Santa Cam Read online

  Also by Maria Hoagland

  Billionaire Classics

  Beauty and the Billionaire Beast

  Her App, a Match, and the Billionaire

  Falling for Her Billionaire Best Friend

  Cobble Creek Series

  The Inventive Bride

  The Practically Romantic Groom

  The Combustible Engagement

  Cobble Creek Collection (containing all three books)

  Romance Renovations Series

  Home for the Holidays

  Kayaks & Kisses

  New Year’s Resolutions

  Love for Keeps

  Santa Cam

  Still Time

  The ReModel Marriage

  Santa Cam

  A MyHeartChannel Romance

  Maria Hoagland

  Copyright © 2019 by Maria Hoagland

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  About the Author

  More Christmas!

  After Santa Cam

  After Santa Cam (pg. 2)

  The Cobble Creek Series

  For every Joy in my Life.

  1

  “Hey, mate, I sent you my location.” The slurred voice on the phone was barely audible over the thumping bass of country music behind the caller.

  Camden Sharpe’s ringing phone had bored into his sleepy brain enough for him to pick it up and answer, but he was having trouble catching up on a conversation that started in the middle. Mate, mate . . .was this one of his soccer teammates?

  “I can’t take him anymore,” the voice was saying. “The punk doesn’t have a clue how hard it is to do my job when he doesn’t do his.”

  It had taken more than the first few words for Cam to fill in the gaps. If he hadn’t been dead asleep, he would have recognized the voice of his team’s goalkeeper. Even with only three months on the same team, Cam was attuned to Brad Kelmer’s every syllable on the field. “Brad?”

  “Yeah, mate.” The crack of a billiard game starting behind Brad almost obliterated the two words. “Can you give me a ride?”

  Drag himself from the warmth of his soft bed at dark-thirty? That wasn’t high on Camden’s priority list, to be honest. “Who else is there?” Not that it mattered, really. Cam wasn’t going to make his decision of whether he was going to lend a hand—or a ride—on who else was there. Probably. If Brad was calling, chances were the others weren’t sober enough to drive either.

  While he waited for Brad to respond, Camden squinted at his phone to see where Brad was without putting on his glasses. Every time he expanded the map, the tiny street names got smaller. If only he hadn’t procrastinated the LASIK surgery his team’s trainers had been pushing on him. Next long break, he’d make it a priority.

  Brad named off a few of the players he was closest with. “It was fine until the rookie showed up.”

  Cam groaned. The rookie, Jake Brown—a seventeen-year-old household name who was drafted straight from academy play into Major League Soccer—was insufferable. By skipping those years playing college ball, Jake had forfeited maturing professionally in ways that had nothing to do with skill, and it was teammates like Brad who ended up paying for it.

  “I knew there would be trouble as soon as he walked in,” Brad said, “but I tried to give him the benefit of the doubt, you know, captain him a little.”

  Cam read between the lines easily. What Brad had left unsaid was that the rookie had a head the size of a hot-air balloon. “Have the other guys told him to knock it off?” Usually, the more experienced teammates were able to blow off Jake’s vibrato, but everyone had their threshold, and obviously he’d tested Brad’s that night.

  “They’re staying out of it, you know, laughing it off, but I’ve had enough. It’s high school stuff to blame the keeper for a loss.” Brad grumbled something about teenagers.

  Cam decided to switch gears. “What about Uber? There’s probably one closer than I am.” Not that he knew where Brad was yet. Cam’s eyes were still bleary, thanks to the combination of sleep and myopia, no matter how close to his nose he held the screen. He gave up trying, and groped for his glasses on the nightstand.

  “Here he comes again,” Brad growled. “I swear, if he says one more thing, I’m going to knock him into next season.”

  Which wasn’t altogether a bad idea—except that it was against team rules.

  Brad blew out a breath. “If I leave, maybe the guys can set him straight. I don’t have the patience for it right now.”

  Camden threw back the covers and trudged over to the chair where he’d flung yesterday’s T-shirt before bed. He might as well drive out. Brad didn’t seem together enough to explore alternate transportation options, and while the likelihood of an Uber driver recognizing an MLS player was low, it wasn’t worth the risk. Camden would drive out there to retrieve Brad, get the guys to calm down a little, and keep the team’s problems from going public. Which had to start with talking Brad off the edge right now.

  Cam forced what he hoped was a casual-sounding chuckle. “If you’re at a bar, how did the kid get in, anyway? He’s a good three, four years from being legal.”

  “It’s not just a bar. It’s one of them live music places. They got everything from pool to line dancing and mechanical bulls. Anyone’s allowed. Only have to be over twenty-one if you belly up to the bar.” At least Brad was sounding a little more relaxed. “Oh yeah, there’s more. I forgot to tell you, man, you gotta come down here, ’cause there’s this hot girl for you.”

