A Very Hayes Christmas
a Shots on Goal Bonus Short
Myla — Christmas
I stared at the gift in my lap like it was personally offended by my existence.
The car hummed beneath us as Gavin drove, city lights blurring past the windows, and all I could think about was how small the box felt in my hands. Too small. Too quiet. Too easy.
Gavin’s mother was not a small box woman.
She was the kind of woman who hosted charity luncheons in rooms with ceilings so high your voice changed when you spoke. The kind who noticed the weight of silverware and the quality of wrapping paper. The kind who had once looked at me—politely, pleasantly, devastatingly—and asked where I’d bought my dress as if it were a social experiment.
I turned the box over again.
“This is a mistake,” I groaned.
Gavin glanced at me, one hand steady on the wheel. “You’ve said that six times.”
“Because it keeps being true.”
He smiled, soft and familiar and completely unbothered. “It’s a bracelet. A beautiful, expensive bracelet. How can that be wrong?”
“It’s a statement,” I corrected. “And if she hates it, she’s going to smile and say thank you and then I’ll never see it again.”
“That happens with half the gifts she gets,” he assured easily. “Sometimes even from me.”
“That’s different. You’re her son. I’m—” My voice caught, and I hated that it still did that. “I’m the girl who married into the family.”
Gavin reached over and laced his fingers with mine, squeezing once. “You’re my wife. You are family.”
I nodded, even though the words still felt new in my mouth.
Wife.
Like a dress I hadn’t fully broken in yet.
The Hayes mansion rose up ahead of us, all stone and symmetry and quiet money. It was beautiful in the way museums were beautiful—impressive, pristine, and not meant to be touched.
Inside, everything smelled faintly of pine, lemon polish, and expectation.
The Hayes dining room looked like it had been professionally staged for a magazine shoot titled How to Have a Perfect Christmas and Feel Nothing While Doing It. The table stretched longer than some apartments I’d lived in, set with pristine white china, real silver, and folded napkins that looked too complicated to touch without instruction.
Soft classical music drifted from somewhere unseen.
I sat beside Gavin, my posture unnaturally straight, hands folded in my lap like I was auditioning for the role of Respectable Daughter-in-Law. I could feel myself doing it—matching the room, shrinking my gestures, choosing my words carefully.
Gavin, meanwhile, had slipped into Hayes Mode without even noticing.
His shoulders were back. His voice had smoothed out. His smile was polite but restrained. This was the version of him the world saw before I knew him—the polished one.
Across the table, Gideon Hayes cleared his throat.
“So,” he grumbled, slicing into his chicken with military precision, “how’s married life treating you, son?”
Gavin didn’t miss a beat. “Still married.”
Griffin snorted into his wine glass.
Mrs. Hayes shot them both a look. “Griffin.”
“What?” he snickered innocently. “It’s a strong start. Merry Christmas to us.”
I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing.
Lunch unfolded exactly the way I’d imagined.
Conversations hovered safely above anything real—Griffin’s upcoming fight, Gideon’s commentary on league management decisions, Mrs. Hayes discussing a charity auction I was fairly certain required at least three forks per course.
I nodded when appropriate. Smiled when expected.
The maid—quiet, efficient, and completely unbothered by any of it—glided around the table refilling glasses. She caught my eye once and gave me a tiny, conspiratorial smile.
Solidarity.
At one point, Gideon glanced at me over his wine.
“And how are you finding life in Manhattan, Myla?” he asked.
Here it was.
The question that always felt like a test.
“I love it,” I replied honestly, easily. “It’s loud and busy and a little overwhelming. But it feels like home.”
Gavin’s knee pressed gently against mine under the table.
Gideon nodded once, like he’d filed the answer away for later judgment. “Well then. Merry Christmas.”
When lunch finally wound down and the plates were cleared, Mrs. Hayes folded her napkin with careful precision.
“Shall we do gifts?” she asked.
My pulse kicked up instantly.
