Page 22 of Playing Santa

p.s. I promise to keep your place safe and clean and I won’t eat all your food—I’ll bring my own.

The note makes me smile and the food is delicious, so I can’t be too bummed. I write a note back to her, feeling like a throwback to the old days, I don’t know how many years ago, before the phone was invented when people had no other choice. After four nights, I’ve come to look forward to our daily hand-written exchanges. It’s a slow patient way to get to know a person, strangely intimate and a helluva test of my resolve. But I’m up to it. Putting the pen to paper, I write.

Yo? Srsly?

Your chile was delicious (like you). You’re spoiling me with these meals. Louie is going to wonder what happened to me. I used to be one of his best customers before you showed up.

BTW, Dasher loved the cake and don’t worry—I cleaned her up before she did any damage.

I wish you were going to be at the game in person to cheer for me—and the team, but I’ll take seeing your gorgeous face and Jimmy’s big smile when I get home. It’ll be late, but please stay over and wait for me. If we win, I’ll want a celebration hug and if we lose I’ll need a consolation hug. Either way… it’s a win-win (??)

Srsly, I miss you.

Later,

Sean Patrick, the indestructible field goal kicker

p.s. You can eat anything of mine you want…

I wonder if my last flirtatious comment is over the top, but fuck it. It’s how I feel and I don’t want to her to think I’m okay with being just friends. I want her to know how much she turns me on, how much I’m into her in every way. Folding the paper, I put it in a fresh envelope and scrawl her name on it in big bold print that even Jimmy can read. The kid’s smart, but innocent, so the innuendo in the note will go over his head if he reads it.

Now I can only hope she grants my wish to stay over until I get home. I figure my chances are less than Dasher standing up and talking to me right now, but a guy’s gotta try. Though not too hard. It’s a fine edge between staying patient while maintaining interest. There’s no way I’ll let her think I’ve lost interest.

No way I’ll lose interest any time soon. In either of them.

* * *

In the morning, cutting the remainder of the cake into pieces and putting it in plastic containers almost makes me late to the stadium. The team is meeting at seven a.m. for a quick talk before we take the bus to the airport. I rush in and deposit the cake on the counter where half the team is still eating breakfast. I have ten minutes to get my shit together and have a bite.

Tate gives me shit, but takes himself a big slice of the cake. When he takes a bite he exaggerates his reaction, throwing his head back and moaning. I laugh.

“What did you do to deserve your own private baker?” He says. “And where did she learn to bake like this? She a pastry chef on the side?”

“I know,” Gabe says, “That shit is lethal. The chocolate peanut butter cake the other day was my favorite. Can I have her bake one for me for Mia’s birthday in a couple of weeks? She went crazy for it.”

I laugh at the pair of them, enjoying the praise on Ronnie’s behalf. My swelling pride is unearned, though I don’t bother to tamp it down.

“I’m serious,” Gabe says.

“I’ll ask her. I don’t see why not. Ronnie’s fucking ambitious. She’s always interested in earning extra money. I bet she’ll do it. But just so you know—I’ll make sure she charges you a boatload of money for it.”

Gabe smirks. “It’s okay. I can afford it.”

Tate and I both give him the finger and he laughs as we finish up with breakfast and head for the meeting.

Flesh out. Game Scene.

After a long night, I get to sleep in because coach gives us the morning off. Still in bed, I sit up when my phone buzzes on the nightstand letting me know I have a message. Probably from Tate. Or maybe my Mom or one of my brothers congratulating me on the fifty-two-yard field goal to win the game.

The last thing I expect to see is a text from Ronnie. I’m so pathetic that just seeing her name on my phone screen has me revved up so that my hand shakes when I click to read it.

Congrats on the win Mr. Big Foot

I tap in a response. So you and Jimmy stayed up for the end of the game?

Of course. Who didn’t? Srsly

I laugh and I’m about to call her so I can hear her voice, but it’s getting late already. I wasted too much damn time on my beauty sleep. Fuck. I tap in a quick text.