Home for the Holidays: A Contemporary Romance Anthology

by Christine Bell

  Not if I could help it. Moses had plenty of time and plenty of options. But I kept my mouth shut, unwilling to speak words that’d raise far too many questions. Questions I couldn’t easily answer. Instead, I laughed and said, “He’s great. But I didn’t know babies made so much poo.”

  Mom chuckled and gave me one last pat on the back. “You better get to bed. You’ve got a long week ahead of you.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  She had no idea.

  My cell phone rang early the following morning, jolting me out of a deep sleep. I didn’t need to check the caller ID. I knew who it was. Instead, I turned the volume down and then rolled back over. Not today.

  I stretched, adjusted the covers, and closed my eyes, hoping for a few more minutes of sleep. The wind gusted so hard it rattled the windows and caused the old house to groan. I’d offered my parents a new house, but Mom had refused and I hadn’t pushed the issue. If she ever wanted a new house, she knew how to ask. Other than a very expensive new mattress, my room looked almost exactly like it had all through high school and college, minus the posters and trophies which I’d finally convinced her to pack up. White walls, navy plaid bedspread, and hardwood floors covered with rugs. The floors were new. One of the few “luxuries” my mom had asked for. That, and a new Buick, even though I’d gladly have bought her something fancier. I’d spent the last six months working her toward the idea of an upgraded kitchen. It’d probably take me another six months to completely sell her on the idea. She said over and over again that it was my hard work and my money, not hers. But that wasn’t entirely true.

  “Boomer! You up?”

  “Yeah, Mom,” I yelled back as my cell phone started ringing again.

  Not today, Joe.

  I grabbed it and put it in airplane mode for the time being. I’d come home for breathing room. As painful as coming home sometimes was, it was preferable to going someplace where no one knew me.

  He’d just have to wait. Never mind that my coach was waiting. My teammates were waiting. The whole world was waiting for me to sign that new contract. Hell, it’d been the first thing Marsh had mentioned.

  He’d laughed and asked, “What the hell are you going to do with sixty million dollars?”

  I laughed, too, and shrugged, because the question was rhetorical and the twinge of envy in his voice unmistakable. “Buy beer, of course.” And then I’d stepped past him, through cluttered living room, past the baby toys to the kitchen, and grabbed us both a beer.

  Four years; sixty million dollars. Twenty million guaranteed, plus endorsements. I’d be one of the highest paid running backs in the NFL. And in four years, when my contract was up, I’d be thirty-three years old—and probably even more busted up than I was now. But in four years I could retire and I’d still be young enough to have family and a life.

  “Better get moving, son,” Dad yelled.

  Tomorrow…I’d think about it tomorrow. Today, I had to go to the elementary and see Marsh’s students. It was tradition. And I had sixty-seven signed footballs to give out to his third-graders. I threw back the covers and stretched a body that ached much more than it should at twenty-nine.

  “Boomer, you’re going to be late.”

  I’d avoided talking about the new contract with my dad last night by ducking out to see Marsh. I’d avoid him this morning, too, thanks to the aforementioned sixty-seven third-graders. But my luck wouldn’t hold forever. Eventually he’d say how proud he was and I’d say thanks. As the fire chief, he made about seventy-five grand a year. What the hell did you say to your son, the millionaire? Hell, I still remembered him lecturing me about signing with an agent and about that first contract. It had been so painfully awkward that we’d never discussed my career again.

  “Okay!” I sat up and put my feet on the floor and stood, wincing slightly as my ankles popped and knees protested. I stared at myself in the dresser mirror. On the outside I was everything you’d expect a six-foot-one running back to be—sculpted, muscular perfection complete with washboard abs and a killer jaw. The inside was a whole ‘nother matter. Joints ached, tendons popped, and tight muscles protested being forced to move before they were ready. This was the Pandora’s box that I’d given my blood sweat and tears for. I nodded at myself and headed for the shower.

  Time to get the show on the road.

  Twenty minutes later I stepped into the kitchen dressed in jeans and the obligatory Houston Texans T-shirt and matching blue and red hoodie.

  “Day’s wasting, young man” Dad said.

