The acrobatic ways these elves could dodge throws and jump over barricades were both impressive and mind-boggling. I make a noncommittal grunt in agreement.
I keep my eyes on the field. I don’t mean to be short with Quinn. But my fuse for failure is burnt out after getting fired and nearly chewed out by my family over Christmas dinner.
Quinn must sense this. “Please don’t tell me you’re mad that my team won.”
“I’m not mad,” I say. I hate that the heat blossoming on my neck is probably leaching onto my cheeks and betraying my words.
“Angry? Frustrated? Annoyed? All three? Come on, I do this all the time with my students. I’m good at helping them identify which emotion they’re experiencing,” he says.
“I’m not a second grader,” I snap. Even though I know that’s not what he meant. I’m sore and tense all over.
“I know you’re not, so don’t act like one.” Quinn takes a big swill of his martini.
He’s right. I’m being a baby. A big, immature baby. “I’m sorry.” My shame magnifies. Good thing what happens in the North Pole stays in the North Pole. My dad and my brother would love to rag on me about this.
“Don’t be sorry. Just tell me what’s going on,” Quinn says. “We live in the Arctic, I’m not letting youiceme out anymore.”
I can’t resist a corny joke. “You know my family, Quinn. You know losers are basically not allowed a seat at the table.”
Quinn sets his martini down to deliver this. “One loss does not make you a loser.”
“Two losses.”
“What?”
“I lost my job, remember?” I hang my head.
Quinn lets out an understanding noise. “Losing something that isn’t serving you is a win.”
My chest contracts with a new kind of panic. He isn’t talking about us, is he? Since arriving, we’ve been much more connected. “Sometimes,” I say. So he doesn’t think that’s a hard-and-fast rule.
“Patrick, you are a talented architect. When we leave here, you will be able to start over,” Quinn says with confidence building behind his words. “You have a great portfolio, Jason will give you a glowing reference, and you’re going to crush Kacey’s project.”
“Shit,” I mutter. “I really need to figure out how I’m going to finish that while I’m here.”
“You really do, but let’s not bother with that right now.” Quinn reaches for my hand. “Right now, let’s just sit back, enjoy the second game, and get more of these martinis because they’re delicious.” He tips his glass upside down to show that he’s already finished. I haven’t even started.
I finally take a sip. “Wow, they really are delicious.” I go to down more of it.
“Okay, slow your roll, Santa. Losing would be the least of your worries if you get blackout drunk,” Quinn says with a light laugh. “Besides, I want you to remember how I kicked your ass.”
I roll my eyes, despite enjoying this interesting cocksure side of him. “By the way, where the hell did all of that come from?”
Quinn’s face flames the color of the Team Poinsettia puffer coats. “What do you mean?” he asks in a way that suggests he knows exactly what I mean. He sighs heavily before launching into it. “Remember when I told you my dad coached a Little League baseball team when I was a kid?”
I nod. Even though I’m uncertain where he’s going with this. “Yeah, you told me he was pretty obsessive about it and that you never wanted any part of it.”
“That wasn’t entirely the truth,” Quinn says. “The first year he coached he had signed up because he wanted me to play. He had been a star high school athlete, and he had aspirations for me.”
A flash of the Christmas card we got from Mr. Muller and his second wife, Sharon, plus their kids appears in my mind. Both of his boys are wearing baseball jerseys and holding gloves. I even remember there being something in his handwritten note, included in the envelope, about his oldest son getting a starting position on his travel team. I didn’t pay much attention at the time. He’s not a part of our lives, but clearly, he’s still looming over Quinn.
“And you couldn’t live up to those aspirations?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “No, I was actually amazing.” He snorts reproachfully into his empty cocktail glass.
I chuckle at this. “You’re kidding.”
“I wish I was.” He sets his glass down with a clink. “Even at eleven, I had clearly inherited my dad’s talent. It was a low-stakes, recreational league but we were crushing the competition every weekend, and I was the star player.”
