by Jamie Knight
Chapter 3
Neil
I woke up early Sunday morning. Last night was the first Saturday night I hadn’t gone out in months, and I felt the difference. If I showed up to a family event hungover, there would be hell to pay on Monday. So, I had stayed sober and felt a lot better for it.
Maybe it was time to grow up. I wasn’t in high school anymore. Plus, I didn’t want to disrespect Coach by not taking this seriously.
I heard the town car honk once outside my Manhattan townhouse. I came out and climbed in the back of the car, trading pleasantries with the driver. I was excited to return across the Hudson, and to be portrayed in a positive light for once, instead of being worried about getting into trouble like I always was.
Maybe I’d even stop to visit my mom, who was widowed but still living in my childhood home. I thought about the media coverage of the event, and how I could never seem to do anything right in their eyes. The team’s publicist wouldn’t allow bad press for the team on his watch, but the journalists covering for their independent papers didn’t take their marching orders from the New York Leviathans.
The public loved a good story about me, and that was how they sold papers. I guess selling papers must have been difficult, since they had to follow high profile people around, just hoping for one of us to fuck up. I never went out trying to hurt anyone. I was just having fun, albeit with the wrong women every time.
How is it that when a married woman goes home with me, pretending to be available, that it’s still my fault? She’s the one stepping out on her husband.
My mind still kept returning to that horrible couple of weeks, when everyone universally hated me: fans, the team, and even my own mother, it seemed. She asked me how I could disgrace the family name like this, and where my morals were at. She was only slightly understanding once I explained I hadn’t known that the woman was married, telling me that I shouldn’t be hooking up with strangers, anyway.
It seemed that no one at all was on my side. The sportscasters had even bantered about the story.
Obviously, I should hire one of these journalists to screen the women before I take them home, since they seem to know everything before I do.
I sometimes wondered if they set me up on occasion to create the story. Nothing would surprise me.
I was trying to muster some excitement for the kids. Caldwell was about thirty miles away from the football stadium, and my hometown had always taken its sports very seriously, especially when it came to the Leviathans’ rivalry with the Flags. The borough had remained relatively small, with less than 8000 people, and Caldwell still had that small town feel of a main street with some historic buildings.
Our claim to fame was being the birthplace of Grover Cleveland. I was stunned, going to college on the west coast, to learn that the rest of the country was not as intimately familiar with Cleveland, our 22nd and 24th president, as residents of Caldwell were. But I guess I might not have been as familiar with him either, if it hadn’t been drilled into me in every history class in school, since it was of such local significance.
Arriving at the community center, I was redirected to a back room to put on a Santa suit. I had to sit down with the organizer, Tom, while he explained that I would be asking each kid what they wanted for Christmas and giving each one a random Christmas present from a big bag they’d provide me with.
He said it was also my responsibility to ask the parents what their family wanted for Christmas. Someone from the organization would be standing nearby to take notes, and they were going to drive Santa’s sleigh through the military housing on Christmas Eve to deliver additional presents based on what each family needed.
“Why are you hiding me under a Santa suit?” I asked him.
It seemed like a waste of a good PR opportunity to advertise a New York Leviathan, then hide him behind a costume, but it wasn’t my job to tell Tom how to do his.
“Some of the members of team management and I agreed that, given all the drama that has seemed to follow you, maybe it’s best to write this up as showing how decent and selfless you were to keep out of the spotlight, to play Santa in a costume, all to help the kids from your hometown.”
“Sure, and you can pretend that I was never here if it doesn’t go well, I suppose,” I told him. “For your information, though, I don’t create the drama, or get some sick thrill from seeing my picture in the paper in compromising situations.”
Tom looked down at me over his glasses, which had almost retreated to the tip of his nose with all his talking.
“Well then. We should be on the same page, right? You’re here for the kids.”
“I am.”
I got into costume and started playing the role. The kids were actually cute and I was having a good time.
I had been playing Santa for about an hour when I looked at the line of people waiting and had to do a double take.
What the fuck?
I saw Becca Bell towards the back of the line, with a couple of boys running around her, both looking to be about seven or eight years old.
Could this really be Becca?
I would know her plump ass, juicy curves and pretty face from anywhere. But I still couldn’t believe it.
She didn’t appear to be accompanied by a guy, but rather was facing my direction while she was in deep conversation with another woman who had her back to me. My heart beat out of my chest for a minute, and I lost my train of thought as I was talking to the little girl currently on my lap.
Is she married?
Are those her sons?
“Santa? Are you listening?” the little girl asked me, as she pulled on my fake beard.
I really didn’t want to mess up my chance here due to a woman—even though Becca was certainly not just any woman, not by a longshot—so I forced myself to pay better attention to what I was doing. As the line kept moving, I occasionally looked up to watch Becca, both excited to be close to her again, but also hoping that she would get tired of waiting in line and leave.
