by Lynn Shurr
The officials signaled a touchdown, but where was Tom? Why didn’t he stand up? Broken arm, broken leg—broken neck? Fear squeezed her lungs, deflating them like a pair of illegal footballs. Had Tom felt this way when she lay on the bottom of that dog pile protecting the ball? She understood fully for the first time.
Alix pushed through the throng of celebratory Sinners, using her elbows at will. Tom still sat on the ground—laughing. He stood up a little wobbly but obviously not hurt and shook his red hair free of the helmet. Teammates mobbed him. Alix shoved one broad shoulder aside, and then another until she got to her man. Ripping off her helmet she laid a kiss on Tom that set him off balance. She grabbed his shoulder pads and heaved him upright again as her hands tangled in his curls and her hips ground against his.
Vaguely, she heard Beef Bolivar say, “Hey, ain’t that on the forbidden list? I thought only helmet bumps and back pats were allowed.”
Dean, not the hero of the minute, answered, “I think management overlooked kissing since it’s never happened between players before—at least not like this.” He tapped Alix on the back. “Ah, maybe you should break it up.”
“Go away. You know we’re engaged.” She’d dropped the bomb, or maybe the football. The photographers continued to get shots from all angles. The press demanded an interview. They got it. The two flushed kickers faced the reporters.
“Alix, how did you feel when the man you so obviously love went over the top with the ball?”
“Afraid, very afraid—but I know it’s part of the game. We have to live with it.”
“Tom, how did it feel to score?”
“Fantastic!”
“When’s the wedding, Alix?”
“June. We’ll let you know more later.”
“Do you have a ring yet?” a female reporter shouted from the rear as she pointed frantically toward her finger.
Alix fished under her jersey and drew out a thin chain. She held up the ten-carat emerald cut blue-white diamond in its platinum setting with two brilliants on either side. Large but not fussy or ornate, it suited her big hands. She’d picked it out with Tom’s—and Leslie’s—approval over the Christmas holidays. Tom unfastened the clasp and placed it on her finger. Applause from the audience and a few “awwws” from the women ensued.
The Sinners did their best to capture the division title, but this year, it wasn’t to be. They lost their final playoff in double overtime on a field goal. A kicker saved the game again, but not for their team. Alix breathed easy at last. She’d survived her first year as an NFL punter and been a credit to her team. Neither she nor Tom had been seriously hurt. And in June, she’d marry the man she’d met and loved through her albums and only come to know less than a year ago.
Chapter Thirty
“If I’d known how much trouble the full Swedish was going to be, I’d have eloped. We still can, you know. The wedding isn’t for another month.” Alix splayed belly-down across her bed with Tom beside her. She flipped a few pages of the album containing all the minutia of Dean and Stacy’s wedding that had entranced the press. “I could put on the white lace dress you like, and we’d sneak off to Vegas the way your parents did.”
Tom kissed her cheek. “We’re close to the goal line. Don’t give up now. Besides, we’ve had some fun with the planning. I especially enjoyed seeing my sisters’ faces when you showed them the bridesmaid’s gown.”
“Your idea to hit them with the picture of the Swedish national dress first was sheer genius.” Alix let loose with a loud guffaw. She opened another album that traced their wedding journey. “Here it is.” She poked the photo of the long dark skirt covered with an equally long bright yellow apron, blue embroidered folk vest, long sleeved white blouse—and the big, white Swedish cap that would have made them all look like the Flying Nun.
“Only Edie loved it. She thought she’d get to dress up like a little Dutch girl and could wear the costume for Halloween. Stacy turned even paler than usual, and Xochi had to cover her face to hide her horror. Then, Jude shouts, ‘No way!’ and Annie tells her to be kind. Lorena says, ‘I guess I can pull it off because I’m tall—and I owe my life to Alix, but the twins are going to look like souvenir dolls.’ Oh, it was great!” Tears of laughter gathered in the corners of Tom’s brown eyes as he enjoyed the rehash of the conversation and mimicking each sisterly voice.
