Page 18 of Playing Santa

“Not a fan of football?” He quirks one brow in challenge.

I’m not going to lie and say I can’t stand football. It would go against the grain. Too many lies in my life have forced me to stick to the truth even when it’s uncomfortable. I clear my throat.

“That’s not it. I… wouldn’t want to leave Jimmy.” I repeat the partial truth, inwardly wincing at the lameness.

He laughs. “Of course I’d get tickets to the both of you. It’s settled then. Next week—”

“I can’t. Really.”

“Why not, Ronnie? What aren’t you telling me?”

Heat rises and I know I’m blushing with shame, but I force myself to look at him. He’s so friggin’ handsome and his concerned face melts my heart, making me want to change my mind and say yes, but I can’t. Even beyond the idea of starting some kind of relationship with this man who is so far out of my league he may as well be a Martian, I need to save what little money I might have left at the end of the week, which is usually pennies, and put it aside for Jimmy’s future. Or for a rainy day. Whichever comes first. Given my track record, I’m betting the rainy day comes first. Granted, I’ll have more this week with the dog-sitting fees, but I can’t count on that lasting. Especially not the way Sean seems bent on turning it into something more. Something very volatile.

“Is it… do you have someone else?” he asks, his voice low and tragic.

“No, no. It’s not that. There’s no one else. Believe me.” His smile is restored and I’m hoping I’m off the hook, but he presses again. “Then what is it you’re not telling me, Ronnie?”

Do I owe this man, a stranger really, an explanation? Probably not. But I feel a need to give him one because stranger or not, I feel a connection with him in a way I haven’t felt since my parents died. So long ago. I didn’t feel like this with my aunt and uncle and their family while I stayed with them—before they left me. And I certainly didn’t feel this way with Jimmy’s dad, my most likely late husband, before he left me high, dry and pregnant.

“I … can’t afford to go. I have no car, no extra money for an Uber or refreshments or —”

“Woe, woe, stop right there. No need to worry about that. I got you covered. I—”

“I can’t—”

“I insist. You think I’d invite you and Jimmy to come to a game and expect you to pay for a ride, parking and refreshments? I’m not that kind of guy. My parents don’t pay, my friends don’t pay and my… new friends, caretakers of my puppy Dasher, most certainly do not pay.”

“That’s—”

“Kind and generous.” He grins. “Let me play Santa Claus, Ronnie. Please.” His grin is almost goofy and definitely heart melting. “Pretty please.” He leans in and the scent of him overwhelms me in a way that has nothing to do with his generosity or his goofy heartfelt smile. It makes me want to touch him, to be held by him. God it would be so good, and so easy to give into that.

But some life lessons are so hard learned, so baked into my soul that there’s no bending. The one I learned early on from my Aunt and Uncle and then from my baby-daddy is that I need to take care of myself and Jimmy because relying on anyone else leads to nowhere except disappointment and hunger.

Are you really relying on him if you let him pay for an outing to a football game?

“When?” I say. Then I watch his face light up brighter than the tree in the corner of his spacious great room.

“Two weeks from Saturday.”

“That’s Christmas Eve.”

“Did you have other plans?”

“No.” I admit in a quiet voice. Of course not. “Me and Jimmy were going to read T’was the Night Before Christmas and get to bed early.” I don’t tell him that we don’t even have a tree yet. I’m hoping the guy at the tree lot down the street will come through.

“Then spend it with me. Let me give you a special Christmas.”

“How special?” I say, not sure what I’m asking, but sure I want to know what he has in mind. Afraid I might go along with whatever it is.

“I’ll have a chauffeur pick you and Jimmy up for the game. You can wear team gear. I’ll send it to you ahead of time. You’ll do your pre-game tailgating inside the stadium at the Militia Grill where they have a spectacular buffet—so I’m told. And then you’ll sit on the fifty-yard-line for the game. After the game, I’ll meet you at the friends and family lounge and we’ll go out to dinner because I’ll be starving.”

I laugh and interrupt him. “What time is this game?”

“It’s at one in the afternoon.”

“What about your family?”

“They’ll all be there.” He grins. I cringe.