I reached for the small velvet box, suddenly aware of how quiet the room felt. I handed it to her, my voice carefully neutral. “I hope you like it.”
She opened it slowly.
The bracelet caught the light—simple gold, understated, with a small, engraved charm.
Family.
The room stilled.
I braced myself, every instinct screaming wait for the polite smile.
Instead, she inhaled softly.
“It’s beautiful,” she cooed, and her voice changed. Just a fraction.
Warmer. Real.
She looked at me—not assessing, not distant, but present.
“Thank you, Myla.” Her hand closed over mine. “I’m glad Gavin married someone who understands what matters. Merry Christmas.”
Something loosened in my chest.
Griffin lifted his glass. “Well. That went better than Marsheila’s first Christmas.”
Gideon shot him a glare. “Griffin.”
“What?” he said. “I’m just saying—this is progress. Christmas miracles happen.”
The maid returned, collecting wrapping paper, and leaned toward me just enough to whisper, “You did very well, dear. Merry Christmas.”
I smiled at her, feeling lighter than I had all afternoon.
As we stood to leave, Gavin leaned in close, his voice low.
“Told you,” he murmured. “You survived.”
I exhaled. “Barely.”
He kissed my temple anyway.
And as we walked out of the Hayes family home—past the polished floors, the perfectly trimmed wreaths, the quiet elegance designed to impress—I realized something unexpected.
I hadn’t felt like an outsider.
Not entirely.
Not the whole time.
By the time we walked through the lobby door, the tightness in my chest had eased. I felt wrung out, yes—but lighter too, like I’d been holding my breath around them since the wedding and had finally let it go.
My heels clicked on the tile flooring as I complained to Gavin, “Why do rich people eat like they’re afraid of seasoning?”
Gavin laughed, loosening his tie as the elevator doors crept open. “That was restraint, Myla. That was heritage.”
“That was dry chicken and emotional repression,” I said.
Gavin’s hand was loose around mine as he led us into the elevator and pressed the top button. He bent to kiss me, like he’d been waiting all afternoon for me to say something exactly like that.
“Ready for the fun part of Christmas?” he asked.
I bounced on my heels, squeezing his hand. “It’s the reason for the season!” I sang out. “I am so excited for tonight.”
Our apartment was already humming with noise and chaos.
The Otters filled every corner. Laughter bounced off the walls. Someone had turned Christmas music up too loud. There were boots by the door and jackets slung over chairs and an entire argument happening about whether eggnog was an abomination or a blessing.
“Merry Christmas!” someone yelled as we stepped inside.
The entire place smelled like wine and pine needles and home.
I watched Gavin in the middle of it all—laughing, relaxed, real—and felt something settle in my bones.
This was the life we’d built.
Messy. Loud. Ours.
And then I spotted Brayden.
He stood near the kitchen island, shoulders relaxed in a way I didn’t see nearly often enough, one arm slung easily around Karla’s waist while she laughed at something one of the guys said. She looked beautiful in a simple sweater and jeans, her hair pulled back, her smile warm and unguarded. Not on duty Karla. Just… Karla.
Happy Karla.
My chest tightened in that familiar, complicated way.
Brayden caught my eye across the room, and his grin broke wide and real—the one that still felt like a miracle every time I saw it. He opened his arms without hesitation, and I walked straight into them, pressing my face into his shoulder like I’d done a thousand times before.
“Hey, My,” he murmured, squeezing me tight.
“Hey,” I said back, my voice muffled. “You good?”
He pulled back just enough to look at me. “I am now.”
Karla stepped in easily, wrapping her arms around both of us, and for a moment we stood there in a quiet little bubble amid the chaos. No words needed. Just the three of us breathing the same air.
This--this—was my family.
Not the polished kind. Not the picture-perfect one.
The one that showed up. The one that stayed.
Brayden glanced around the penthouse, taking in the mess, the noise, the skyline glittering beyond the glass. “Mom would’ve loved this,” he said softly.
I swallowed past the lump in my throat. “She really would’ve.”
