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Ups and downs are what make the roller coaster, son. But it’s a hell of a ride, ain’t it?
I rubbed my hands over my face and wondered, not for the first time, how men like Coach Vining could survive this kind of stress long-term. It wasn’t healthy.
After calming down and drinking the rest of the water from my water bottle, I shuffled back toward Mikey’s room. He wasn’t there. I looked around the house until finally spotting him out back under the fading light of the sun setting behind the mountains.
He was building a snowman.
I gathered up some items, threw on my boots, hat, and parka, and hustled out to join him. “Hey. What’re you doing out here?”
His face lit up so bright, I sucked in a breath. Mikey was gorgeous. The cold had pinked his cheeks, and playing in the snow had obviously brightened his mood.
“What does it look like I’m doing?” he asked with a laugh. “I’ve never gotten to do this before.”
I pulled a scarf and hat out of my coat pocket. “Here. He looks cold.”
Mikey laughed and wrapped the scarf around Frosty’s neck before plonking the hat on his head. “What else? He needs eyes.”
I pulled out the baggie of whole black olives. “Done.”
He accidentally mashed a few in an attempt to fix the olives to Frosty’s face, but we finally figured it out. Next, I handed him a carrot for the nose and a red Twizzler for the mouth.
Mikey’s eyes narrowed as he flapped the Twizzler at me. “Where’d you get this?”
I grinned at him. “Since when are you allowed multiple hidden candy stashes?”
His hands fisted on his hips. “Since I’m not paid a zillion dollars to be in tip-top shape. In fact, professional chefs are expected to be… rounded.”
I snorted. “You’re the furthest thing from rounded I’ve ever seen. Besides, Twizzlers are only forty calories per stick. Do you know how easily I can burn off forty calories?”
“By giving one small, rounded chef a very enthusiastic blow job?” he asked innocently.
I ignored his suggestion, but my dick definitely did not. “And do you know why I know how many calories are in those things?”
“Because you’re a sneaky sneak?”
“Because my… Mikey keeps a giant bag of these fuckers hidden inside an empty laundry detergent box in my laundry room.”
His eyebrows shot up. “Since when do you go in the laundry room?”
Did I dare admit the truth? “Since I had a legit wet dream about you maybe a year ago and was too embarrassed to let you see my sheets.”
His eyes twinkled, and his lips curved up. “No! About me? Really? Tiller Raine, you dirty dog. Raine was spankin’ the main vein.”
“You’re a shit poet.”
Mikey threw his arms out and spun in a circle in the snow. “Raine came in pain as he claimed my name!”
“This… was a mistake.” I tried to bite back the giant grin threatening to overtake my face.
“Tiller fondled his pillar of a willer. Wait. That was terrible.”
“That one was terrible?”
His eyes flashed in the low light. “Raine, no need to explain.”
“Make it stop,” I groaned.
“It’s plain you strained to obtain me in vain. Instead… your fame was a stain on your counterpane. For shame.”
I stalked toward him and placed my hand over his heart. Just as his face began to soften with affection, I shoved him on his back in the fluffy snow.
“Ack!” He flailed for a second before realizing he’d fallen in the perfect position for a snow angel. He began moving his arms and legs through the fresh powder. “Thanks, Raine!”
I climbed on top of him and shut him up with a kiss before he could keep rhyming. By the time I was finished kissing him, he couldn’t have rhymed if someone had been there with a rhyming thesaurus and a million dollars. He was glassy-eyed and dazed. I wanted to devour him.
I stood up and grabbed his hand, pulling him up with me. “C’mon. Let’s get you warmed up inside.” In my mind I was already conjuring up images of stripping him down and shoving him into a hot shower, bending him over and sliding my way deep into his body to warm him from the inside out.
As I imagined how the scene would play out, we walked back to the warmly lit lodge hand in hand. Mikey asked me in a soft voice how the game ended up, and my dream snapped like a fragile soap bubble.
“Oh. We lost,” I admitted, noticing the tension in his body pick up. “Ran out of time.”
“Shit, Tiller. I’m sorry. Does it mess up your playoff chances?” Mikey reached for the door and pulled it open, letting out the warmth and the fresh piney scent of the new Christmas tree. Oddly, it smelled like home. Like the kind of place I wished was our home. I wanted more days like this with Michael Vining. Days of snowy adventures and holiday decorating. Listening to him putter around in the kitchen while football was on the TV. Watching him laugh and try something new for the pure joy of it.
