Page 7 of It's Mother-Pucking Christmas!

Ryder scored another goal. The camera zoomed in on his face as the crowd cheered. He still had that saintly zen look, like it was perfectly inevitable that he’d score three goals before the end of the first period.

It’s a damn shameful waste for a man to have eyebrows like that.

I resisted the urge to pull at my own.

Completely unfair.

“I’m going to get killed,” Timmy pleaded. “Dakota, help me.”

“Fine. How much money do you owe?” I asked, taking out my phone to Venmo him.

“If Ryder stops scoring goals, then forty thousand.”

The buzzer sounded.

“Goal!” the announcer shouted.

“Fuck. Forty-one thousand.”

“Forty-one—” I choked. “I don’t have forty-one thousand to give you, Timmy.” I whacked him with the popcorn bag. “What the hell? Why did you bet that much?”

“I thought for sure they’d lose this game.” He slumped over.

“Against the fucking Ice Spirits? Gracie and the pugs could win a game against them.”

The dogs panted.

“That’s probably why you get so much money if the Icebreakers lose,” I lectured. “Because the odds are terrible.”

“Hmm. Makes sense. Guess I should have paid more attention in math class,” he said dejectedly.

“Ya think?”

“It’s going to be fine. I already got a loan from the bookie, and if the Icebreakers lose the next game…” Timmy stared at the ice, where Ryder was flying around the other players. “I’ll make back enough to pay off this loss. They’re playing the Frosthawks. It could happen.”

“It could happen, yes,” I said begrudgingly. “They did lose against them last year. Well, sounds like you got it under control.”

“No, I need the Icebreakers to really lose. It can’t be by a goal. They have to lose by, like, eight. So Ryder needs to be…” He drew a line across his throat.

“I’m not offing Ryder O’Connell.”

“No!” Timmy yelped. “Just throw him off his game.”

“No way.”

“All you have to do is make him fall in love with you then break his heart. All before next weekend, please. It’ll be easy. You can do it. You’re Dakota!” He made jazz hands at me. “You beat up Bobby Worthington when he was mean to me in elementary school in front of everyone. Don’t let all that hard work go to waste!”

Yeah, no one beats up my little brother except me.

“The mob runs the bookies,” my brother said rapidly. “I’ll lose a finger, then Mom will find out, and she’ll kill me and erase me from all the family photos and tell everyone she only ever had three sons. I’m your baby brother. You love me, Dakota.”

He was my little brother. And I’d do anything for my family, even if they didn’t deserve it.

Even if it meant trying to make Ryder O’Connell think I was attracted to him.

Gross.

“I’ll try,” I promised him. “But Ryder hates me, and I don’t think your plan is going to work.”

---