Santa Cam (MyHeartChannel Romance)

by Maria Hoagland

  “Interesting question, Dad.” Talia took a moment to consider. “Especially while I try to figure out what it is people are looking for. I’m not sure a MyHeartChannel is where people will go for news. Since people are becoming more and more leery of fake news—and who can blame them?—they stick with the network and cable news channels. But where does that leave me? All I’ve ever tried to do was report the news—the real news.” Talking about it again was shouldering a weight she’d trying to counterbalance with Christmas cheer.

  “News is one thing, sugar, but always looking for the bad in people and situations is quite another.” He pried the lid off another box and pulled out a wad of tangled lights. “After a while, it’s got to drag you down.”

  “What makes you think that it is?” Apparently, she wasn’t that good at hiding it.

  The way he looked at her confirmed this. What was it about a parent that they could tell just by looking at you that something was going on?

  “Isn’t that the news, though, Dad? It can be depressing if you think about it, but ignorance is definitely not bliss.” She had invested so much into this line of work, and she couldn’t change direction. There had been college and internships, followed by working for years at the bottom of the totem pole. If she no longer believed in it, had she wasted all that time and money, work and worry? “You know it’s the media’s job to be the watchdog.”

  “Perhaps you’re ready for a new challenge, then?”

  “I can’t just do fluff pieces.” She grabbed the other end of his bundle of lights, and the two of them worked together to loosen the knots and kinks.

  “No one is asking you to, but when you look down the path you’re pursuing, remember to make sure it’s the one you want.” His voice was gentle, and she loved that in giving his advice, her father didn’t tell her what to do. “Just because you pour your heart and soul into one pursuit doesn’t mean you can’t change your mind and try something else for a while.”

  She couldn’t do that, though. If she changed her platform or quit posting to her MyHeartChannel, she’d lose what little momentum she had. She was trapped. She needed to either keep forging forward or completely change her career.

  With the lights untangled, Talia dropped her end and went back to her post and garland.

  “If your viewers don’t feel your passion,” her dad continued, “they won’t connect with your story and they won’t buy into it.”

  He was right. She knew he was right. “And obviously, neither will the advertisers.” Her bank account was reflecting that for sure.

  Her words hung on the air a moment, but rather than being uncomfortable with the admission, Talia didn’t mind that her father knew. She felt no judgment, no censure, and surprisingly, no alarm. To her, that translated as confidence in her ability to take care of herself, and the thought was hopeful.

  “What does make you happy, jingle belle?”

  Talia finished with her light strand, affixed the red velvet bow at the top of the column, and then stood back to make sure the garland was spaced evenly. If previous years had set a precedent, Talia’s mother would come out later with a six-inch ruler to adjust the garland loops to an exact measurement, and Wayne would tease her until she laughed and kissed him, but to Talia, it looked fine the way it was—especially in its imperfectness. It screamed homemade Christmas, one she hadn’t been able to participate in the last few years she’d been in Washington.

  “This, Dad. This makes me happy. You have no idea how much I missed this when I was in Seattle.” Talia swept her arm out to mean the Christmas decorations, but she also included her childhood home, her parents, and this feeling of love and security. “Christmas makes me happy. Too bad Christmas can’t solve my problems.” Her answer was glib, and she was just being silly, but it was better than giving in to depression.

  “Are you sure it can’t?” her father retorted as quickly.

  “Hmm.” Talia thought about it. “You might be onto something here.” Talia marched over to the plastic bin for the next bundle of lighted garland, this one for around the front door. “Maybe I should hire myself out to do Christmas decorating and forget about videos and ratings and publicity and stuff.”

  “There you go.” Her father was way too quick to agree. “Which means this year, you get to be the one on the ladder while I hold it for you. You’ll need the practice if you plan to be Jingle the Christmas Decorating Elf.”