  Doubtful. What Brad thought was perfect for him and what Cam would consider were likely polar opposites. “She’s probably not my type,” Cam argued. Besides, if she was that great, one of the other guys would have been after her by now.

  “What? You don’t like hot?” In Brad’s drunken stupor, his Southern accent drawled out longer than usual, and it took Cam a sweet-tea-and-honey moment to translate “ha-wit” into a descriptor Cam recognized.

  He shoved his feet into his sneakers and grabbed his keys.

  “You know that’s not what I meant.” Brad sounded hurt.

  Of course Cam did. But he was taking a time-out from women right now. Instead of getting all messed up in the head worrying about tracking some relationship, Cam decided to focus on settling in with the team and getting the lay of the land in the Dallas–Fort Worth metroplex.

  When he’d left New York City United in August, it was half because the club owners and his agent had struck a deal on the last day of the secondary transfer window, and he had no control over his move from one club to another. Another half was because he couldn’t pass up the increase in compensation, prestige, and a better chance of making it to the MLS Cup Finals. And since he hated fractions, the third half of his reason for taking the transfer was so he could leave behind thoughts of what had almost been.

  The first two were just parts of his chosen career—and good moves to boot. As for the other, he didn’t
exactly harbor regrets over the breakup with his former girlfriend, Mary Alice. They were both better off now—she with her childhood best friend, and he with the idea there would be a woman better suited to him sometime in the nebulous future. The thing was, traveling with the team didn’t offer the stability most girlfriends looked for, and being transferred mid-season had underscored the point.

  No, he wasn’t the least bit interested in starting a relationship. Besides, with barely dragging himself out of bed, he was in no state to meet a good-looking woman. Chances were, he looked terrible—no doubt with hair sticking up and sleep wrinkles embedded in his cheek—but it wouldn’t matter. He wouldn’t exit his car for anything—beautiful woman or no.

  He opened his front door, and a blast of cooler air chased through. Turning back around, he grabbed his practice jacket off the nearest hook in the foyer and then closed the door behind him.

  When the GPS guided him to Buster’s next door to the stadium, Camden recalled the group inviting him to watch pro rodeo with them that night. His teammates not only went out of their way to soak up the Texas culture; they marinated in it. It was a Rangers game one night, line dancing another, and now it was rodeo—or dancing and rodeo, since they’d finished the evening at Buster’s—and sometimes Camden went with them. But rodeo? Camden had to laugh. He wasn’t from Texas, but as far as he could tell, the people from his home state of Wyoming were more into it than any of the locals he’d met here.

  Fighting the traffic and navigating the crowds in the busy stadium and honky-tonk parking lots proved trickier than Cam felt mentally ready for at this time of night, and he knew right off that Brad’s extrication wouldn’t exactly go as planned. When Brad wouldn’t answer his phone, Cam was forced to park in the back forty and get out of his car to search for him on foot. With this many people, finding Brad would take all night.

  Cam hoofed it up to Buster’s in the dim light of the streetlights, cursing every moment of sleep he forfeited to prevent the team splitting apart over their disappointing loss. The DFW United Shooting Stars had gotten so close to making the finals, and it would have been the rookie’s chance to make history, but that didn’t mean he could take his personal disappointment out on everyone else. But the loss had come a couple weeks back. It was Black Friday, with no practices scheduled until mid-January. Their Christmas break had come. Time away would heal all kinds of rifts before they had to report for preseason—if they made it through tonight unscathed.

  Turned out, finding Brad wasn’t nearly as difficult as Cam had expected. Near the front doors, a ring of people stood out of the way of a tussle, several of the observers with cameras held high. The commotion was worth checking out, especially when Camden knew firsthand Brad’s explosive personality and the team’s recent political climate.

  Cam was still a few yards away when he saw Jake cock an elbow. Jumping forward as if preparing for a slide tackle, Camden threw himself into overdrive. He slammed through the circle of onlookers in time to knock Brad aside, right before he felt the crack of knuckles connect with his face. The pain was so acute, so unexpected, that new stars gathered around the closest overhead light. He drew in a breath and turned to face Jake with what he hoped looked like authority.

  In the shadows off to Jake’s right, someone’s low laugh sounded more like a cough, but his mirth was evident. “Well, if it isn’t Camden Hot Shot Sharpe, NYC traitor turned DFW star defender and celebrity, here to save the day.”

  Mick’s sarcasm stung, but not as much as Jake’s right hook. Though neither should have been a surprise—the comment because Mick Walker was still sore that Cam had pushed him off the game day roster, and then . . . well, he had jumped in front of Jake’s fist.

  A few of his own bitter retorts bubbled up like stomach acid, but thanks to the cameras pointed his direction, Camden refrained from letting loose. He didn’t need this moment being plastered across every video, sports, and celebrity gossip internet site.

