Page 28 of It's Mother-Pucking Christmas!

“Wait until they really start drinking.” Hudson scooted my beer back to me.

I picked at my food.

“You don’t like turkey? I’m sure we can scrounge something else up.”

“No, just… They hate me,” I said desperately. “Is there a back exit or anything? I’m just gonna go. Tell Dakota thanks, I guess.”

“Oh?” A slow smile, that might be uncharitably described as evil, spread on Hudson’s face.

“Don’t take it personally, son. They mean well.” He raised his voice. “They’re just a little slow. As soon as they figure out that whoever has you on their team for the family Christmas hockey game will dominate from now until eternity, they’ll realize that you’re the best thing that ever happened to this family.”

The angry muttering in the yard had gone dead silent.

“And,” Hudson said, smiling around the bottle, “spoiler alert, but you’re going to be on my team.”

“No!” one of Dakota’s cousins yelped.

Shouts of “That’s not fair!” and “He’s on team Frosty!” echoed around me as I was mobbed by Dakota’s family.

“I mean look at the shoulders on this man.”

“I knew I liked him,” Dakota’s dad declared. “The minute I saw him I said, ‘I like that guy!’ I mean, look at him. Look at this guy.” Mark rubbed my shoulders.

“Stop that!” His brother shoved him. “You’re going to tear something. This is a piece of Swiss engineering. Treat it with some respect.”

“You want a new plate?” Uncle Bic asked. “Ryder wants a new plate. This is cold. Who’s giving this man cold food. For shame!”

“A microwave!” Cousin Bobby ran out with an appliance in his arms then thumped it down on the table, a little kid trailing behind him with an extension cord.

“The hell is this?” his dad demanded.

“Let me nuke that for you.” The plate was shoved in the microwave.

“What is this, Soviet Russia? Give the man some fresh food. I thought this was the United goddam States of America!” another uncle railed.

“Dakota, don’t give the man cold food. My god!” her dad yelled at her when she walked out, stunned, wearing a tight green sweater that was almost enough to make me drop an ‘Oh heck.’ “I thought I raised my fucking daughter better than that.”

Hudson made a face like “See?”

“Let me get you a fresh plate.”

“Lasagna! We have some lasagna left. You like pasta? Homemade!” one of Dakota’s cousins offered.

“The man doesn’t want carbs!” his father shouted at him.

“Beer? Have a beer. It’s a local IPA.”

“No carbs!” Uncle Nate barked. “What part of no carbs do you people not understand?”

“You shouldn’t drink all that beer.”

“A whiskey.”

“Top-shelf stuff.”

“So I hope Dakota has been treating you well. Blow jobs at will, et cetera, et cetera,” Dakota’s brother Nico said as he sat down next to me.

“Dakota, don’t drive him off,” her other brother demanded. “Ryder, just put up with her ’til Christmas, m’kay?”

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