I was scared of what to say to her after all this time, and I definitely didn’t need another drama playing out in front of cameras. Surely, she couldn’t still be mad at me like she was back when we were in high school together.
I knew Becca most of my life growing up, even though we never had the same friends or ran in the same circles. By sophomore year, I had started forming a crush on her. She returned that fall, having developed in all the right ways.
Physically, she had become a knockout, although most boys in our class may not have known since she wore glasses and kept her hair up in school, seeming to like to play the role of a shy nerd. I had seen her at the beginning and end of on game nights, though, and I knew differently.
She played the clarinet in the marching band. She must have worn contacts on game nights because she never had glasses on then, and she always had her chestnut locks down. No one would have known that her hair was past her shoulders when she kept it up in a messy bun at school. But when she had her marching band hat off, her hair cascaded down her back.
I could never tell what her body looked like, since she was always in a hoodie or some oversized sweatshirt at school, or in the band uniform on the field, but I had never cared. What I liked most about her was how confident and bold she had become. She had come into herself and didn’t seem to care about what the rest of the world thought.
I had heard girls be mean to her on occasion, mocking her baggy clothes, but she couldn’t care less. She would always just laugh and walk away.
My own girlfriend, Cindy, was particularly mean to Becca and seemed to search her out. Girls who behaved this way were always so unattractive to me, and Cindy was no exception, so I started distancing myself from her.
Truth be told, I had never really wanted to go out with Cindy, anyway, but once I was on the football team, it had seemed natural. My buddy, DJ, was the quarterback and dating Cindy’s friend, Jill, who was also a cheerleader. So tha
t was how I got set up with Cindy, and we all just fell into a rhythm of Saturday night double dates and nightly homework sessions.
Every night, the four of us left practice together, DJ and I chatting about how it had gone and the problems we would face on the field in the next game against whatever team we were playing that week, and the girls lagging, gossiping and talking clothes, when not people. It hardly seemed worth rocking the boat to change things, and then, the next thing I knew, it was senior year and I’d been with Cindy almost two years.
All of us were talking about our futures, though, and I knew there was no place for Cindy in mine. I began playing the inevitable break up in my head, trying to figure out a way to make it as painless as possible.
I knew there was no way it would be pleasant, though. I had seen Cindy in action plenty of times, and she could be very mean. But I was determined to enjoy my final months of my last year.
Becca and I shared a chemistry class that year and I got to know her better. I grabbed a seat at her table, but across from her. Unfortunately, the seat next to her was already filled with a bandmate of hers. I began looking forward to 5th period, and seeing Becca, the four of us making small talk.
I learned to keep my wits about me, given the nature of the class. Once I was looking at Becca when I almost poured the wrong beaker into the flask over the flame. My lab partner stopped me just in time. I was still pretty sure he knew why I’d been distracted, and while he seemed to have a sense of humor about the incident, he definitely kept an eye on me after that, and I didn’t blame him.
I never knew what happened during those last couple months of our senior year, but it all started when I finally had the nerve to break up with Cindy, which turned out to be about as nasty as I had expected it would be.
Suddenly, DJ wasn't talking to me either. Jill was making his life difficult due to her loyalty to Cindy, and he found it easier to just stop being my friend rather than answer her probing questions about what he knew and when he knew it.
A few weeks later, I found the courage to ask Becca to Prom after class, and she promptly shot me down. Not politely either, but in the hallway and rather loudly. She had been quiet in class the last couple of days, but I just assumed she had a lot on her mind with our finals. She seemed studious.
I never knew what prompted her outburst. I thought we were at least friends. I grew to think she must have thought I was just another dumb jock, or that the breakup with Cindy made me untouchable.
I had pictured a perfect night with Becca, seeing her in a gown, accentuating what I imagined was a beautiful body and flawless skin. The rest of the class would see, for the first time, what I already knew. She was perfect.
But apparently, it wasn’t meant to be. I didn’t even go to Prom at all, because I didn’t see the point in going without a date. There were a lot of other girls who would have been happy to go with me, but I just didn’t feel up to it. None of them could compare to Becca.
After that day, the rest of the school year passed quickly. I never looked at Becca again, across the table in Chemistry. We never spoke. My pride was fucking wounded, I had to admit.
Finals came and went, and I kept things simple that summer before college, making sure not to develop feelings for anyone, as if I could. Even long after that, the women I was attracted to when I had had a few drinks were always women who reminded me of Becca.
Of course, they weren’t her and couldn’t ever come close. No one was her. I supposed that was why I preferred one-night stands with no commitment. I couldn’t imagine committing to anyone but Becca and that was impossible, so I stayed single.
Becca was nearly up to the front of the line before I remembered that I had on the stupid Santa suit and so she surely wouldn’t recognize me. I didn’t know what to do. I had never liked anyone like I did her.