Karla squeezed his hand, grounding him the way she always did, and then she smiled at me. “You two did good.”
Before I could answer, someone shouted Brayden’s name from the other side of the room, demanding his opinion on the eggnog debate. He groaned dramatically.
“I’m being summoned,” he grumbled. “Pray for me.”
I laughed as he was pulled away, Karla following close behind, already rolling up her sleeves like she was ready to referee.
I leaned back against the counter, taking a moment to soak it in—the friends, the laughter, my brother standing solid and alive and loved, my husband at the center of it all.
For the first time in years, the word family didn’t ache when I thought it.
It felt full.
Music blasted from a speaker someone had brought without asking. Christmas songs turned remix turned absolute nonsense within minutes.
Sean showed up wearing a sweater that featured a reindeer flipping the middle finger.
Griffin arrived with wine I was pretty sure cost more than my rent used to.
“Best Ottermas party we’ve ever had!” someone shouted from the living room, raising a glass.
A chorus of agreement followed.
I stood in the kitchen pouring drinks, laughing so hard my cheeks hurt.
This wasn’t careful. This wasn’t curated.
This was pandemonium, and it was glorious.
At some point, Gavin ended up with an arm slung around my waist while he argued loudly with two defensemen about whether Die Hard was a Christmas movie.
(It was. I backed him aggressively.)
Someone started a drinking game based on how many times a Hallmark movie character said “small town” or “Christmas miracle.” Someone else tried to ice skate across the hardwood floor in socks and nearly took out the coffee table.
I watched it all unfold with something like awe.
This loud, ridiculous joy was something I used to think didn’t last. Something temporary. Something that disappeared when life reminded you who was in charge.
But here it was, alive and unapologetic in our living room.
At one point, I found myself wedged between Gavin and Sean on the couch, laughing so hard I had tears in my eyes as they tried to outdo each other with increasingly terrible impressions of Coach Hayes.
“You have to clench your jaw more,” Sean said, lowering his voice. “Like this—‘Discipline wins games.’”
Gavin straightened immediately, posture stiffening. “No, no, it’s more like—‘If you don’t skate harder, I’ll haunt you from the bench.’”
I wheezed. “Please stop. I’m going to pass out.”
From across the room, someone shouted, “Captain’s wife is dying!”
“I am thriving,” I yelled back. “This is the best night of my life.”
Gavin looked at me then—really looked at me—and something in his expression softened. Like he was taking a snapshot he planned to keep forever.
Later—much later—the party thinned.
Goodbyes were shouted. Promises were made that no one would remember tomorrow. The door finally closed, and the apartment fell into a sudden, ringing quiet.
The kind that only came after laughter had filled every corner.
I looked around.
Wrappings everywhere. Empty glasses on every surface. Garland half-hanging off the bookshelf. The tree listing more dramatically now, like it had survived a war.
I laughed quietly.
“We absolutely destroyed this place.”
Gavin kicked his shoes off and pulled me into his arms anyway. “Best party we’ve ever thrown.”
I nodded, already curling into him on the couch, my head resting against his chest as the fireplace crackled softly.
Then he shifted.
“I saved something for last,” he whispered against my ear.
Gavin handed me the box, and the moment I opened it, my breath left me entirely.
The necklace was perfect. Timeless. The diamond caught the firelight and scattered it like stars.
My eyes burned. “Gavin…”
He fastened it around my neck, his fingers warm against my skin. “I wanted you to have something that reminded you—every day—that you belong. That you’re loved. That this”—he kissed my temple—“is forever.”
I curled into him, pressing my face against his chest as the fire burned low and the apartment sat in quiet, beautiful disarray.
For the first time in my life, I wasn’t bracing for something to break.
I was just… home.
the end.
I stared at the gift in my lap like it was personally offended by my existence.
The car hummed beneath us as Gavin drove, city lights blurring past the windows, and all I could think about was how small the box felt in my hands. Too small. Too quiet. Too easy.
Gavin’s mother was not a small box woman.
