I’ve screwed it all up.
But then, out of the silence come triumphant cheers.
When I finally brave a peek, one of the Team Evergreen elves is walking dejectedly to the sideline. I don’t have time to relish my success because the announcer shouts, “Let the Snowball Fight season commence!”
Another whistle sounds, and the game breaks out in earnest.
I channel all my frustrations from the past into this game.
This is for Principal Masterson making me take down my wedding photo,I think before hurling a snowball over the line at a speedy elf who is taunting my teammates.
This is for expecting me to play stay-at-home spouse,I think before targeting, and missing, Patrick.
This is for worrying about how others judge the way you dress,I think of my own annoying inhibitions. It works in getting another elf out.
The more fuel I add to my internal fire—miscommunications and failures abound—the better I play.
It doesn’t matter if the throws don’t hit on the other side because the act of throwing the snowballs relieves me of some of the burden of these silly grievances, and without that burden, I become a light-on-my-feet snowball fighting machine.
The best man is definitely going to win,I try telepathically sending to Patrick.Because the best man isme.
30THERE’S NO CRYING IN SNOWBALLPATRICK
Quinn and Team Poinsettia are clobbering us. They pick off my teammates one by one without breaking a sweat.
Who is this guy?I think of Quinn. I narrowly dodge a lumpy snowball hurled at my torso. I would be more impressed if I weren’t so winded and afraid of losing. Quinn’s got a speed and grace I don’t think I’ve ever seen from him.
Smartly, only half his team is playing offense. They’re running up to the line and attacking. The other half is building snow mounds. They use them as places to hide and catch their breath. I had not considered this strategy. I wonder if Quinn is the one who came up with it. He is brilliant. I just didn’t know that brilliance extended to sports.
I run for our snowball supply. My team’s morale is low. Half of them are already out. They stand around kicking snow on the sidelines. They’re barely even cheering. They’ve forecasted our loss.
I summon my second wind by packing a tight snowball and javelin-tossing it across the center line. It strikes an elf. She lands on her butt and slides several inches back. Score!
The game goes on like that for thirty more minutes. The crowd’s enthusiasm never wanes for even a second. Quinn and I remain in contention as our teammates meet their fates.
Even after so long together, I’m unable to anticipate Quinn’s moves on the field. When I go left, he goes right. It frustratesme. I know he’s not trying to embarrass me. But he kind of is. I’m the new Santa around here. The big man. A loss could be a blemish on my reputation. Hargraves don’t stand for things like that.
In a Hail Mary move, I charge forward despite knowing I’m a large, moving target. I have to do this. Now or never. I take aim at Quinn’s final teammate. I nail him right in the shoulder as he attempts to swerve.
The large clock over our heads switches from the upticking timer to a ten-second countdown that zeroes out before either Quinn or I can get a good throw in at the other.
“Showdown!” the announcer shouts. The stands go wild as I try to muster a third wind.
Quinn and I retreat to our sides. Two of the referees run out to the middle and place two perfectly round snowballs within reaching-distance. And then, using brushes, they dust away the centerline.
There are no more sides. The whole field is fair game.
There’s the faintest hint of a smile on Quinn’s lips. He licks them like he’s tasting victory.
I shake my head. He has no idea I’ve got him right where I want him.
Only, my cockiness might end up being my downfall. Because when the whistle sounds, I’m slow to react. Quinn has his snowball already. And now I’m rushing to find cover.
I don’t know how it happens. All I know is that I make a mad rush for my last and only weapon and end up splattered in ice, snow, and the bitter nip of shame.
A pair of peppermint martinis are delivered to our VIP suite after the dust has settled. The funneled, chilled glasses have chocolate coating around the rims, which are sprinkled with crushed candy cane bits. Hobart sets our tray down and dips out.
Quinn and I clink our glasses together. “Quite the game,” Quinn says. “I hadn’t imagined such a jolly people being so aggressive out on the field.”
