Page 1 of Touchdown Under the Mistletoe
Chapter One
Riley
The first thing that hits me when I get out of my car is the smell of pine. Not the delicate Christmas-tree kind that you’d find in a holiday candle, but the full-blown, in-your-face aroma of the real deal. The kind that screams, ‘Welcome home, Riley! We missed you! Now put on some flannel and grab an axe.’
Not that I’m an axe-wielding kind of girl. That kind of behavior is more suited for my cousin, Knox, who works as a local hiking trail guide, but I do love me some flannel. I guess it’s a direct consequence of having lived in a small mountain town for my entire life. I still miss Maplewood Springs and plan to return here one day, but for now, I’m happy living a few hours away and teaching English to a bunch of hormonal fifteen-year-olds. And no, that’s not sarcasm. I love teaching, especially when I get to focus on literature and its rich history.
As I drag my suitcase through the snow, I grin at the familiar crooked mailbox at the end of our driveway, the one my dad insists on fixing every year and yet somehow always ends up tilted like it’s had one too many eggnogs. The house looks exactly the same, right down to the tacky reindeer in the yard that my mom bought when I was born and refuses to replace, even though it’s only got one ear left.
I stop and chance a glance at the Steelbirds’ house next door. Just like ours, theirs hasn’t changed one bit over the years. My brother and I used to hang out here all the time. Aspen and Travis were our age, and we grew up exploring Maplewood Springs together.
I smile. Travis… Whenever I think of him, my heart skips a few beats. I always carried a torch for the guy but was too afraid to admit that to him. We were great friends, though, and I settled for that. Something is better than nothing, right?
Even after he moved to college, he kept our friendship alive by sending me handwritten letters. I still have an entire box of them stuffed under my old bed. They’re probably worth a fortune now, since Travis went on to become an NFL superstar, but I’d never show them or sell them to anyone. To me, they are worth more than any amount of cash some tabloid or rich fan could ever offer.
Unfortunately, we kind of lost track of each other after he finished his degree. I get it, though. It wasn’t anything either of us did on purpose. He got sucked into a star-studded football career, and I moved to a brand-new town after accepting a teaching position there.
At least I won’t run into him this Christmas. He’s way too busy with his career and his girlfriend to take time off to visit his family, which is something I only learned from social media.
So the way I see it, there’s no chance whatsoever of rekindling the torch I used to carry for him. The last thing I need is for feelings to resurface for someone who’s unavailable.
I continue walking towards my parents’ house and let out a contented sigh. It’s good to be back. There’s something comforting about the predictability of your childhood home. The creaky front steps, the garland that’s been duct-taped to the porch since 1998, and the faint smell of cookies, which means Mom is already in full holiday mode.
I reach for the flowerpot by the welcome mat and retrieve the spare key. There’s a note on the hallway table from Mom, saying that they’re at the grocery store and will be back soon.
I hang my coat and knitted hat on the coat rack and place my snowy boots on the tiled floor. It’s nice and warm inside, but I’m still craving a hot cocoa with an extra big load of marshmallows on top. But when I open the hallway door that leads into the living room, the sight that greets me is far from festive or relaxing. Instead of the usual glow of Christmas lights that are strung around the entire house, my gaze is drawn to the water that’s trying to make its way from under the kitchen door.
Did Mom forget to turn the faucet off or something? I shove the kitchen door open and gasp. Water is gushing from under the kitchen sink like a scene straight out of a disaster movie. I look around in a panic, trying to figure out my next move. The water is spreading fast, inching toward the living room like it has a personal vendetta against my parents’ precious hardwood floors. I spot a stack of towels on the counter and dive for them, throwing them down in a desperate attempt to contain the flood. It’s a losing battle, though. There’s just too much water, and not nearly enough towels.
This is so typical. I come home expecting a peaceful, picture-perfect holiday, and instead, I’m dealing with an indoor swimming pool.
I grab my phone from my pocket to break the news of this water disaster to my parents. They’re still at the grocery store, blissfully unaware that our kitchen is currently auditioning for the role of Titanic. I swipe to call my mom, but before I can hit the button, I hear the front door open behind me.
“Riley? Are you here?” My mom’s voice echoes through the house, followed by the sound of rustling grocery bags.
“In the kitchen!” I shout back.
Mom appears in the doorway while I’m throwing the last of the towels down. Her face turns ashen, and for a split second, I’m afraid she’s having a heart attack.
“What’s going on?” she finally manages. “What did you do?”
I hold my hands up. “I didn’t do a thing, Mom. Water was already pouring out of the sink when I arrived, but don’t worry. We’ll fix this. I’ll run to the basement and shut off the main water valve.”
Mom looks around in a panic, her eyes wide as she takes in the cascading flood and the growing lake on the kitchen floor. “Oh no, oh no, oh no! What about the Christmas cookies? They’re getting soaked!”
I glance at the counter right next to the sink, where a fresh batch of my mother’s famous Christmas cookies sits on a plate to cool off. The sugary glaze on top is already dissolving into a sad puddle.
“You save the cookies and call a plumber. I’ll be right back from the basement, okay?”
She nods. “I’ll go get your father. He’s parking the car.”
I dash to the basement, hoping I’ll be able to turn off the valve before the water reaches any of the electrical sockets in the kitchen. The stairs creak under my feet as I descend into the dimly lit space.
I use the torchlight on my phone to give me a better view of the basement and quickly locate the main water valve. I turn it with all my strength, thankful for those Saturday-morning Pilates classes.
I make my way back upstairs to find Mom on the phone, still looking frazzled.
“Okay, I’ve called the plumber,” she says, hanging up. “They’re on their way, but it might be a few hours.”