  “Yes, sir.” I placed a hand on Mom’s shoulder before she could stand. “I can get my own coffee. Matter of fact, I can get you coffee, too.” I leaned over and kissed her on the cheek before doing just that. Catching my father’s eye, I held up the pot. “Refill, sir?”

  He held up his cup and nodded. “Been to see Coach yet?”

  Coach Weiland was as much a Bluebonnet institution as Miz Mae’s Café, the now-retired Sheriff Townsend, and my dad, the esteemed Fire Chief Bud Kendall. “I’d planned on going by to see him today after I got done with Marsh’s kids.”

  “Come by the firehouse when you’re done, too,” Dad said.

  “Yes, sir.” No, sir. Three bags full, sir. The play on an old nursery rhyme echoed through my head as I said my goodbyes. I carried my coffee cup outside, pulled the door shut behind me, and left my parents to finish their breakfast.

  Two people honked while I was loading the footballs in the back of my truck. I smiled and waved. When Mrs. Ford from next door stepped out on her front porch a few minutes later, I waved and call out a greeting. In return I got a brief nod. Trips home were always like this. Some bothered me more than others–the ooh’ing and ahh’ing and waving and honking. But as one of my teammates—also a fellow Texan and also from a small town—had once observed, football was to Texas as Mardi Gras was to Louisiana “It’s not just in our blood,” he’d said, “It’s in our DNA.” He was right. This was what I’d signed up for.

  So I’d learned to take all the attention in stride and do things like the yearly visits to Marsh’s classroom, or whenever Mama sent me to the store, I’d patiently answer the questions of high school football players who mostly had dreams bigger than their talent. That was the price one paid for being not only a big deal in a small town, but a football star.

  And I didn’t complain. Not once. At least not out loud. Not to my mom. Definitely not to my dad. Not to my best friend Marsh. Not to anyone.

  You weren’t allowed to complain because you’d won the lottery.

  It was a universally acknowledged truth that the week before Christmas vacation, Mr. Johnson’s third-graders got an extra long recess. The older kids didn’t begrudge them, since they’d gotten the same treat when they were in the third grade. The younger kids who cried it wasn’t fair were reminded that next year, or the year after, it would be their turn to spend the morning playing touch football with Marshall Johnson and yours truly—number twenty-seven, Boomer Kendall.

  I parked my truck on the side of the school closest to the playground, then dashed around the building and inside to hug and kiss all the ladies in the office. Most of them I remembered from my own elementary school days, and I’d be lying if I said I didn’t find it comforting to always see the same faces year after year.

  Even if one of those faces was Matilda’s.

  3

  Matilda

  I hadn’t planned on being a lunch lady. But then again, did anyone? The hours were long, the work was hard, the pay was shit, and the rewards were few—unless you counted dealing with smart-mouthed, entitled future sociopaths a job perk.

  I did not.

  “Mattie, as soon as you’re done serving breakfast, we need to get started on those potatoes for lunch.”

  “Yes, boss!”

  The only job perk–and this was iffy—was leaving early. And that’s what had allowed me to go to college, so one day I could get the hell out of here. Whether it balanced out against the afo
rementioned future sociopaths, smelling like canned green beans—or worse, onions—coming to work before the sun came up, and a boss who, up until a few weeks ago had been my coworker, was anybody’s guess.

  Tongs in hand, I silently slipped an extra biscuit on Joey Donovan’s tray and handed it to him. We didn’t make eye contact, and we didn’t talk about it. Occasionally Greta caught me giving out extra food and gave me her ferocious death-stare or yelled at me for it. Some shit about free and reduced lunch program rules and regs. I figured when Uncle Sam caught me red-handed and fined me or slapped cuffs on me and dragged me out of the school kicking and screaming, then I’d worry about it. Until then, every kid who came through my line ate. And if they ended up with a little sumpin-sumpin extra to slip into their backpack for the long walk home or whatever, well, who was I to say?

  Besides, two more days and I was out of here. Or one, since today was technically almost half over.

  A few minutes later, the warning bell rang.

  “Matilda, get on those dishes!”

