Page 30 of Accidentally Fudging the Beast
I want to say I don't need him to. But the truth is, I've never wanted to be carried by anyone in my life more than I want to be carried by Trent Kirk.
God, what is this man doing to me?
Ruining you,a little voice whispers.He's absolutely ruining you.
It's not wrong.
Chapter Six
Dani
"Jesus," I mutter, staringin shock as Trent winds up the circular driveway toward Colt Brisbane's house in his truck. The place looks exactly like you'd imagine a mansion at Christmas, only…more horrifyingly festive.
It's one part ski lodge, one part Vegas strip, and a final, frightening dash of Tim Burton chic. The whole front lawn is crusted with snow and inflatable reindeer that leer at us all the way up the drive.
Colored spotlights situated on the ground bounce off every window, sending a lightshow of snowflakes swimming across the frosted glass.
At least six more inflatable reindeer are tangled in the landscaping. At first, I think they've become accidentallystuck in the bushes in somewhat suggestive positions, but when Trent sees me staring, he just shrugs.
"Last year, he had live deer wandering around. One nearly got stuck in his neighbor's pool. They had to call animal control. He toned it down this year."
That's…honestly not even surprising. The goalie, Briggs Ward, is the most normal member of the team. Everyone else is questionable.
Trent helps me out of the truck, keeping me tucked close to his side. I smooth my hands down my coat, quietly trying not to hyperventilate. Telling myself that I know these guys doesn't really help. It's just another reminder that the last place I should be is here, at their party, on Trent's arm.
I'm definitely getting a pink slip for Christmas.
It's too late to back out now, though. Trent is already bustling me through the massive front door.
The foyer is the size of my entire apartment. A Christmas tree so big it needs its own zip code hovers over an entire mountain of presents. There's a twelve-foot inflatable Santa waving from the corner. And there are at least two hockey teams' worth of children running around, most of whom are already hopped up on red-and-green cupcakes. The evidence is smeared all over their excited little faces.
I cling to the front door for a solid five seconds, watching a pair of five-or-six-year-olds break the sound barrier on a hoverboard before a third one careens into the wall.
He hops right up, laughing. "That was awesome! I wanna do it again!"
"Welcome to Christmas in the league," Trent says, grinning like a lunatic as he helps me with my coat.
I think about clinging to it for a split second before reluctantly relinquishing it into his hands. I'm wearing a cheap little red dress with white trim. The kind that seemed cute and festive when I bought it online last month, but turned out to be the wardrobe equivalent of a candy cane wrapper in reality. The hem ends too far above mid-thigh to be remotely comfortable, and the puffy sleeves make my arms look like I'm wearing hockey pads. The rest of it is so tight I'm worried I might pop a seam. I paired it with a pair of black boots and opaque white tights to save my dignity.
Naturally, Trent looks like an actual model. He's wearing a navy suit, a red Santa hat, and an expression so smug I want to kiss it right off his face.
He places his hand on the small of my back as soon as my coat is tossed over a bench, steadying me as a couple of his teammates and their significant others crowd the entryway to say hello.
"Hey, Kirk!" someone yells from the second floor. I look up just in time to see several shirtless men hurling candy canes at the Christmas tree. One of them—probably Ryan, judging from the tribal sleeve and thefact that he's loud as hell—nails Trent in the forehead with an alarming level of accuracy.
Trent doesn't even blink. He just grins, picks up the candy cane, and tucks it behind my ear.
"Uh…thanks?"
"They do this every year."
Why am I not surprised?
I follow Trent through a gauntlet of greetings with my heart in my throat. Every player's girlfriend, wife, or bunny-of-the-week sizes me up with lightning efficiency and then either gives me a hug, if they like me, or a simile of a smile, which I take to mean they can't stand me.
The guys on the team fist-bump me like we're old college buddies, smirking between me and Trent as if they have a whole lot to say and are reining it in. I'm not entirely sure if that's for my sake or his. I'm also not entirely sure I want to know which it is.
Ryan, Colt, Karsen Daughtry, Cale Vaught, and Briggs Ward are the only ones without a wife, girlfriend, or puck bunny on their arms. Colt, Karsen, Cale, and Briggs are huddled in a group off to the side and wave us over.
