Page 81

Calvin

Isnap the ball to Quinn Banks, and he pumps the ball twice before throwing it to an open Myles Jones who was not part of the designated play.

The wide receivers’ coach and offensive coordinator jog onto the turf to explain the route again to a younger player.

“Think he’ll get it?” I say to Quinn as we stand beside each other, waiting to resume our practice.

“We’ll see.” It’s the fourth time we’ve run this exact play to no avail.

“Hey. You free later?” he asks me.

“Yeah. You hosting something?” Quinn will frequently have the guys over for basketball or games because his house is probably the nicest out of the team. Plus, he’s a single dad to his son Charlie, so it’s easier for us to go to him.

“Just a few guys. Eight thirty on the court, okay?”

“See you then.”

Quinn has his own full-size basketball court on his property, attached to his house, which is often a meeting spot.

It’s probably why I didn’t think much of this invitation until I arrive later with Charlie tucked into bed two days before Christmas, and notice a toy store threw up on the court.

“What’s going on here?” I edge closer to the open boxes and parts sprawled on the floor.

“Spreading Christmas magic,” Feet responds as he fights a screw into a hole for a large tower toy.

I quirk my eyebrows and turn to my quarterback.

He hands me a beer and a screwdriver.

I take a swig of my drink. “Which toy is mine?”

“Mind assembling the balance bike with me?”

“I have no idea what that is, but sure.” We move over to the box where there’s a funny-looking bike with no pedals. Huh. This should be a cakewalk.

* * *

Ninety minutes later, we prop the bike on the ground, and I roll it across the court to ensure it works properly.

Thank God.

Why is assembling child toys so difficult? Shouldn’t it be easier?

There are six of us here, mostly the wide receiver corps, but since Quinn watches my ass more than anyone on the team, I tend to spend a lot of time with him too.

“You better give me half credit for that bike, Banks,” I retort.

“You want to steal it from Santa Claus.” Quinn blinks.

“Man, that old guy gets all the credit and doesn’t do anything,” Myles, our star wide receiver, comments.

Quinn shrugs. This is his sixth Christmas with his son, so I’m sure he’s used to this by now.

“Thank you all for helping me get ready. I don’t think I could do this by myself.”

I glance around his courthouse, where cardboard boxes are piled in the corner, and over a dozen of now-assembled toys sit.

“Anytime!” Feet yells from the trampoline as he does a flip. “Hey! Can I come over to play with Charlie sometime?”