She was the kind of woman who hosted charity luncheons in rooms with ceilings so high your voice changed when you spoke. The kind who noticed the weight of silverware and the quality of wrapping paper. The kind who had once looked at me—politely, pleasantly, devastatingly—and asked where I’d bought my dress as if it were a social experiment.
I turned the box over again.
“This is a mistake,” I groaned.
Gavin glanced at me, one hand steady on the wheel. “You’ve said that six times.”
“Because it keeps being true.”
He smiled, soft and familiar and completely unbothered. “It’s a bracelet. A beautiful, expensive bracelet. How can that be wrong?”
“It’s a statement,” I corrected. “And if she hates it, she’s going to smile and say thank you and then I’ll never see it again.”
“That happens with half the gifts she gets,” he assured easily. “Sometimes even from me.”
“That’s different. You’re her son. I’m—” My voice caught, and I hated that it still did that. “I’m the girl who married into the family.”
Gavin reached over and laced his fingers with mine, squeezing once. “You’re my wife. You are family.”
I nodded, even though the words still felt new in my mouth.
Wife.
Like a dress I hadn’t fully broken in yet.
The Hayes mansion rose up ahead of us, all stone and symmetry and quiet money. It was beautiful in the way museums were beautiful—impressive, pristine, and not meant to be touched.
Inside, everything smelled faintly of pine, lemon polish, and expectation.
The Hayes dining room looked like it had been professionally staged for a magazine shoot titled How to Have a Perfect Christmas and Feel Nothing While Doing It. The table stretched longer than some apartments I’d lived in, set with pristine white china, real silver, and folded napkins that looked too complicated to touch without instruction.
Soft classical music drifted from somewhere unseen.
I sat beside Gavin, my posture unnaturally straight, hands folded in my lap like I was auditioning for the role of Respectable Daughter-in-Law. I could feel myself doing it—matching the room, shrinking my gestures, choosing my words carefully.
Gavin, meanwhile, had slipped into Hayes Mode without even noticing.
His shoulders were back. His voice had smoothed out. His smile was polite but restrained. This was the version of him the world saw before I knew him—the polished one.
Across the table, Gideon Hayes cleared his throat.
“So,” he grumbled, slicing into his chicken with military precision, “how’s married life treating you, son?”
Gavin didn’t miss a beat. “Still married.”
Griffin snorted into his wine glass.
Mrs. Hayes shot them both a look. “Griffin.”
“What?” he snickered innocently. “It’s a strong start. Merry Christmas to us.”
I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing.
Lunch unfolded exactly the way I’d imagined.
Conversations hovered safely above anything real—Griffin’s upcoming fight, Gideon’s commentary on league management decisions, Mrs. Hayes discussing a charity auction I was fairly certain required at least three forks per course.
I nodded when appropriate. Smiled when expected.
The maid—quiet, efficient, and completely unbothered by any of it—glided around the table refilling glasses. She caught my eye once and gave me a tiny, conspiratorial smile.
Solidarity.
At one point, Gideon glanced at me over his wine.
“And how are you finding life in Manhattan, Myla?” he asked.
Here it was.
The question that always felt like a test.
“I love it,” I replied honestly, easily. “It’s loud and busy and a little overwhelming. But it feels like home.”
Gavin’s knee pressed gently against mine under the table.
Gideon nodded once, like he’d filed the answer away for later judgment. “Well then. Merry Christmas.”
When lunch finally wound down and the plates were cleared, Mrs. Hayes folded her napkin with careful precision.
“Shall we do gifts?” she asked.
My pulse kicked up instantly.
I reached for the small velvet box, suddenly aware of how quiet the room felt. I handed it to her, my voice carefully neutral. “I hope you like it.”
She opened it slowly.
The bracelet caught the light—simple gold, understated, with a small, engraved charm.
Family.
The room stilled.
I braced myself, every instinct screaming wait for the polite smile.
Instead, she inhaled softly.