Alix flipped to the next page. “You pegged it right. They were so relieved that when I showed them the real dress I didn’t get a bit of flack.” Lovingly, she ran a finger over the white dresses with full knee-length skirts embroidered with wildflowers. Deep blue corsets bearing the same pattern covered the bodice with its scooped neckline and puffed sleeves. “They didn’t even grumble when I asked for white stockings and black shoes. Too bad we gave it all away by snickering. Xochi said we were perfect for each other again.”
“Yes, same warped sense of humor. Hey, the guys are still thanking me for the standard black tux with a red waistcoat. I think they worried we might choose knee socks and short pants. That would have been a hoot.”
“Come on, they wear stockings and knee pants when they play football, and most of them are vain about their legs. We could have gotten them to do it. All the girls will be lovely with the floral circlets for their hair and matching bouquets, only I didn’t figure on eight bridesmaids.”
Letting the fine blonde strands sift through his fingers, Tom toyed with her hair grown well below her shoulders now. He’d asked to have it long for the wedding, and she’d done that to please him. When training camp started, she planned to whack it off to shoulder-length again.
Her groom said, “That’s what you get for marrying a Billodeaux—lots of immediate relatives—plus your two sisters. I never thought I’d have to add Vince Barbaro and Beef Bolivar to the wedding party along with your brother-in-law.”
Alix squeezed Tom’s arm. “Call him Barton, please. He asked so sweetly if he could be a groomsman, and we needed another. Lorena is being a good sport about being paired with him. It’s good to have someone in your eternal debt, but I’m sure he’ll be fine.”
“Says you.” Tom squinched all his freckles together in a frown.
“Rika and Tille are still upset that I chose Xochi to be my maid of honor. Heck, Rika didn’t want me in her wedding because I’m too tall and would ruin the group wedding pictures, but Mom made her accept me. I’ve never gotten along with Tille, but Xo is the reason we’re still together.”
“Yeah, I almost asked her to be best man, but you beat me to it.”
“You did not!” Alix cuffed Tom on the shoulder. She flipped to their wedding invitation rimmed with colorful folk art designs. “I guess it is too late to run away since we mailed these two weeks ago.”
“Are the preparations getting to you that badly?” He lightly rubbed her tense back.
“Sure, your part is finished. You pick a tuxedo, line up the groomsmen, buy them a gift, and you’re done. If Mrs. Holmquist doesn’t stop calling me about every little detail, she’ll drive me mad as Big Lou. About the flowers, besides the wildflower bouquets with red poppy accents, did I want to add astilbe for some fluff and muscari for whimsy? Any idea what those frickin’ things are?”
Tom shrugged. “Flowers are my best guess, but I’m all about whimsy.” He drilled a dimple into his freckled cheek.
“You’re a big help. I told her yes and looked them up later. Yesterday, she wanted to know if I’d like brass chargers under the dinner plates since we have brass candlesticks and the brass pitchers filled with flowers.”
“What the hell is a charger?”
Alix pointed a finger at Tom. “My words exactly. It’s this metal plate that goes under a regular dish. As far as I can tell they are just for pretty, but I said, ‘Ja, sure.’ Then, I asked her if we could have black and white spotted cows, Holsteins, ya know, in the meadows.”
“She could tell you were joking, right? You usually are when you use Ja, sure, but she might not get it.”
&n
bsp; Alix shrugged. “We’ll see when we arrive. Cows are pretty if you aren’t close enough to smell them.”
Tom closed the albums, laid them aside, and straddled her hips. “We will survive all this together exactly like playing a game in foul weather. Here, let me give you a massage to ease the tension.”
“Your massages always lead to one thing.” Still, she relaxed under his kneading hands that had already made their way under her T-shirt and unsnapped her bra.
“Right. Any objections?”
“None at all.”
“See, we do think alike. By the time we’re married twenty years, we’ll be able to read each other’s thoughts.” He moved to her thighs, worked the yoga pants off her hips, and placed a kiss on each beautiful, firm buttock. “I think these are my favorite parts of your anatomy.”
“What, not my legs?”
“Everyone gets to see those. Only I get to do this.” Tom, hard and ready, slid between her legs and removed all of Alix’s prenuptial jitters.
