Mr. Wiggles Takes a Vacation:
an Around and Around We Go bonus scene

SPOILERS ABOUND!

This scene is best enjoyed after reading Around and Around We Go.

Word count: 2800 words

Mr. Wiggles Takes a Vacation: an Around and Around We Go bonus scene

This scene takes place between the final chapter and the epilogue of Around and Around We Go.

***

“What are you doing?”

Sandro jerked around with a startled sound and a guilty expression that was comical enough for Bennett to swallow a laugh.

“Nothing!” Sandro squeaked.

“Uh-huh.” Leaning against the doorjamb to CC’s darkened bedroom, Bennett crossed his arms over his chest and nodded at the tiny peek of pink hidden behind Sandro’s back. “Whatcha got there?”

“Nothing,” Sandro repeated, his shifty gaze landing everywhere but on Bennett.

“Nothing, huh?” Bennett let his skepticism color his voice. “Because nothing looks an awful lot like Mr. Wiggles.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

It was nearing midnight, and although the Fourth of July party was starting to wind down, there were enough people still in attendance for laughter to reach them from both downstairs and outside as Bennett entered the room and angled himself so he could see around his boyfriend.

Who deftly two-stepped away, conveniently keeping his back to the room.

“Sandy.”

“What? I haven’t done anything.”

Sandro pivoted sideways again, his new position putting his back to the bedroom door. Bennett was about to warn him about the shadow in the hall when Eli said, “What are you doing with Mr. Wiggles?”

“Jesus!” Sandro whirled around, clutching the pink bear to his chest. “Where’d you come from?”

“I was using the upstairs bathroom. Someone’s kid is throwing up in the downstairs one.”

Sandro grimaced. “That’s good to know for the next time I need to take a whiz.”

“What are you doing with Mr. Wiggles?” Eli asked again.

“Nothing. I found him. Finders keepers.”

“And by found him,” Bennett said mildly, “do you mean you searched every nook and cranny for where he might be hidden?”

Sandro gasped dramatically. “I would never. Also, he wasn’t hard to find. He was just there on the dresser.”

“Sandy. Put him back. You can try to win him at the next Hughes Thanksgiving.”

“Is there going to be a Hughes Thanksgiving this year?” Eli asked. “It’s for the single players, but Hughes is no longer single.”

“All the more reason for me to take Mr. Wiggles home now,” Sandro said.

“I can keep an eye out if you want to sneak out the front door while no one’s looking,” Eli offered.

Bennett narrowed his gaze on him.

So did Sandro. “What’s the catch? You’re the one who sold him out from under me.”

“He wasn’t yours to sell out from under in the first place,” Bennett reminded him.

“No catch,” Eli said, ignoring Bennett. “I do feel bad about that. This way I can make it up to you.”

“What’d you do with that hundred dollars, anyway?” Bennett asked.

Eli shrugged. “Paid a bill.”

“Practical,” Sandro said kindly. Then he ruined it by adding, “Boring. But practical.”

Eli sent a baleful look Bennett’s way. “And you have to live with him.”

That startled a laugh out of Bennett.

He didn’t live with Sandro. At least not officially. Not yet. Filming on the series had completed a mere two and a half weeks ago, a week after the Trailblazers had won their third Cup in as many years. Bennett had spent the following week buried deep in post-production in Los Angeles with David and his crew, but he’d zipped back to Burlington for the long Fourth of July weekend. Sandro had spent the past couple of weeks dealing with post-Stanley Cup-win team-related activities, and next week he’d be volunteering for his organization’s hockey camp while Bennett returned to LA.

But after that, Bennett was joining Sandro in Tobermory for a week with his family.

The same family that had welcomed Bennett into their home the first time they’d been in a relationship.

The same family that had no doubt cursed his name seven ways to hell after Bennett had dumped Sandro.

He wasn’t sure what kind of reception to expect when he showed up this time, but he was trying not to stress about it.