“It’s beautiful,” she cooed, and her voice changed. Just a fraction.
Warmer. Real.
She looked at me—not assessing, not distant, but present.
“Thank you, Myla.” Her hand closed over mine. “I’m glad Gavin married someone who understands what matters. Merry Christmas.”
Something loosened in my chest.
Griffin lifted his glass. “Well. That went better than Marsheila’s first Christmas.”
Gideon shot him a glare. “Griffin.”
“What?” he said. “I’m just saying—this is progress. Christmas miracles happen.”
The maid returned, collecting wrapping paper, and leaned toward me just enough to whisper, “You did very well, dear. Merry Christmas.”
I smiled at her, feeling lighter than I had all afternoon.
As we stood to leave, Gavin leaned in close, his voice low.
“Told you,” he murmured. “You survived.”
I exhaled. “Barely.”
He kissed my temple anyway.
And as we walked out of the Hayes family home—past the polished floors, the perfectly trimmed wreaths, the quiet elegance designed to impress—I realized something unexpected.
I hadn’t felt like an outsider.
Not entirely.
Not the whole time.
By the time we walked through the lobby door, the tightness in my chest had eased. I felt wrung out, yes—but lighter too, like I’d been holding my breath around them since the wedding and had finally let it go.
My heels clicked on the tile flooring as I complained to Gavin, “Why do rich people eat like they’re afraid of seasoning?”
Gavin laughed, loosening his tie as the elevator doors crept open. “That was restraint, Myla. That was heritage.”
“That was dry chicken and emotional repression,” I said.
Gavin’s hand was loose around mine as he led us into the elevator and pressed the top button. He bent to kiss me, like he’d been waiting all afternoon for me to say something exactly like that.
“Ready for the fun part of Christmas?” he asked.
I bounced on my heels, squeezing his hand. “It’s the reason for the season!” I sang out. “I am so excited for tonight.”
Our apartment was already humming with noise and chaos.
The Otters filled every corner. Laughter bounced off the walls. Someone had turned Christmas music up too loud. There were boots by the door and jackets slung over chairs and an entire argument happening about whether eggnog was an abomination or a blessing.
“Merry Christmas!” someone yelled as we stepped inside.
The entire place smelled like wine and pine needles and home.
I watched Gavin in the middle of it all—laughing, relaxed, real—and felt something settle in my bones.
This was the life we’d built.
Messy. Loud. Ours.
And then I spotted Brayden.
He stood near the kitchen island, shoulders relaxed in a way I didn’t see nearly often enough, one arm slung easily around Karla’s waist while she laughed at something one of the guys said. She looked beautiful in a simple sweater and jeans, her hair pulled back, her smile warm and unguarded. Not on duty Karla. Just… Karla.
Happy Karla.
My chest tightened in that familiar, complicated way.
Brayden caught my eye across the room, and his grin broke wide and real—the one that still felt like a miracle every time I saw it. He opened his arms without hesitation, and I walked straight into them, pressing my face into his shoulder like I’d done a thousand times before.
“Hey, My,” he murmured, squeezing me tight.
“Hey,” I said back, my voice muffled. “You good?”
He pulled back just enough to look at me. “I am now.”
Karla stepped in easily, wrapping her arms around both of us, and for a moment we stood there in a quiet little bubble amid the chaos. No words needed. Just the three of us breathing the same air.
This--this—was my family.
Not the polished kind. Not the picture-perfect one.
The one that showed up. The one that stayed.
Brayden glanced around the penthouse, taking in the mess, the noise, the skyline glittering beyond the glass. “Mom would’ve loved this,” he said softly.
I swallowed past the lump in my throat. “She really would’ve.”
Karla squeezed his hand, grounding him the way she always did, and then she smiled at me. “You two did good.”
Before I could answer, someone shouted Brayden’s name from the other side of the room, demanding his opinion on the eggnog debate. He groaned dramatically.
“I’m being summoned,” he grumbled. “Pray for me.”