Chapter Thirty-One
Their wedding day arrived with far north sunshine bound to last well into the evening along with the reception and black and white cows grazing in the wildflower meadows. Knox Polk, who seemed to know law enforcement personnel everywhere, stalked the grounds with a rifle and vowed to shoot down any drones mounted with GoPro cameras like a bunch of clay pigeons. In fact, he sent out a press release stating this. His hired cohorts kept the press at bay.
Inside the farmhouse, the wedding party changed into their finery. The men trooped to the church on foot with a photographer impeding their progress for candid shots. The ladies rode the short distance in white limos with very dark windows. No seeing the bride beforehand.
The antique organ pumped out the processional and one by one the eight bridesmaids bobbed down the aisle. Tom, lined up with his brothers and teammates at the altar, craned to see Alix in her wedding gown, the one thing she’d kept top-secret from him. The wedding march began and the rather over-crowded guests rose. Alix entered on her father’s arm. She paused as the photographer got his shot.
Her filmy long sleeves were embroidered with flowers and the same fabric filled in the bodice of what would have been a strapless gown otherwise. Neither poufy nor tight, the soft white material of the dress swirled down her long body to her very valuable toes. A transparent veil covered half her face and flowed down her back to the floor with only a plain, green myrtle wreath to anchor it on her straight, white-blonde hair. Solemn as only Swedes could be, Nels escorted his somber daughter down the aisle and turned her over to Tom, still dazzled by her simple beauty. When Alix turned to give her bouquet to Xochi and he saw her back, bare nearly to the waistline, the shimmering cloth molding to her hips, the groom burst out in a grin that his bride answered immediately.
Alix pronounced her vows in a clear and steady voice and boomed out her “I do” in a volume that rattled the rafters and some of the guests. Tom, forewarned by Ancient Andy about this old world custom that would determine who wore the pants in the family, answered her decibel for decibel. The Lutheran minister rocked back on his heels. “Well now, I think this is a match of equals—as it should be.” He pronounced them man and wife. The kiss that followed impressed the applauding congregation, too. “Like whooping cranes with their necks entwined,” Dean muttered from his place as best man. When the newlyweds untangled, Tom replied, “I heard that.”
The couple led the procession from the church. Edie, escorted by T-Rex, strewed flower petals with wild abandon. The bridesmaids and groomsmen paired off beginning with a very pleased Tille and Vince who wore a tuxedo with unexpected élan, ending with Stacy and her closest brother, Teddy, who toiled along on his armband crutches, then Dean with Xochi on his arm. Caught off guard, they mindlessly followed Alix and Tom when they veered from the peony-lined path and tromped to the meadow to have pictures taken with the curious cows that came to the fence to observe. From the couple’s shared laughter, another private joke.
In the reception hall with its garlanded rafters and gleaming brass, the overflow guests had taken advantage of the open bar, but left the amber bottles of aquavit sitting on runners of blue and white Swedish weaving and spaced along the tables for the many toasts to follow. Instead of settling into the bower designed for the bride and groom, Alix batted away the photographer and headed for the smorgasbord that began with an array of fish—fresh, smoked and pickled—moved on to meats carved to order, a myriad of hot dishes, and ended with a mountain of cheeses the size of Timms Hill, Wisconsin.
“I’m starving,” she said.
Tom followed, and everyone else got in line while she piled her plate. On a separate table sat two cakes. T-Rex stood staring at them with the concentration of a little boy who wanted dessert first. The bride paused on her way back to the bower. “Pretty tempting, huh?”
“What’s that one?” T-Rex pointed to a conical creation three feet tall and topped with flowers.
“A spettekaka, a spit cake.”
“No foolin’? They make it with spit?” His eyes went wide with boyishly gross delight.
“No, no! It’s made on a cone-shaped spit like your dad uses to rotisserie chickens. See, they dribble the batter on to make the cake all light and fluffy. Balancing her full plate on one hand, she pinched off a morsel and fed him a piece. “Good, Ja?”
“Real good. What about the other cake?”
“Under all that white icing and sugar poppies, it’s chocolate.”
T-Rex hugged the bride hard around the waist. “I love you, Alix.”