  My eyes rolled so far back in my head, I was afraid they’d get stuck. “What about the potatoes?”

  “I put Linda on potatoes. You took too long.”

  Too long? Too long? I was serving up breakfast and cleaning up my area. But whatever. I’d wash her fucking dishes.

  With a smile on my face.

  I had plans. I had goals. I’d just gotten a little sidetracked by a life that had, for a few years, resembled one of those depressing old country songs, and college had taken a little longer than I’d planned. Okay, a lot longer. But I’d graduated last Saturday.

  I took a deep breath and grabbed a waterproof apron, unwilling to think about who hadn’t been at my graduation. That would only lead to thoughts of Christmas. This would be my fifth Christmas without Mom, and my eighth Christmas without Dad. I entered the wash area just as Joey appeared at the window to leave his now-empty breakfast tray.

  I blinked back the tears stinging my eyes and cleared my throat. “Have a good day, Joey.”

  He nodded and gave me a tiny, silent smile that did nothing to distract from the dark circles under his eyes. I’d miss him, and Maggie, and Bailey, and the other kids. But I had goals and I had dreams, too, and I couldn’t spend my life slipping extra biscuits to hungry children, now could I?

  Washing dishes was hard, hot work guaranteed to remove whatever makeup you’d bothered to put on before the sun came up and leave you sopping wet—but not in the fun kind of way. More like in the ‘I hate my life’ kind of way. I was on the home stretch, and kind of, sort of, looking forward to prepping the salad for lunch, when Boomer showed up. Just like he did every damn year.

  I could’ve almost set my watch by him. He’d park his truck, hug and kiss the office ladies, schmooze with Principal Skinner, and then come hug and kiss the cafeteria ladies. Half the women I worked with had served us lunch when we were kids, and they were a nice group of ladies. Even Greta, when she wasn’t being a dick-tater. So I didn’t blame him for popping into the cafeteria; I just didn’t want to look at him. Or be nice to him. Which I’d have to do. Plus, I was wearing a hairnet. Kill me now. I hung back, stalling the inevitable.

  “Where’s Miss Molly?” he demanded, arms outstretched as my co-workers moved closer. They were full of smiles and laughter and hands that fluttered to touch and pet him like he was someone’s new puppy.

  “She died,” I called out before anyone else could respond. Miss Molly had worked in the elementary cafeteria since–forever. She was an institution, like Susie Boudreauxe’s dancehall and the Alamo. And when she hadn’t shown up for work the Monday after Thanksgiving, we’d all known something was wrong.

  He turned to stare at me, a sad, confused frown on his handsome face. “What you mean ‘she died’? Why didn’t anybody tell me?”

  Because we figured you wouldn’t think it was Twitter-worthy? Because it’s not our job? I thought it and more but I didn’t say a word. And by anybody, I assumed he meant Marsh—or I don’t know, his parents. Why they hadn’t mentioned Miss Molly’s death was a question only they could answer. Especially since I did my personal best to avoid speaking to Boomer.

  I dried my hands on a clean dishtowel and fixed a tiny, fake smile in place. Because…you couldn’t be rude to Boomer Kendall. That was the equivalent of flipping off Mother Theresa. Or (in Bluebonnet, Texas, anyway) picking the University of Oklahoma over the University of Texas, which Boomer had done. The only reason he’d been forgiven was because he was a third-generation Sooner. They hadn’t been so quick to forgive my brother, who’d also chosen OU over UT. Some assholes had even said his football injuries were the price he paid for being a ‘traitor’ to the burnt orange and white. I knew that was bullshit. Marsh knew it was bullshit, too. But words still hurt. Almost as much as rehab.

  I gave him a sad little grimace and shrugged just as the cell phone in his hand started to vibrate. “That’s probably Marsh wondering where you are. You should get going.”

  Boomer stared at me like I’d kicked his dog—or him—nodded, and slowly said his goodbyes to the other ladies.

  4

  Boomer

  I stood in the hallway outside Marsh’s classroom watching the kids and wondering what had happened to Miss Molly. They squirmed in their seats, excited to get on with Boomer Day. That’s what they called it. I’d tried to change it our second year but Boomer Day had stuck.

