“You have to admit the Buffs had your number yesterday,” Dash said. “But it wasn’t lack of try for you guys. They were just the better team.”
I did my best not to bend my fork in my fist as I stuffed my face with pie.
“If you’d played ’em at your place last week, it might have been the same story.” At my jacked brow, he added, “Or you could have blown their O-line to smithereens and kicked their ass.” That last part was for Ryan as Dash sent a shit-eating grin his way.
Our younger brother discreetly flipped him the bird.
Or maybe not so discreetly.
“Ryan!” Mom admonished. “Not at the table. On Christmas Eve, no less.”
The corner of my mouth ticked up as Ryan sank lower in his chair. My brothers and I may all be in our twenties, but Mom was still Mom. She could make any of us feel six whenever she thought we needed it.
“They’d watched more than a minute of film on your star tight end. Bet O’Reilly spent an hour in the ice bath after the game.” Ryan stood and helped himself to another slice of pie with a generous dollop of whipped cream.
“It wasn’t O’Reilly they keyed on. It was Johnson. If we could have uncorked our running game at any time in the first half, we would have had a whole different outcome.” I scraped every last taste of spicy pumpkin goodness from my plate and stuck my fork in my mouth.
Watching me, Mom said in an exasperated tone, “I made three pies, Wyatt. You’re welcome to another slice.”
“This is the first Mom pie I’ve had in a year. I was holding back from licking my plate before my next slice.”
She shook her head, but I caught her smile.
“I was proud of you, Wyatt,” Dad said. “I didn’t see you take a single play off the whole game.” He exchanged a look with Mom. “Next year, we’re going to see every game from the stands, aren’t we?”
“We are.” Her face took on a rosy glow as she leaned in to whisper conspiratorially, “We already have our hotel reservations for the national championship.” She wiped her mouth on her napkin. “We changed the dates after the game last night.” Reaching across the table, she covered my hand with hers. “I was looking forward to seeing you play in that game this year, but you’ll get another chance.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence, Mom, but you know how hard it is to even make it to the semifinals, yeah?”
Waving a dismissive hand, she said, “The Wildcats have what it takes,” as though Taylor Baxter proclaiming it made it so.
God, I loved my mom.
“What about my games? Do you have any plans to watch me play next year?” Ryan whined.
“We’ll be in Chattanooga on the Wildcats’ bye week,” Dad said.
“We’re recording all the games for both of you, so we won’t miss a thing.” Mom gave Ryan’s cheek a pinch, which cracked Dad, Dash, and me up. “Dash will have us all set up, won’t you, sweetie?”
My older brother saluted her. “Yes, ma’am.”
“You see? We have everything covered.” With a special smile for Dad, she ended the discussion by swirling her last bite of pie through the remainding whipped cream on her plate and savoring it with a grin.
My brothers and I cleaned up dinner then joined our parents in the living room for our usual Christmas Eve ritual of watchingA Christmas Storywhile we opened presents. After Ryan and I pranked each other by giving each other gear from our respective schools—a Baxter jersey with my number on it for Ryan, and a “Ryan Baxter” jersey with his number on it for me—we settled in for the serious stuff. Socks and boxers. I don’t know where she shopped, but Mom always found the funniest underwear for us, proving how well she knew us, and we delighted in opening those gifts and comparing them.
My three pairs of boxers had paint palettes and brushes, drafting pens, and M&M’s designs on them. Dash’s had game controllers, computer monitors, and the goofy Martian from the old Bugs Bunny cartoons. Ryan’s had footballs, pi signs, and pumpkins. When he opened that particular package, we all cracked up. As the only one of her sons who shared her auburn hair, Mom had called Ryan “my little pumpkin” all his life. Dash and I, of course, never teased him about it—except on a regular basis.
“Great pumpkins.” Dash smirked.
“You are the greatest of pumpkins,” I added with a sage tone.
A smug expression on his baby face, Ryan held the boxers over his crotch where he sat cross-legged on the floor in front of the tree. “You two are jealous because I’ve always been Mom’s favorite.”
“Boys,” Mom warned.
We all grinned at each other and opened our other favorite presents. The first pair of socks Ryan unwrapped read: “Ready to party (I already took my nap).”
“Seriously, Mom?”
