Chapter 7

CHAPTER 7

PRESLEY

“What happened here? Did someone break in?” Brock teases when I open the door.

He has a fair point. My tree is up but bare. A couple boxes sit at the foot of it and some decorations are pulled out and strewn around the tree. I was contemplating how to arrange everything when he texted. I’ve also dug around for my best ugly Christmas sweater, though it’s no match for Brock’s. It’s green and has Santa’s face on it, only Santa’s face is my dad’s face with a white beard and a jaunty red Santa hat. Mom and I got them last year to top our Christmas pajamas. But Brock’s so adorable in his, and I don’t know if I can get over it. It’s like he’s trying to make himself irresistible to me.

“It’s Beginning to Look a Lot Like Christmas” is playing quietly from a speaker, and there’s hot cocoa on the stove that I made while I waited for him to get here. (And okay, a few splatters around the pan. And on the counter. The floor. I was excited and in a hurry.)

I throw my arms around Brock’s waist and hug him. This is only the second time I’ve seen him in real life, but we talk and text enough that he feels like a much closer friend. A hugging friend .

He confirms this when his arms come around me and he lifts me up a little into him. He smells like turkey and rolls with the slightest waft of a tangy deodorant, and I want to giggle.

“Thanks for letting me come hang out,” he says into my hair.

I pull away just enough to look up at him. My heart is hammering from our hug, but I won’t let him know that. “I’m glad you texted.” I take his hand and pull him into the room before dropping it and shutting the door. “Now I can read aloud to you the kissing scene I just got to.” I clap my hands together.

Brock’s eyes widen, and I can’t keep a straight face.

“Kidding! Kidding!” I grab his hand again and pull him toward the kitchen. “Want some hot cocoa?”

He chuckles. “Yeah, I’d love some.” But he doesn’t let go of my hand. He tugs me closer, squinting at my shirt with that pondering expression that used to make me think he was mad. “What’s on your sweater?”

I hold out my sweater and display it. “My dad. As Santa.”

He points at me, grinning wide, which was goal number one for tonight—cheer up Brock. “It doesn’t have lights, but otherwise, that’s legit, Pres.”

“Thank you.” I drop my sweater and move to the kitchen. I grab the mugs I set out and ladle some hot chocolate from the pot into each one. “I’ve got a couple basic syrups,” I offer, holding out my hand toward where I’ve set them on the counter. “Caramel, butterscotch, vanilla. Plus creamer. And marshmallows.”

“Butterscotch, for sure. And marshmallows.” He takes the mug when I’ve offered it to him after adding the syrup and mini marshmallows. “You take your hot chocolate seriously.”

I add caramel and creamer to mine. “Who doesn’t?” I shrug and then grin at him. I can’t help it. I’m so excited to have him here. This is way better than staying up late to finish reading book ten and then texting Brock that I’ve beaten him. Again.

“To be honest,” I say, leading him back to my living room. “I’m serious about Christmas. And once the turkey dinner is over, Christmas spirit explodes in my house. Okay, actually before Thanksgiving, because I’m the boss of myself, and if I want to celebrate Christmas before, I can.” I’m rambling, so I clamp my lips shut and take a mental deep breath. My feelings for Brock will be obvious if I keep up like this, and although we’re friends, I can’t tell if he’d be interested in more yet. “What do you want to do?” I ask, hoping my voice sounds calmer and not like a crazy Christmas elf. “I can’t offer typical Christmassy things like sledding or beautiful walks while the snow falls. This is LA. But we can watch a Christmas movie or play my Christmas version of ‘Obsidian Kingdom: The Board Game.’”

He laughs, his shoulders shaking, and I love the visual. Maybe because I know what a hard day today was for him. Being apart from family on a holiday, thanks to a job, is never fun. Having that job suck is even worse, and then imagine having to talk to reporters afterward. One big barrel of ick.

“There’s a Christmas version of the TOK board game?” he asks.

It’s a fair question. The fact that there’s a board game at all belies how very small the fan base is. Small, but fiercely loyal. So yes, there’s a board game and there’s a Christmas version of it, and there’s a fan out there who’s made a hundred dollars in their Etsy shop on it, mostly from me, I’d guess.

“Of course there is.” I give him a look of faux innocence. “You don’t have it?”

“Not the Christmas version.”

I’m the one who bursts into laughter now. “But you have the regular one!” It’s not a question, but an exclamation of triumph. I’m so dangerously close to falling in love with this man, and that’s not normal to do because someone obsesses over the same books as you. I promise, it’s more than the books. It’s the fun we have texting and talking. It’s the kindness I see in him that the world doesn’t get a peek at. Not many see that when you’re talking about a pro-football player who’s larger than life and has all his worst moments blown up on social media. And that sweater. This huge guy in a funny sweater on a bad day.

“My mom was trying to connect with me as a teenager. I’ve heard I was kind of difficult.”

“You? No way.” I pretend shock.

He shakes his head. “Do you have the regular version of the board game too?”

“Yeah,” I say, my tone conveying of course.

“What’s the difference?”

“The Christmas version is red and green. It also comes with a Christmas tree centerpiece.”

He studies me for several seconds, squinting at me in amusement. I am totally winning at cheering up Brock. Yeah, I watched his press conference. It was on the TV in the facility while I looked at a couple guys who got banged up—not Eli Dash. My boss was taking care of him. There was so much frustration in Brock’s tone in every answer he snapped at the reporters until he broke and let everything spill out.

And the truth is I caught a few of our guys murmuring agreement with what he said.

“And you have both because…?” Brock asks.

“Because Christmas .”

He looks down at his cocoa. “Right. Christmas.”