  Goofy name or not, Talia jumped at the opportunity and went straight to the ladder. If Dad was offering to do what he’d never abdicated before, she wasn’t giving him the chance to back out. She took the lead on the most important part of exterior decorating. Maybe there were perks to turning thirty. Or maybe her father was just being nice to cheer her up. Either way, she would take it.

  4

  Camden was still thinking of the woman with the long blond hair and the spunky car dance. Her playfulness and the way she joined in his goofiness and egged him on further made the Saturday drive into this mysterious meeting with the team and managers palatable.

  By the time he reached the club’s conference room, most of his teammates were already there, jostling around each other for their pick of the leather chairs. Cam flopped into the chair next to Brad, who greeted him with knuckles.

  “Any idea what this is about?” Brad kept his voice low. He eyed the club’s bigwigs, who stood in their slacks and ties in a protective clump by the room’s large TV screens. Their somber expressions didn’t bode well.

  Cam didn’t have much time to stew about the question before one man stepped forward to start the meeting at the top of the hour. Shane Jones, DFW United’s team manager, was a stickler for time, and had his team trained to be in their seats and cease talking as soon as he took his position at the head of the room.

  “It seems we had a—a situation last night.” Shane started off the meeting succinctly and without preamble. “Thank your teammates, but if you were heading out of town anytime soon, you might be starting your Christmas break a little later than you’d planned.”

  A few of the players looked around the room as if trying to discern what Jones was talking about, but most took in the announcement with unchanged expressions. Since when was the manager involved in scuffles off the field? If he was even referring to what happened at Buster’s the previous night.

  “The facility and city officials decided to give y’all a pass and not press charges for disturbing the peace or anything else.”

  Camden held back an eye roll when Jones called the honky-tonk a facility.

  “According to the marketing department,” Jones continued, “compensating for one night’s debacle is going to take a bit of work. Need I remind you that DFW United is a business? Image and brand are important.” As if Jones didn’t say something to that effect every other time the group got together. “As pro athletes, you get away with more than your average person, but the flip side of that coin is that your slipups attract more attention than the average Joe’s as well. Which is why we expect you to be professionals—both on and off the field.”

  Camden couldn’t agree more. In general, sports fans seemed willing to think the best of the players. They tended to put them on a pedestal no one deserved, and then drag them off by the hair at any perceived flub. Cam hadn’t seen a video of his neighbor getting picked up from the local bar. No one would be interested in that, even though it probably happened from time to time. But one little temper flare between teammates and it’s internet news?

  He looked about the room, taking note of Brad, Jake, and Mick. None of them made eye contact with him or Shane Jones. Instead, they seemed to be studying the overhead ductwork, the wall texture behind Jones, or the tread in their shoes. They were in a bit of a tough spot.

  Shane cleared his throat. “The Shooting Stars took quite the hit last night.”

  The Shooting Stars hadn’t taken the hit; Cam had. But when Shane’s pointed glare focused on Camden, he drew his eyebrows together in defense. Wha
t had he done to deserve that? Surely the manager knew he hadn’t instigated the fight.

  “The good news is a little positive publicity should go a long way.” Ah, here came the manager’s positive spin.

  Usually, that was one of the things Cam liked about playing for DFW United. Shane Jones was notoriously tough but had a good heart. He had to balance the needs of the franchise, his players, and the owners—and typically walked that fine line fairly well. But today Cam was too salty to buy into Shane’s rah-rah cheer session.

  “It will, however, take every one of you to fix this mess.”

  Grumbling erupted around the room, and Shane lifted a hand to quiet the murmurs. “I’m not asking for anything difficult. All I want is some high-profile charity opportunities—something that will get you seen in the community.” Hopefully, they would actually do some good rather than just be seen. “And if we play this right, it’ll generate support for next year when we’ll take the conference by storm.” Shane gave a nod to the owners still in their tight circle near the side doors.

  The smattering of light applause from one or two wise-guy players wasn’t the reaction he was probably going for, and his smile slipped back into serious disciplinarian mode.