“Beat it. She’s mine, kid.” Tom gave his youngest brother a light swat on the behind. “Go eat something, or Mom will say no cake for you, spit or otherwise.”
They ate, they drank and endured many toasts growing more elaborate and sometimes involving song as the aquavit bottles emptied. At one point, Beef Bolivar stood gripping his shot glass in a mighty paw. “Alix is like a sister to me. You better take good care of her, Tom, or you answer to me.” He swayed a little and sat abruptly. That toast was as good as any other excuse to down more liquor. Ancient Andy had said something similar earlier.
Andy Mortenson sat with one arm slung around Mariah Coy dressed in cleavage revealing poppy red to match the décor. Oxygen tank or not, Mariah never missed a good party. Sharing a bottle of aquavit with Andy suited her just fine. She opened her sequined handbag and handed several pages of sheet music to the bride and groom. “Here you go. Have fun out there.”
The couple dropped off the music, got the approval of the bandleader, and continued on their rounds to the table of redheads that included his birth mother and stepfather, Howdy. After tears and embraces there, Tom said, “I guess we have to say hey to Prince and Ilsa. At least, they didn’t haul the babies along this time.”
“No need to compete since Stacy decided not to bring Wynn,” Alix whispered as they approached the table where most of the single Sinners’ players hung out hoping to score with her Swedish blonde Lindstrom cousins. Ilsa and Prince held a place at the end of the table.
There were baby pictures to be admired, however, the latest of little Princess Dobbs. “Oh, so sweet and cute.” Alix did her best to coo over them.
“Not so sweet. She made me wait an extra two weeks to be born. Mein Gott, what a labor and nine pounds, she was. Months to take off that weight to fit into my mermaid gown for our wedding. You look very nice, Alix, but mine will be tight with a big ruffle on the bottom. Seeing your bridesmaids, I am thinking dirndls for mine. Folk dress does not suit Stacy very well, nein?”
Prince winced the slightest bit. “Well, baby, the Temple of the Dreadlocked Jesus ain’t near finished yet. We got plenty of time to figure that out.” He stared at his child’s pictures before pocketing them. “What I want to know is how Dean got a blue-eyed, blonde baby girl, and I got one with fuzzy brown hair and amber eyes.”
“Because she is like her papa,” Ilsa spit out. “Her very handsome papa,” she added quickly enough to allow P
rince Dobbs to preen by fluffing his dreads.
“Princess is adorable,” Tom said, ever the diplomat. “Have a good time this evening.”
“I know you will!” Prince shouted after them.
Tom moved Alix away by her elbow and leaned toward her ear. “Ours will be prettier, all strawberry blondes.”
“You’ll have to wait a few years to find out.’
“You ready for the dancing?”
“As I will ever be.”
The carefully selected band that assured them they could play romantic songs and fast contemporary pieces as well as frisky polkas got the cue from Tom, and the leader announced the bride would now dance with her father. Straight and stately, and not yet as drunk as many of his relatives, Nels Lindstrom guided his daughter around the floor. Joe Billodeaux cut in and showed off his footwork. When Dean took a turn with the bride, his father gathered Nell in her perky yellow suit and tucked her against his lapel like a bright sunflower boutonniere. He could still get a woman to follow him anywhere. Other members of the wedding party joined in. Beef Bolivar proved fairly adept at staying off Lorena’s toes, and Vince and Tille, expert enough together to try out for a revival of Cats.
Tom hung back until the slow song ended and the dance floor cleared. He gave the bandleader the signal. “The bride and groom will now perform their special dance together—the Whooping Crane. You might recognize it as another popular song, but the steps are original.”
The music of their first dance together at Mariah’s Place pulsed with a strong beat that rocked to the rafters. Starting out in the middle of the floor, Tom jerked his knees and flapped his arms pretty much the way he always danced. Alix lifted her skirt and held out her veil in her fingertips, swooping around him as if she flew on great white wings.
In the audience, Dean covered his handsome face with his hands and shook his head. Stacy pulled them away as the couple galloped by with knees and elbows flailing. She cupped her mouth to shout good wishes over the loud music. “I think you’ve mated for life!”