“Come on,” Eli said, peering over the banister to the first floor. “Most everyone was outside when I came up to use the bathroom, and everyone else was in the kitchen. It’s now or never. You know,” he continued as Sandro stealthily tiptoed down the stairs as though he were the star in a spy flick, “this kind of reminds me of the time I helped my friend Harry sneak onto my neighbor’s pasture so he could take photos for a class project. Of course, it wasn’t until we were there that Harry admitted he was actually there to go cow tipping—”

“You went cow tipping?” Bennett interrupted to ask as he followed behind Sandro and Eli.

“No. Obviously not.” At the bottom of the stairs, Eli hung on to the railing and leaned his entire body sideways to peer down the hallway into the kitchen. “Cow tipping is an urban legend. Cows sleep lying down, so it’s not like you can approach a sleeping cow and knock it over. Which means if they’re standing, they’re awake and alert, and trying to tip one over will only make it mad and result in serious bodily harm to the human. Plus, cows weigh, like, twelve hundred pounds—how would you knock one over anyway? Also, cow tipping is considered animal cruelty, and why would you be mean to a cow?”

“So your friend didn’t go cow tipping?” Sandro asked, peering past Eli.

“Fuck no. I dragged him out of there. Okay, the coast is clear.”

They hot-footed it to the front door, and Eli opened it halfway, gesturing them through with a whispered, “Go-go-go.”

“You’re the best, Eli,” Sandro said on his way past him, but when they were halfway down the porch steps, he turned abruptly. “Wait, do you need a ride home?”

“No, I’ve got my car and I haven’t been drinking.” Eli rolled his eyes. “I learned my lesson last time.”

“You mean when you knocked on my door after midnight, crying about Nolan?” Sandro teased.

Instant scowl from Eli. “I wasn’t crying. There were no tears. I was just . . . feeling sorry for myself. Like, I could be an astrophysicist. But it’s fine. Whatever. Who needs Nolan Madolora anyway? He can date whoever he wants. Including pretty astrophysics professors.”

Bennett cocked his head. “Did you google her?”

A beat. Then, “No.”

Sandro’s smile turned soft, and he hopped back up the porch and poked Eli in the cheek. “I love you, Eli.”

“Um . . .” Eli gazed uncertainly from Sandro to Bennett and back.

“He loves you like a brother,” Bennett clarified, and the way Eli’s face lit up tugged at Bennett’s heartstrings.

“Don’t tell him all my secrets,” Sandro said with a grin. He tugged Bennett’s wrist and ushered him away. “Let’s go before CC realizes I stole Mr. Wiggles back. Bye, Eli. Get home safe.”

“You too,” Eli called before he shut the door.

“Is it technically stealing him back,” Bennett asked, climbing into the passenger seat of Sandro’s SUV, “if you stole him from CC in the first place?”

“Semantics, B. That obstacle course was rigged.”

“Sure it was.”

“Hold this.” Sandro thrust Mr. Wiggles at him, then started the car. “While I get us home.”

Bennett stared at the pink, one-eyed stuffed bear with a half-chewed ear and couldn’t help but wonder how many hands it had passed through and when it had last seen a trip through the washing machine.

He lifted the bear and waggled it at Sandro as Sandro pulled away from the curb. “You don’t think he’s creepy?”

Sandro gasped. “Now that’s just rude.”

Bennett laughed until he couldn’t breathe.

***

CC: Zanetti, what the fuck???

CC: I’m going to kill you!

CC: Where’s my bear, asshole?

Sandro: Don’t worry, he’s being treated like a king. He’s currently enjoying an Ontario summer by the lake.

Sandro had attached a photo of Mr. Wiggles sitting on a beach towel at Dunks Bay in Tobermory, the turquoise waters of the Georgian Bay arm of Lake Huron as a backdrop, glinting like crystals under a summer sun.

CC: He does look happy.

Even through text, the admission had sounded grudgingly reluctant.

