it’s Christmas Eve. The bar is always low. Now get in here before my dad looks out the window and sees you lurking.
The walk from the curb to the front door takes approximately forty-five years. Every step is a conscious choice to keep moving toward the house where Jack Anderson lives, where his daughter grew up.
The door opens. Jack is standing in front of me in an apron that says GRILL MASTER, grinning. Behind him, I can see the bright chaos of a full house, and I know somewhere in that warmth is Mackie.
“Almardon! Get in here, kid. You’re just in time, turkey’s almost done.”
He claps his hand on my shoulder the way he always does, but I feel the weight of it land differently tonight.
Rodriguez appears from the living room holdinga beer. “Z! Welcome to the madhouse. Beer’s in the kitchen, wine’s on the counter, and don’t touch the turkey. I’m serious. Don’t even look at it. Jack has a perimeter set up.”
Mackie’s mom finds me in the kitchen while I’m setting the wine and flowers on the counter. She’s petite and blonde, and Mackie clearly got her freckles from her. She takes the flowers like I’ve handed her something precious instead of a ten dollar bouquet from the grocery store. I’m struck by how much Mackie is probably going to look like her in twenty years.
“Zach, this is so sweet. You didn’t have to bring anything.”
“Thank you for having me, Mrs. Anderson.”
“Chloe. Please.” She sets the vase on the windowsill above the sink. “How are you settling in? Jack tells me you’ve been working hard.”
“Trying to. He’s been really generous with his time.” Generous is an understatement. Jack Anderson has given me more one-on-one time than any mentor I’ve ever had, and I’ve repaid him by falling in love with his daughter. The thought makes the wine bottle I’m still holding feel like it weighs forty pounds.
“He sees something in you. He doesn’t do that with everyone.” She says it casually, but she leans against the counter and looks at me directly. “You know, I was about Mackie’s age when I met Jack. He’d already been in the league for two years by then and he was completely out of control.” She laughs softly. “Nothing at all like you, I’m sure.”
I don’t know what to say to that. I stand there feeling pinned, because it sounds a lot like Mackie’s mom just told me she knows exactly what it looks like when a young woman falls for a hockey player, because she was one. She said it while looking right at me, calmly, with the same green eyes her daughter has. I have the sudden, disorienting thought that this is what Mackie will be like as a mom: warm, knowing, and impossible to lie to.
“Thank you,” I say, because it’s all I’ve got.
She touches my arm on her way past. “Enjoy dinner. And eat the turkey, Jack’s been talking about it for three days.”
Then Mackie walks into the kitchen.
She’s in a burgundy dress with a tie at the waist. Her hair is down in soft waves, and her legs are—I look at the ceiling. Don’t look at her legs. Don’t look at her chest. Look at nothing except her face while her father is in the next room holding court in front of half the team.
She meets my eyes for exactly one second. The whole room disappears, and I’m back in my apartment with her under me, her fingers in my hair.
One second. That’s all I allow myself.
“Hey, Zach!” Her voice is bright and friendly, exactly the way she would greet any other player on the team. “Glad you could make it.”
“Thanks for having me.” My voice sounds almost normal for a guy whose blood pressure is in the red zone.
She gives me a quick hug, but her fingers press into the back of my neck, hidden from every angle in the room. The secret touch sends a jolt through my system. “You’re being too obvious,” she whispers as she pulls away and leads me to the living room. “Look who I found,” she calls out.
I take a long sip of my beer and stare at the fireplace. There are family photos on the mantel. Mackie at every age, gap-toothed and freckled, growing into the person I can’t stop thinking about. I look away, because staring at childhood photos of your secret girlfriend in her parents’ living room is a level of weird I’m not prepared to examine right now.
Rodriguez drops onto the couch next to me. “You good, man?”
“Just nervous. I’ve never done this before.”
“Done what?”
“Christmas Eve. With a family. A team family.” The words come out before I can shape them into something less honest, and Iimmediately wish I could grab them out of the air and stuff them back in.
Rodriguez looks at me and the grin drops for a second. “Z. You’re one of us. You show up, you eat too much, you fall asleep on the couch during the football game. That’s it.” He clinks his beer against mine. “Welcome to the family.”
Dinner is hell.
There are twelve of us around the table and Mackie is on my left. Close enough that I can smell her perfume. Close enough that if I moved my arm two inches, our elbows would touch. I am acutely, painfully aware of every centimeter of space between us. I’m managing it the way I manage the crease, by staying very still and controlling what I can control.