  The few kids who spotted me started giggling, and whispering spread like a grassfire. One little girl with tightly-braided dark hair, decorated with red and blue ribbons, gave me a shy smile and waved at me. I waved back. Finally, Marsh put them out of their misery and told them to put their things away. Little braid girl ended up third in line, thanks to the maneuvering and elbowing of two boys a little bigger than her. If looks could kill, those two boys would have dropped dead on the spot. I coughed behind my hand to hide a laugh while Marsh dealt with issues toward the middle of the line. Across the hall, Linda Bradford was also lining up her third graders.

  It was time.

  Everything went like clockwork: balls were handed out, the boys lined up to toss the ball with Marsh and me, half a dozen little girls stood on the sideline practicing cheers they’d probably learned from their big sisters or cousins, and a handful of kids went off to play, completely disinterested now that they’d received their signed ball. More power to them. If there was anything I’d learned in the last ten years, it’s that there was more to life than football. Not that I could ever say that out loud.

  Thirty minutes in, it happened. Marsh threw a perfect spiral, one of the boys caught it, and then, just as his feet touched the ground, he got broadsided by a little girl. I stood there, arms at my sides, blinking as I struggled to process what I’d just seen. Marsh took off running toward the boy, and I followed at a slower pace. Miss Brown-Eyes-and-Braids, the one who’d smiled at me earlier, stood up and dusted herself off, looking incredibly pleased with herself despite a skinned knee.

  Marsh patted down the shaken boy, checking for injuries, and helped him sit up. He turned his focus on the little girl. “Bailey, you know better! What have I told you?”

  I held out a hand, and together, Marsh and I got the boy on his feet. While Marsh handed him over to Ms. Bradford, I turned to Bailey and gave her my fiercest scowl, but Marsh wasn’t done with her. “That’s not how girls behave.”

  “If I was a boy, you would’ve cheered.” She wound her braids around her hands again, her astute observation and very pointed stare making me squirm. She reminded me of Mattie—down to the freckles dotting her nose. And that stare. Holy crap. She could burn a hole through concrete with that stare. It also wasn’t lost on me that she’d tackled one of the boys who’d earlier cut in front of her.

  I looked at Marsh, and he looked at me. His bewildered expression was probably a mirror of my own. It certainly mirrored how I felt. “You could have seriously hurt him.” Even to my own ears the words sounded kind of lame, so I added.
“Or yourself.”

  “It’s football,” she replied. “If you can’t take the hits, stay on the porch with your pom-poms and your sippy cup.”

  I could literally feel my eyes widening and my face burning. I’ll be damned if that didn’t sound like something Coach Weiland would’ve said. Which meant he probably had.

  A still-scowling Marsh said, “Girls don’t play football, Bailey. We’ve talked about this.”

  “Well this girl,” —she pointed her own chest— “does.”

  They might play on private teams—in San Antonio—and they might even get to play in some high schools–though not for Coach Weiland—but not in Bluebonnet, Texas. And definitely not at the college or pro level. Again, Marsh and I stared at one another, both of us at a loss for words. “Do we have girls’ league in town?” I muttered at him. I didn’t think so, but under the circumstances, I figured I should ask. After all, if no one had told me Miss Molly had died, maybe they hadn’t told me about a girls’ football league.

  Marsh shook his head ever so slightly.

  “Maybe one day you could help start a women’s league, like the WNBA,” I chimed in. Marsh and I nodded in tandem. “But tackling without pads and a helmet is dangerous, Bailey.”

  It sounded reasonable to us…but apparently not to Bailey, who sneered at me. Sneered. She was eight. “I’m playing in the NFL. Going to be the first female player ever.”

  I was officially in over my head.

  She wasn’t the first kid to tackle someone during our playtime, and she wouldn’t be the last. But, to date, she was the only girl.

  “Keep an eye on her,” Marsh muttered as he held up his hands to get everyone’s attention. He whistled, and then said, “It’s time to go in.” There were a lot of groans and moans, and a lot of nasty looks thrown Bailey’s way. “Line up!”