sloane.

“For some reason, I don’t believe that.”

“What?” I eye him in confusion.

“Ten to one odds are that she got pregnant on purpose.”

Fuck. He’s right. She’s just that conniving. Gino points at the hammer, showing Angelo how to use it. I might suck at being a parent, but I love the kid. Somehow, I’ve got to figure out how to raise him on my own because Sloane walked away, and I’m going to ensure she stays that way. I’ve already read countless parenting books, and surely one of them has the magic answer inside.

I glance over at the tree. “Is that the illegal tinsel?”

Marco frowns and squints as he studies the silver strands hanging from the fake tree. “No. They make a new type of tinsel now.”

“Are you sure?”

“Dude….” He glares. “This place isn’t as backwoods as you think.”

“I wanted to make sure. The closest hospital is like twenty minutes away.”

“It’s not any farther than it would be in the city. The only difference is here, you see trees on your way, and in the city, you deal with bumper-to-bumper traffic.” He leans forward and clasps his hands together. “How was the flight?”

“We got stuck for three hours in Vegas and just got here about thirty minutes ago. When I got to the lodge, some irresponsible maid ran into me and knocked my knee into the luggage cart. It was hurting like a…. It was hurting.” I bend my leg and test my knee for twinges of pain, but nothing happens. “I think it was the scars that got struck.”

“Are you okay?” The worried expression on his face makes me feel like shit. I’m his older brother. The one he’s supposed to look up to, and here I am whining because my wife left me, I’m figuring out how to have a relationship with my son, and I got bumped into by a 120-pound girl.

You collide, for money, with 250-pound men every Sunday. Stop being a pussy.

“Yeah, I’m good.”

He grins. “Good. I’m glad you came out here. This place is great. You’re going to love it.”

Right. I’m a city guy, not a nestled-in-the-mountains kind of guy. This is Marco’s life. Not mine. But for a visit? It has its charms. “The suite is amazing.”

“Yes, it is.” He relaxes back into his chair. “Eden wants you to come over for dinner. She’s cooking.”

“Sure. When?” Marco’s wife is a gorgeous woman with the sweetest soul. Talking with Eden is a great idea. She’s a first-grade teacher, who knows how to keep 15 7-year-olds alive, plus a baby.

“Tomorrow night at 7 o’clock?”

“We’ll be there.”