When I looked back at him, Harrison was as smug as freaking sin. “Westwood and Sons takes Christmas very seriously.”
I pressed my lips together, trying not to laugh again as the snowman’s head began inflating. “I can see that.”
As the snowman’s grin grew wider, Harrison chuckled. “Well, would you look at that. Frosty approves of our partnership. It looks like we really are a match made in Heaven. Or the North Pole.”
“Or China,” I retorted, my eyes rolling. “Just so you know though, if that thing starts singing, I’m walking and I’m never coming back.”
CHAPTER 7
HARRISON
Ice scraped under my blades as I shot forward, my stick low as I chased the puck. Callum beat me to it, sweeping it out of reach with that easy grace he’d always possessed on the ice.
Asshole.
“Face it, baby brother,” he called with a huge grin on his face, skating backward like it was nothing. “You’re never catching me.”
“Keep talking,” I grunted, leaning in harder and driving him toward the boards. I zeroed in on him, the second youngest of the Westwoods, but still five years older than me, and slammed my shoulder into his.
Not full force, but enough to rattle him, and I also managed to steal the puck. He laughed. “That was a cheap shot.”
“It was still effective,” I countered over my shoulder, then I faced forward again, my wrist snapping as I sent the puck flying through the air toward the goalpost. It clanged against the metal, ricocheting further away than it had been when I’d stolen it.
I groaned. “Almost effective, anyway.”
Callum skated up to me, his breath clouding in the chilly air and his cheeks flushed. I had to admit, the dude looked happy. Happier than he’d probably ever been. His blue eyes werebrighter than ever these days and I swore, they even sparkled sometimes.
Like right now.
He cocked his head as he looked at me. “You’d think that after all the years we’ve been playing pick-up hockey, you’d be better at it by now.”
I scoffed. “Please. I can play. Just not againstyou.”
Shit, even my trash-talk game is off.
Callum laughed, but his eyes narrowed and he looked at me again, closer this time. “Thank you for acknowledging the fact that I’m the best hockey player who has ever played hockey, but what’s going on with you today? Even Brody would’ve been able to beat you.”
Brody. The seven-year-old son he’s only known about for approximately one month. Maybe a little more.
The kid was just like him. From the first moment I’d met him and then learned that Callum and Brody’s mom, Maisie, had hooked up back at college, I’d had my suspicions. Everyone had.
Everyone except Callum.
It had probably just been one of those things he’d been too close to to see it clearly. I was wondering if I had the same problem now.
“Brody would be able to beat me any day,” I finally conceded as Callum and I started circling each other. Pickup hockey had always been our thing, but I hadn’t really come here today to play. “How’s he doing, anyway? I haven’t seen him for a couple weeks.”
It was like just asking about him tripped a switch in Callum’s brain. Suddenly, my mischievous jock of a brother who’d sworn he’d never settle down and had been most likely to join a traveling circus or something similar, was a beacon of marital and parental bliss. It was ridiculous.
“He’s good, man.” Callum’s chest puffed out as he beamed at me, all pride and smug fucking joy. “Best thing that ever happened to me. After Maisie, of course. Or maybe even better than her. I don’t know. Those two both make the top of my list.”
“If there was a bucket on this ice, I’d barf into it right about now.”
He smirked. “We’ll talk about in a few years, when you’re happily married and you’ve got a kid of your own. You’ll see. I’m right.”
“Why do I get the feeling you’ve had this same conversation with Brody recently?”
“Because I have.” He pumped his eyebrows at me, but straightened up and leaned on his stick instead of continuing the game. “Okay, seriously. What’s going on with you? You love Brody, and Maisie.”
