Page 12 of The Winging It Holiday Special

He was probably just hungry. That or the sight of his mom’s gravy had given him preemptive heartburn. It would pass.

“Okay, so I think this piece holds these ones together….”

7. Advent Sunday

IT ALWAYSsurprised Dante how fast the end of the year snuck up on them. Suddenly it was December, and Dante was facing down another holiday season with no idea what to get anyone for Christmas.

But this December also brought a different kind of spirit.

“Hold on,” he told his agent, “I’ve got an armload of groceries to put away. Let me put you on speaker.” Dante juggled the paper bags onto the countertop, stopped by the kitchen table for a kiss—Gabe was icing his shoulder and hip, because he’d gotten boarded by a nineteen-year-old duster with something to prove—and then put his phone down and reached for the Sorry You’re Hurt Again ice cream. “Okay, you’re good. What’s up?”

“Corbrett’s out. Didn’t know if you heard. Fractured tibia.”

Dante grimaced and pulled open the freezer drawer. “Sucks. But we’re not playing Vancouver for—”

Oh.

He dropped the ice cream on the floor.

Mario startled from under the kitchen table and scampered off to hide behind the living room curtains.

Dante met Gabe’s eyes and schooled his features into frantic neutrality.

Last time there’d been a Winter Olympics, NHL players weren’t allowed to compete. He and Gabe had both missed it.

This year, too many younger players in their prime had edged Gabe out. Dante wasn’t sure why he’d been left out, but he knew it was probably the end of his dream to play for the US, at least at the Olympics. In four years he would probably be too old;there’d just be too many young guys in their prime ready to take his place.

Like what happened to Gabe this year.

But Gabe didn’t look hurt or surprised or resentful. His eyes were wide and bright and his mouth slightly open, like he wanted to say something—but oh yeah.

Speakerphone.

Dante cleared his throat. “Are you saying…?”

“I’m saying don’t get hurt in the next two months. You’re going to Beijing.”

Holy shit.

Dante sank into the chair next to Gabe. He’d been wondering, idly, whether he’d been excluded due to his sexuality.

Now he knew.

The call ended—Dante had only the vaguest of idea what else his agent had said—and he stayed sitting at the table, shell-shocked.

“Hey.” Gabe put a hand on his thigh. He’d been holding the cold pack with it; his fingers were icy, even through Dante’s pants.

Dante looked over, trying to school his brain into saying the appropriate thing, trying to walk the line between celebrating his achievement and respecting Gabe’s feelings.

But Gabe still just looked happy for him. Dante didn’t get it. He couldn’t have done the same if their positions were reversed. And Gabe was competitive by nature. Two years ago, he’d have been happy for Dante… but he still would’ve needed a sulk.

Today his smile was warm and genuine when he said, “Congratulations.”

And Dante couldn’t hold back the grin anymore. It was even bigger because Gabe didn’t seem to want him to. On impulse, he leaned over and laid a hard, loud, smacking kiss on Gabe’smouth. It was awkward and kind of toothy; they were both grinning like idiots and Dante was vain enough to always wear his fake teeth. “Thanks.” He shook his head, still grinning. “Holy shit.”

Gabe snorted an indulgent laugh and took his hand, suddenly serious. “I have to say something, and I want you to pay attention and soak it in, because I’m never going to say it again.”

Blinking, Dante turned to face him fully. Shit, was Gabe dying or something? That would explain why he was so zen about Dante going to the Olympics when he wasn’t. “I’m listening.” He squeezed Gabe’s hand.

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