And now, she looked incredible. Better than she ever had. Her hair was still long, but with highlights. Where I had never seen her shape in high school, today she was just wearing some Levi’s, which fit like they were made for her nice, round ass, and a cropped sweater, its jade color bringing out the green in her eyes.
She didn’t seem to have any makeup on, yet she looked perfect, and I couldn’t seem to look away for long. I had fantasized about her for so long after we hadn’t worked out, burdened with the reality that she could never be mine, but she looked even better now than she ever had in my fantasies.
I tried not to imagine what it would feel like to slide my hands up either side of the short sweater she was wearing, feeling her soft, warm skin, while kissing her perfect lips. Becca seemed to hear my thoughts and was now looking at me, turning bright red.
It seemed she had recognized me, after all. And that she blushed at the sight at me, even though she clearly hadn’t wanted to be with me in high school.
What the hell?
Now I was more confused than ever. But I was determined to see what might happen, and wondering if I might be able to claim her as my own after all this time.
Chapter 4
Becca
I was grateful that Angela had encouraged me to get out of the house. This event was really a great time for the kids.
There were all kinds of activities and games, and a performer with a guitar was on stage, off to the side, putting on a show for them. Apparently, he was well-known in the area, and even had a popular morning program on the local television station, Angela told me.
There was a large table off to one side, where some athletes were sitting and signing autographs. That line was substantial, and even included some grown men unaccompanied by children. By far, though, the longest line was for Santa.
As Angela was the only one of the four of us who wanted to get autographs, she was democratically overruled, but we did enjoy the other areas before getting in the ever-lengthening Santa line. That would be our last stop.
A grown woman in a Santa's Elf costume came through the line and had everyone put their names, children's names, phone and address on the list for Christmas Eve, when Santa’s sleigh would be dropping gifts off at the different houses.
I wondered if there were many military families who hadn’t come out to this event. Would their kids get a visit from Santa?
I could imagine Santa's sleigh coming through the mini suburb that comprised the military housing complex, skipping houses, with a visit to a kid’s playmates but not to them. That would have to be traumatizing for years to come. I imagined a devious parent could use such an experience to their advantage, every time a room needed cleaning.
I hadn’t really been paying attention to Angela, who was talking about some other military wife and neighbor whom I had never met. I had always been glad Mark and I moved out of the military housing when James died.
It was hard to leave the community, but we somehow made it work, and Mark met other kids—ones who wouldn’t have to leave when their parent had to relocate due to a change of station. While upsetting for the kid who had to leave, it could also be upsetting for the friends left behind.
I already knew it would be difficult for both of us if Angela’s husband was relocated and I lost Angela while Mark lost David. But I didn’t like to think about that.
Angela droned on as the boys were darting in and out of the line playing a game of tag and we were essentially planted there, inching forward like snails every so often on their behalf. Parenting was full of such sacrifices.
While Angela was happily married, her husband was overseas more than he was home, which I knew was hard for her. Still, I would never see James again.
I was personally okay with that, as we were never happy, but I never wanted him dead, of course. I still grieved for Mark having to grow up without a dad. Not only would it have been nice to have a partner, someone to share in the work around the house, but there were also things a boy needed his father for, and I would never be able to completely fill that role.
Somehow Mark and I made it work and had de
veloped a routine. I fit the little things like cooking meals, laundry, dishes, into the morning or evening, before or after working at the gallery. Most weekends were saved for bigger projects like fixing this cabinet and painting that room.
I had a list going. I loved making lists and checking off items as I completed them.
There was always something, but I had, over time, learned how to be self-sufficient. I could probably make some side money creating a DIY YouTube channel for other single moms or military wives whose husbands were deployed, causing them to raise children on their own, yet that was something I definitely never managed to find the time for.
As the line moved forward, I could hear Santa talking to each kid and family as they came up to him. That voice. Deep and husky.
Where do I know him from?
I was trying to place it, while looking at him. I was wondering if there was something familiar under the white hair and beard, and stuffing for the belly. I had had an occasional handyman over here and there throughout the years.
Is that it?
Or was he my barista in town?
While I was still staring without meaning to, Santa looked up and seemed to be searching the line when his eyes stopped on me. He seemed to be smiling at me. I got goose bumps at the familiar eyes I saw peeking out from behind the fake Santa glasses.
Oh my God. Is that Neil Bowman? Shit.
It had been years since high school, but I still couldn’t bring myself to smile back.
"Ang, I think I know the Santa.” I whispered, so the boys couldn’t hear. “It's this douche I went to high school with. Long story. Would you mind if I left Mark with you? I really don't want to see him.”
"Yeah, I was wondering if that was Neil Bowman. I noticed he wasn’t at the autograph table. Was he your classmate?”
I nodded.
“He's the starting Tight End for the New York Leviathans, and the resident bad boy on the team. He has a reputation for being quite the, um, ladies’ man. How do you not know that? Don't you read the papers? Although, I really don't know how you can recognize anyone in that costume."