  “We haven’t had much time this morning, but we’ve managed to line up a few charities.” Shane raised a clipboard and shook it. “You can sign up here. If you have another idea, pass it by me first, but by all means, choose something you want to do—just remember it needs to be somewhere in the Metroplex for the best exposure.”

  The meeting ended, and some of the guys got up to sign Shane’s clipboard. Camden sat back, willing to trade not standing in line for picking through the leftovers. It really didn’t matter what he did if he wasn’t going to be headed home to Cobble Creek tomorrow as planned. Stupid Texas Christmas. So much for helping out a friend. Like a certain stuffed donkey with a pessimistic view on life, he was wallowing and he knew it.

  “Hey, Cam.”

  The greeting startled Camden out of his gray cloud of self-pity. He looked up to see Zeke Hartford, a former DFW United player who liked to bring his college-aged stepson down to the club whenever he was on break from his university team. After Cam had transferred to the Shooting Stars in August, he and Zeke had clicked right away in the clubhouse over video game FIFA and air conditioning.

  “Hey, Zeke. Missed team meetings where Jones puts his foot down so hard the earth shakes?” Camden smirked. “I’m sure you didn’t have to be here in person to feel this one.” Not that Shane didn’t have every right to make sure the team kept its public image up. It was his job, after all.

  Zeke scoffed dryly. “Yeah, right.” He took the seat Brad had vacated. “Why aren’t you rushing over to sign up?”

  Camden gave a half-hearted shrug. “I doubt I can fulfill my civic responsibility tonight and still make my flight out tomorrow.” He concentrated on relaxing the jaw he’d absently clenched.

  “What Jones didn’t say was that I happen to have one of the approved community service opportunities.” Zeke dangled a flyer in front of Camden. “You’d be the perfect guy for the job.”

  “Oh yeah?” Camden couldn’t bring himself to actually be intrigued, but it was the polite thing to pursue it. And working with a friend might make the service more enjoyable. He snatched the paper. “And what would that be?”

  “Playing Santa.”

  Camden gave him a you-can’t-be-serious look, and Zeke’s grin doubled in size.

  “You heard me. You’d make a great Santa. You’ve got a charming, fun personality—when you’re not feeling sorry for yourself.”

  Ignoring the paper in his hand, he waited for Zeke to sell it better. Cam liked kids, he really did, and he’d play Santa twice if he could do it in Cobble Creek. The kids—and even the suit—weren’t the problem.

  “And . . .” Zeke had Camden’s attention again. “The event is Monday. Done by nine, ten at the latest, and then you’re back at your house packing for a Tuesday flight.”

  Two days. “Sold.” Camden pushed himself out of the leather armchair. “Tell me when and where, and I’ll be there with bells on.” He allowed the sarcasm to drip from his words, though he was feeling less bothered by the idea the more he thought about it. If he was forced into service, this wouldn’t be a bad sentence.

  “Maybe not bells, but a red suit will be waiting for you.” Zeke could dish the teasing right back. “I’ll text you the time and address.” Zeke clapped Camden on the shoulder.

  “Thanks,” Camden said, serious. “I really do appreciate it.” Though he still had to convince his heart it wasn’t too little, too late. It wasn’t Zeke’s fault.

  Camden had hoped to make his scheduled flight out in time for decorating the tree in his parents’ front living room Monday night. The whole family would be there, complete with his nephews and nieces. True, with that crowd, he probably wouldn’t have been able to place more than one ornament, but he would have had at least a couple of his dad’s homemade shortbread cookies and his aunt’s caramels.

  “No problem—if you bring the charming Santa and leave grumpy Cam at home.”

  He scowled at Zeke. “I’ll try.” Camden should count his blessings, but the difficulty of convincing himself of that was as bad as losing a key game. It never got any easier.