CC: Make sure he doesn’t get a sunburn.

Sandro had laughed his ass off. Hell, he was still laughing three days later as he sat on his parents’ front porch with Bennett.

Only a few minutes’ walk from downtown, the blue-sided house overlooked Tobermory Harbour. Currently, the sunset over the water was dazzling them in shades of red and orange that looked like a firebomb. Sandro placed Mr. Wiggles on the railing, snapped a photo, and sent it to CC as proof of life.

He’d also sent CC photos of Mr. Wiggles posing with the long-suffering yet willing-to-participate border services officer who’d let him into Canada four days ago; in Arrivals at Pearson International Airport several hours later while he’d waited for Bennett’s flight to land; with Bennett, who’d been as long-suffering yet willing to participate as the border services officer as he’d leaned against Sandro’s car in short-term parking, Mr. Wiggles perched on the trunk beside him; from a kayak while paddling with Bennett a couple of days ago—CC had sent him an aggressive WHAT IF HE’D FALLEN IN THE LAKE, ASSHOLE text that still made Sandro cringe, because . . . true—and yesterday, a picture of Mr. Wiggles at each of the four lighthouses they’d visited on the Bruce Peninsula. Those on the mainland, anyway; they hadn’t ventured onto the islands to see those lighthouses yet.

Tomorrow, they were taking a glass-bottomed boat tour with Sandro’s parents out to Flowerpot Island, which would pass over some of the shipwrecks of Fathom Five National Marine Park. Mr. Wiggles would tag along for that too.

“You’re not going to make it to your next hockey season before CC murders you in your sleep,” Bennett said lazily from Sandro’s right. He sat with his long legs stretched out, the skin below his shorts a tad darker than it’d been just a few days ago, and his long hair tied into a bun. Flyaways brushed his jawline in the gentle breeze, and he tugged the offending piece away from his face, tucking it behind his ear.

The move was absentmindedly sexy in a way Sandro couldn’t explain.

Sandro picked up his beer from the little table between them and toasted the absent CC. “He can try.”

“You need a guard dog.”

“I’m not afraid of CC. He’s the kind of guy who will relocate a spider outdoors if he finds one in his house instead of outright killing it like most people would.”

Bennett nodded, lips pursed. “Fair. You should probably be afraid of Michael Hughes, though.”

Sandro thought of the single text from Hughes—the eyes emoji, its bring-Mr.-Wiggles-back-or-else message unmistakable—and had to agree. “Good point. It’ll be fine, though. No harm shall befall Mr. Wiggles.”

“Hey, you two.” Sandro’s mom stuck her head out the door behind them. “Your brother’s almost done with the bonfire out back, and then we’ll be ready for s’mores.”

“Thanks, Mom.”

“Thanks, Mrs. Zanetti.”

She narrowed her gaze on Bennett, made an imperious humph sound, and went back inside. But she winked at Sandro when Bennett wasn’t looking before the door closed on her amused face.

Bennett winced. “Do you think your mom’s ever going to forgive me?”

“Sure,” Sandro said. “In four years, when you’ve proved you’re not going anywhere this time.”

“Great.”

Grinning, Sandro sipped his beer. It wouldn’t take four years—she’d be treating Bennett like family again before their week here was up—but her reception had certainly been . . . frosty when Sandro had shown up with Bennett a few days ago. She’d been kind of distant toward Bennett, even though Sandro had admitted he’d forgiven Bennett for the way things had ended.

But Mom was very mess with my baby at your own peril despite Bennett reverting to calling her Mrs. Zanetti instead of by her given name as he’d once done, and despite Bennett tripping over himself to help around the house in any way he could when he and Sandro weren’t out enjoying summer on the Bruce Peninsula, so . . . yeah.

Honestly, Sandro had a feeling his mom was getting a kick out of making Bennett work for it. He couldn’t blame her. Sandro had made Bennett work for it too.