  Fighting a surge of anger, Cam took a deep breath and turned his back on Jake, Mick, and the bulk of the cameras. “Let’s go, Brad.”

  DFW United center defensive midfielder Camden Sharpe watched his Major League Soccer career sinking lower by the page view. Of all the video clips floating the internet about him, the one that had absolutely nothing to do with soccer was going to be the death of his dream.

  Cam watched the rest of the clip for probably the fifth time, promising himself it was also the last. Because the poster had edited out him jumping in to stop the fight, Cam would be the first to admit it didn’t look good. Without proper context—which no one had on the internet—most people would come to the wrong conclusion. It wasn’t like he could comment on the post, “Ahem. Let me explain.” Nope. That wouldn’t work. Not only would he sound like an idiot; no one would believe him anyway.

  If only he hadn’t answered the phone at three in the morning when that call from Brad had lit up his dark room. But how could he not? His teammates were like brothers—at least most of them, most of the time—and you didn’t not answer a call from your brother in the middle of the night. If Cam had insisted Brad call for an Uber, he wouldn’t be in the middle of this mess.

  Grabbing the jacket with his name on a huge number six the back was mistake number two. Never wear identifying clothing if you’re going to participate in a brawl. Not if you want to do it anonymously, anyway.

  They were lucky that when the cops had shown up moments after Jake’s fist connected with Camden’s face, no real damage had been done. Sure, Cam had a black eye, but playing on a professional soccer team left him susceptible to all kinds of injury. This wouldn’t be his first soccer-related shiner. It would be his first off the field, but whatever. At least none of the public was involved, no property destroyed, and no charges filed.

  As for the contention between the team members—that would dissipate, as it always did. In fact, Cam would be surprised if anyone even remembered it the next time they got together. Sure, Jake had been frustrated. He blamed being passed over as rookie of the year on the fact that they hadn’t made it to the MLS Cup Finals, but if he couldn’t see past his own ego, he wasn’t going to be liked by many. None of the rest of the club blamed the keeper.

  So when it came to potential video from the misplaced punch the night before, Cam hadn’t been overly concerned. He hadn’t done anything wrong, he hadn’t filed charges, and he couldn’t fathom it would even be interesting to anyone. Boy, had he been wrong. Given the right angle—or wrong one, in this case—the poorly shot video went viral overnight.

  Camden fought the urge to blame Jake, but it wouldn’t do any good now. If past experience was any indication, the video would sink into the quicksand of gossip and get eclipsed by the next celebrity mess-up, or possibly some real, honest-to-goodness news. They just needed to wait it out.

  A calendar alert pinged his phone, and he checked it out. Mandatory team meeting set in less than an hour. Strange. They were officially on winter break. This kind of thing never happened. More annoyed than worried, Camden accepted the invite. At least it would break his obsessive loop over the video. He showered, grabbed some mobile but healthy carbs, and made his way in to work.

  Assuming it would be cold—it was the last day of November, after all—Camden grabbed his practice jacket from the night before and locked the front door behind him. Tugging it on as he stepped down from his front porch, he felt the sun warm his shoulders. This was the life. He stripped it back off again, rolled it into a ball, and chucked it at the closed door. There was no way that was going with him in his truck in weather like this. If North Texas was going to give him spring-like temperatures, he was going to appreciate every single tick above freezing. No doubt Cobble Creek had several inches of snow weighing down the frozen ground at the moment.

  Across the street, his sixty-plus-year-old neighbor ferried red and green plastic tubs from his garage to the yard and finished with a Frosty-shaped statue. Decorating for Christmas in his short sleeves. Some
thing was inherently off with that picture. It was just wrong. Christmas lights meant parkas and gloves. Without snow and real icicles to reflect off of, the lights wouldn’t have the same effect. Which was why he was headed home to Wyoming at the crack of dawn the next day, and he couldn’t be more excited. Weather aside, he was looking for some time away from the big city in the comfort of friends and family.

  2

  “This is Talia’s Truth Cam exposing the truth in Bluebonnet, Texas. For all the latest updates, click below to subscribe to my channel.” The tagline rolled off her tongue easily with her Texas accent.

  After working network news in Seattle, Talia Thomas would never again take the ability to use her accent for granted. Suppressing it had never felt normal, and it had left her feeling like an imposter. It was nice to have the freedom to be herself.

  She paused a beat before moving from in front of the camera to behind it to stop the recording. With some edits, the segment could be ready for her to upload before bed tonight.

  She looked around at the familiar town square chock-full of her childhood memories. It wasn’t often that she reported from the same town where she’d ridden bikes with friends and marched with her high school band in the homecoming parade. The square around city hall with its clock tower and ancient live oak trees was still the heart of Bluebonnet, even though the suburbs of Dallas had long since encroached upon town lines. To outsiders, one city blurred into another, but community ties remained strong.