I set my cocoa on the side table next to my end of the couch. “So, board game, Christmas movie, or if you have another idea, I’m open.” It’s so hard not to just grin my face off that he’s here, but I try to stay chill as I lean back against the squishy cushion of my couch.

Brock takes another slow sip and then lets out a long breath. Hot cocoa is magic like that. “What kind of Christmas movie are we talking? Like Hallmark…” He lets the sentence dangle, and even though he’s not saying how he feels about that, it’s all over the cringe he can’t quite keep off his face.

“Whatever you want. I love Christmas movies of many genres. Between streaming and rentals, the Christmas movie world is in the palm of your hands.”

“You’re letting me choose out of pity, right?” He narrows his eyes at me.

Of course I am. His team lost 31-7 on Thanksgiving Day. “Are you mad about that?” I pick up the remote from the side-table and turn on the TV.

He sets his cocoa down on the matching side-table on his end and settles back against the couch. “Not at all. How about White Christmas ?” I can’t hold back my surprise, and he says, “What?”

“Honestly, I was expecting you to be A Christmas Story or Diehard type of guy.” I start searching for a place to stream the movie.

He chuckles. “I actually hate A Christmas Story . Like intense levels of loathing.”

I gasp. Brock and I are actual soulmates. Well, in a friend kind of way. (For now, a little voice says, and I ignore it.) “Me too!”

“Is that pity agreement? Everyone loves that movie.” Then he shudders and closes his eyes for a second.

I’m giggling. I can’t help it. “I promise. It’s the worst. That leg lamp. I don’t know what it is. I can’t get over it.”

“I know ! It’s so weird.”

“You should have known I didn’t like it,” I say as I click around to rent White Christmas . “TOK lovers are a rare breed. It makes sense that we’d all share similar tastes in a lot of things.”

“There’s a user on the website forum who named all of their children after the commanders of the Forces of Vorath and claims that Lord Vorath had some good ideas, politically, you know.” Brock says this with a completely straight face, though his lips twitch with amusement.

I turn and blink at him. “That has to be a joke.”

His eyes dance. “In any case, I was relieved to find out shortly after I met you that you didn’t have any children who could be named after representatives of the Eternal Darkness. ”

I snort. “Obviously my children will be named Lyra and Kael.”

“That’s fair.”

The movie starts and we settle in to watch. I’m grateful that Brock has no problem chatting during the movie, commenting on his favorite parts. I can rarely keep my mouth shut during movies, especially if I’ve seen it a few times. We fit together so perfectly. I force myself not to say anything weird like that. Telling him that we’d both like a movie is enough cringe for one night.

When he shifts into a more comfortable position—legs up on the large ottoman in front of the couch, head leaned against the back of the couch, and arms snuggled in a small, knitted blanket—I know he’s going to fall asleep. It’s been a long day, and I suspect the reason why he didn’t want to go back to the hotel yet, but it’s still past midnight and he’s probably been up since five or six this morning.

Within a few minutes, his eyes close. I swallow back amusement at the way he snaps them open before they drift shut again. It’s exactly what my dad does when he’s fighting to stay awake during a movie.

I stand up, and Brock’s gaze shoots to me. “Bathroom break,” I whisper, pointing down the hall. “Be right back.” I know what I’ll find when I come back, and that’s the point. Without me in the room, he won’t feel bad about giving in to closing his eyes— just for a minute .

Sure enough, by the time I return, he’s breathing deeply. I settle onto my side of the couch and watch him shamelessly. The night we met at Lincoln’s wedding has existed in a bubble for me. Fun, one of the best nights of my life, and it was so comfortable sitting and chatting with him about my favorite characters, the settings, the crazy plot twists, and the magical moments of that series. We talked about our lives and our families between that. But it was all surreal, this tall, muscled, gorgeous football player with a killer smile and soft eyes, hanging out at a table off to the side of the dance floor with me .

Don’t get me wrong, it’s not the whole football player thing. I’m around them all the time, famous ones, too, like Eli Dash, Mark Travis, Anthony Hurley, and Lincoln Knight. They’re real guys who aren’t that much different from the rest of us, but that doesn’t change the fact that it was special that Brock chose me to talk to because he’s … Brock. Lincoln Knight is still his best friend, even though they haven’t played on the same team together for years. Given what he's told me about playing for the Devils (and all the rumors), it’s not surprising he doesn’t have a close friend on his team. But I can tell that he’s not the type of guy who’s friends with everyone. He chooses carefully. And the night of the wedding, he chose me. We could have chatted about the books for a little bit and then he could have gone to dance with one of the actresses. Or hung out with the people he knew better, like the Rays players and their families.

But he stayed with me, and until he texted tonight, asking to come over, it was like a dream I’d had one time that was so good I’d made it into a memory.

Tonight he’s real and sleeping on my couch. It’s an honor that he felt safe enough here for that. I roll my eyes at myself for thinking it, but I can’t dismiss the thought outright.

My crush on him is turning into so much more than a crush.

I’m actually falling for him, Aunt Shan , I picture myself saying to her.

Do it , she’d say back. Go for it. What’s the worst that could happen? A broken heart? She’d wave her hand with that unimpressed eye roll. You’ve been there, done that, and absolutely survived. Especially in the months after her diagnosis, Aunt Shannon’s advice took on a “live it up” vibe, but in a deep, meaningful way.

“The only chains that hold you are the ones you use to bind yourself ,” she might have quoted from TOK book ten, the one I just finished—if she hadn’t been keeping that huge secret that she’d read them all. I marked that quote in the notebook a couple days ago to share with Brock sometime.

I’m not scared , I tell her.