  By the time he made it back to his house, the sinkhole Camden had started to fall into was becoming a quicksand of mired misery. As soon as he’d known he wasn’t going to make it back to Wyoming as scheduled, Cam should have called his mother to give her fair warning, but disappointment, like bile, stung the back of his throat. He was being ridiculous. What was a couple of days? Maybe his mom could convince the family to rearrange four other families’ schedules to wait for him. He doubted it, and it wouldn’t exactly be fair.

  Cam pulled into his driveway and cut the engine. Stupid drunk Brad and his cohorts. He slammed the heel of his hand against his steering wheel. Not only were they destroying their own careers; they were dragging Camden down with them, and they didn’t care. None of them had said one word of apology to him at the team meeting. None had acknowledged how they’d dragged him through the mud along with them. Well, no one but good ol’ Shane Jones, who lumped Cam into the same drunken category as the other guys. See if Camden ever did anything nice for anyone again.

  He stepped out of his pickup, taking one last look around its dimly lit interior to gather the trash from a hurried meal on the way home. With nothing else to do, he’d left the team meeting and gone straight to the weight room, pushed himself until every muscle group was jelly, and then run sprints around the track. When everyone else had left the facility and Camden had finally expelled his pent-up frustration, he made his way home, stopping for a grilled chicken deli wrap to eat a solitary meal in his car. He was pathetic, and he knew it.

  Cam might have missed the paper plate in the shadows of the corner of his front porch if it weren’t for his jacket folded next to it. He unlocked the front door and opened it before scooping up the plate of assorted goodies. Sweetness seeped around the protective wrapping, and even without opening it, Cam had a pretty good idea of what he might find. A gold foil sticker read, “Merry Christmas from the Thomas Family.” He didn’t recognize the name, but he took the plate inside just the same.

  Warning bells pealed in his head. Accepting a package from strangers left on a celebrity’s doorstep was the epitome of naiveté, but the temptation of shortbread cookies—even if they weren’t his dad’s—had Camden scrambling for a way to justify keeping the treats.

  It only took a couple of seconds for it to come to him. Sometime during his workout, his home security app had notified him of movement on his front porch. Used to notifications being benign videos of squirrels or windblown leaves, Cam hadn’t bothered to even check, but this delivery had to have been caught on the camera. He dropped everything on his kitchen island and retrieved the phone from his bag.

  He may not have recognized the name Thomas, but he
knew his across-the-street neighbor at once—the same one he’d seen decorating his yard that morning. Next to him stood a pretty, young woman with blond hair who looked slightly familiar. Had he seen her across the street with his neighbor before? Cam was certain she didn’t live there, but watching their mannerisms and interaction, they could be related.

  Intrigued, Cam watched the video again. The woman came practically skipping up his walk in a thin red hoodie, ribbon-wrapped plate in hand. She noticed his crumpled jacket in the corner.

  After setting the plate on the small patio table by the door, she leaned over and picked up the jacket, her nose wrinkling adorably. Was she responding to the smell or worried about spiders? She shook the jacket and folded it neatly, laying it over the arm of the porch chair. Then came his favorite part of the video, and the reason he’d watched it now three times before turning it off—before leaving his porch, the woman turned to face the camera. Her lips lifted to a smile, half higher on her right side, squishing her eye into an almost wink. The woman was trouble.

  5

  Two days after helping her father decorate the exterior with Christmas decorations, Talia returned to her parents’ home. Their typical Sunday family dinner had been pushed back a day for Talia’s birthday, and just before she pushed open the front door, she braced herself, knowing what was coming. She might not want to turn thirty, but her family never failed to make her feel special every year. With this being a milestone, it was probably going to be a doozy.

  When she opened the door, the only thing that greeted her was the scent of baking sugar. No celebration. No one shouted, “Happy birthday!” No one ran to hug her. There wasn’t a balloon or birthday banner in sight. So much for remembering, let alone making it special. Well, that was what she’d wanted, right? For everyone to forget?