Oh wait, no, he hadn’t. He’d tumbled right back into bed and into love with Bennett with barely a protest and only some mild second-guessing.

But what else was he supposed to do? If he’d let the pain of heartbreak rule his life, he certainly wouldn’t be sitting here watching boats inch into the harbor under a setting sun with Bennett at his side.

Speaking of Bennett, his man was looking at him with a little furrow between his brows.

Sandro smiled at him—he couldn’t help it. “What’s up?”

Bennett rolled his lips inward as though debating with himself, then said, “My lease is up in September.”

“The lease . . .” As the reality of the statement hit, Sandro’s heartbeat quickened. “On your apartment in LA?”

Bennett nodded. “I was thinking of giving it up.”

“Okay,” Sandro said slowly, excitement beginning to burn behind his breastbone. If he was reading Bennett right . . . “And you’d move to . . .”

“I was thinking I’d move in with you. You did buy me a new mattress.”

“I bought me a new mattress,” Sandro rebutted. “The fact that you like it too is just a nice bonus.”

Bennett chuckled, but he sobered quickly. “Is it too fast?”

“No. But is it . . . efficient?”

Brow furrowing again, Bennett cocked his head in clear confusion.

“I just mean that most of your work is in LA,” Sandro clarified. “It makes more sense to keep the apartment. That way you have a place to land when you need to be in California. And when you’re not there, you could rent it out for short-term rentals.”

But Bennett was already shaking his head. “That’s too much effort for an apartment that’s not worth what I’m paying for it. Besides, David’s got a guest cottage on his property that he said I can use whenever I need to. You’re welcome too, if you ever want to visit while I’m there. Although David will probably try to poach you for his TV show again.”

“Do you think I’d make a good actor?”

“The commercials you’ve done for your sponsors haven’t sucked.”

“Haven’t sucked,” Sandro repeated slowly. “I’m going to choose to take that as a compliment.”

“If I’m moving in, though,” Bennett said, “Mr. Wiggles has to go.”

Sandro clutched at pretend pearls. “Home-wrecker.”

“He’s so goddamn creepy, Ro.” Bennett nodded at Mr. Wiggles on the railing. “He’s missing half an ear and a whole goddamn eye. He looks like Satan’s favored childhood teddy.”

Sandro cracked up.

“Uncle Ro.” Katie, his four-year-old niece, trotted up the porch steps on his left. “We’re ready for s’mores.”

“Thanks, kiddo,” Sandro said, still chuckling.

“Ew, what’s that?” Katie made a face at Mr. Wiggles.

“My trophy.”

“Your stolen trophy,” Bennett corrected.

“It looks like it needs a bath.” With that pronouncement, Katie grabbed Mr. Wiggles by the arm and descended the stairs.

“Katie!” Sandro scrambled after her, visions of Mr. Wiggles sailing into the bonfire filling his head. “What—what are you doing? Katie. Get back here.”

But she was already at the back of the house, where she dunked Mr. Wiggles, headfirst, into a pitcher of lemonade that sat on a table along with s’mores fixings.

“What the—Katie.” Marcus, Sandro’s eldest brother, who’d driven up from Toronto with his wife and their four kids for the week, gaped at his daughter. “What are you doing?”

“It needed a bath. Lemonade smells good, so now that—” Katie grimaced at Mr. Wiggles. “—will smell good too.”

“Oh god,” Sandro said weakly. “I’m so dead.”

At least it was only lemonade, the just-add-water canned stuff, not the made-by-hand, freshly squeezed stuff. Hell, Katie wasn’t wrong—Mr. Wiggles could use a swim through the washing machine, especially now that he’d be smelly and sticky with lemonade.

“CC can never know about this,” he ordered Bennett.

But Bennett was laughing so hard he had to hold himself up against Sandro’s mom, who was laughing equally hard and using Bennett to hold herself up.

And the sight of them laughing together was worth any wrath Sandro might face from his teammate.

Copyright 2026 Amy Aislin. All rights reserved. This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

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