I laughed as he was pulled away, Karla following close behind, already rolling up her sleeves like she was ready to referee.
I leaned back against the counter, taking a moment to soak it in—the friends, the laughter, my brother standing solid and alive and loved, my husband at the center of it all.
For the first time in years, the word family didn’t ache when I thought it.
It felt full.
Music blasted from a speaker someone had brought without asking. Christmas songs turned remix turned absolute nonsense within minutes.
Sean showed up wearing a sweater that featured a reindeer flipping the middle finger.
Griffin arrived with wine I was pretty sure cost more than my rent used to.
“Best Ottermas party we’ve ever had!” someone shouted from the living room, raising a glass.
A chorus of agreement followed.
I stood in the kitchen pouring drinks, laughing so hard my cheeks hurt.
This wasn’t careful. This wasn’t curated.
This was pandemonium, and it was glorious.
At some point, Gavin ended up with an arm slung around my waist while he argued loudly with two defensemen about whether Die Hard was a Christmas movie.
(It was. I backed him aggressively.)
Someone started a drinking game based on how many times a Hallmark movie character said “small town” or “Christmas miracle.” Someone else tried to ice skate across the hardwood floor in socks and nearly took out the coffee table.
I watched it all unfold with something like awe.
This loud, ridiculous joy was something I used to think didn’t last. Something temporary. Something that disappeared when life reminded you who was in charge.
But here it was, alive and unapologetic in our living room.
At one point, I found myself wedged between Gavin and Sean on the couch, laughing so hard I had tears in my eyes as they tried to outdo each other with increasingly terrible impressions of Coach Hayes.
“You have to clench your jaw more,” Sean said, lowering his voice. “Like this—‘Discipline wins games.’”
Gavin straightened immediately, posture stiffening. “No, no, it’s more like—‘If you don’t skate harder, I’ll haunt you from the bench.’”
I wheezed. “Please stop. I’m going to pass out.”
From across the room, someone shouted, “Captain’s wife is dying!”
“I am thriving,” I yelled back. “This is the best night of my life.”
Gavin looked at me then—really looked at me—and something in his expression softened. Like he was taking a snapshot he planned to keep forever.
Later—much later—the party thinned.
Goodbyes were shouted. Promises were made that no one would remember tomorrow. The door finally closed, and the apartment fell into a sudden, ringing quiet.
The kind that only came after laughter had filled every corner.
I looked around.
Wrappings everywhere. Empty glasses on every surface. Garland half-hanging off the bookshelf. The tree listing more dramatically now, like it had survived a war.
I laughed quietly.
“We absolutely destroyed this place.”
Gavin kicked his shoes off and pulled me into his arms anyway. “Best party we’ve ever thrown.”
I nodded, already curling into him on the couch, my head resting against his chest as the fireplace crackled softly.
Then he shifted.
“I saved something for last,” he whispered against my ear.
Gavin handed me the box, and the moment I opened it, my breath left me entirely.
The necklace was perfect. Timeless. The diamond caught the firelight and scattered it like stars.
My eyes burned. “Gavin…”
He fastened it around my neck, his fingers warm against my skin. “I wanted you to have something that reminded you—every day—that you belong. That you’re loved. That this”—he kissed my temple—“is forever.”
I curled into him, pressing my face against his chest as the fire burned low and the apartment sat in quiet, beautiful disarray.
For the first time in my life, I wasn’t bracing for something to break.
I was just… home.
the end.
AUTHOR NOTE:
This new edition of Hat Trick is part of my complete Shots on Goal relaunch—eight fully rewritten, expanded, and newly edited novels releasing together on January 30, 2026. All eight updated editions will be available for preorder as part of this special relaunch event. Thank you so much for being here and celebrating this next chapter with me.
This new edition of Hat Trick is part of my complete Shots on Goal relaunch—eight fully rewritten, expanded, and newly edited novels releasing together on January 30, 2026. All eight updated editions will be available for preorder as part of this special relaunch event. Thank you so much for being here and celebrating this next chapter with me.