Page 6 of Merry Mischief List

And as if I summoned her myself, Olivia’s smiling face fills the screen as—what the hell?

Another girl's lips are planted firmly on her cheek paired with the caption:Up to snow good.

Wow, Olivia. You’re texting me like I’m Jack Frost, but you’ve already clearly moved on.

A notification from my airline’s app comes on the screen.

Flight AA329 to Richmond International Airport has been canceled. Please contact customer service for information regarding the next available flight.

“Motherfucker.”

4

PORTER

Flight EH489 to Atlantic City International has been canceled. Please contact customer service for information regarding the next available flight.

A whoosh of relief leaves me, immediately replaced by a pressing guilt in my stomach.

I’m such a selfish asshole.

Gathering my things, I pop in a headphone, dial Mom’s number, and make my way to the exit.

“Let me guess,” she says, disappointed. “Flight’s been canceled?”

“Wow, Mom. You have a bug placed in the Tampa airport or something? Ijustgot the notification.”Not that I wasn’t expecting it.

“No, but I do watch the Weather Channel and was hoping your flight would get in before they shut the airports down for the next few days.”

“Me too,” I say, hoping to sound more convincing than I feel.

“If you weren’t such a workaholic, Imightactually believe you, Jimmy.” I chuckle at her use of the nickname—the one she’s been using since before I started football and was called exclusively by my last name. “Just promise me you won’t spend the entire holiday locked in your lonely, empty office rewatching the same players’ film and worrying about the bowl game.”

“The boys are depending on me—”

“And who are you depending on?” she cuts me off.

“I have Knox. You know he’s always there for me.”

“I know. We just really miss you. And listen, honey, I know being head coach puts a lot of pressure on you, but we all believe in you.”

“Just trying not to screw it up,” I mumble.

“Don’t worry. I’m sure it’ll be asuperbowl game, honey,” she says, and I can’t help but laugh, struggling to remember the last time we got through a phone call without some type of football or sports-related pun.

Like an oasis in the desert, a bar appears before me. A stiff drink sounds like the perfect remedy for the guilt filling me from this conversation. There’s an open seat next to a leggy brunette, and, given my only other choice is a guy who’s literally fallen asleep on the bar, it seems like a no-brainer.

“I know, you’re right,” I tell Mom, settling on the bar stool.

“Thank you. So please try to have someactualfun. Your x’s and o’s will still be there come December twenty-seventh.”

“Okay, Mom. I’ll try to have someactualfun.” The bartender walks up, and I pull the phone from my ear. “Bourbon, neat, please.”

“You got it,” he says before walking away.

“Alright, well, I’m gonna let you go, Jimmy,” Mom says.

“Okay, love you.”

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