Page 21 of Touchdown Under the Mistletoe
Riley
For the first time in days, my heart doesn’t feel so heavy anymore. Instead, I’m hopeful. I realize it’s dangerous and stupid because clearly, Travis only sees me as a friend. Hisbestfriend, according to him, but still. I share that spot with my brother. Not exactly something a girl should get excited about, right?
In reality, nothing has changed between us. Travis is still leaving right after Christmas. I’ll also head home. But the fact that he’s actually single keeps a sliver of hope alive inside me.
I roll over to Travis’s side, but his bed is empty. Downstairs, voices and laughter mingle with the tunes of Silver Bells. I better get up too—today is Christmas Eve after all. I don’t want to waste the day doing nothing.
I slip out of bed and pad downstairs in my pajamas and fuzzy socks. The Christmas tree in the living room sparkles with what must be a thousand white lights, garland drapes every available surface, and there are people everywhere. Grandma’s doing a crossword puzzle in the armchair, Aunt Annie and Uncle William are debating about the proper way to make French toast, and I can hear Rosie babbling happily from her high chair. But when I head to the kitchen, I stop in my tracks.
Travis is standing at the stove with his back to me, wearing expensive-looking sweatpants and a faded college hoodie. His hair is sticking up in about five different directions, and he’s stirring something in a pot. Hot cocoa, from the smell of it.
For just a second, I let myself imagine it.Thisview. Every morning. Travis in my kitchen, making hot cocoa, his hair rumpled from sleep, humming along toHave Yourself a Merry Little Christmas.Coming home to him after a long day of teaching. Waking up together. Building a life. The fantasy is so vivid it almost hurts. The longing for it to be real hurts even more.
“Morning, Travis,” I finally say.
I need to ban fantasies about him and me from my mind because I don’t want to get my heart broken. Even though it’s way too late for that. I’m a goner for him.
He turns, and when he catches sight of me, his whole face lights up in a smile that makes my mouth dry.
“Morning,” he says. “I’m making your favorite. Cocoa with extra marshmallows.”
He fills two mugs and piles them both high with marshmallows, then hands me one. When our fingers brush, an electric current runs through me. I want to groan and tell my body to stop it already. I can’t have Travis. No need to make things harder than they are by making his touch electric, right?
“So,” Travis says, breaking the spell. “We need to figure out our talent show act. Any ideas?”
I lean against the counter. “Well, what are you good at?”
“Football. But I’m not sure how that translates to a living room talent show.”
“What if we lean into that? You do sports commentary, but for completely mundane things?”
“Like what?”
I shrug. “Like me wrapping a present. Or making a sandwich. You know, full NFL broadcaster voice like ‘And she’s reaching for the tape, folks, this is a critical moment’. That kind of thing.”
Travis smiles. “That’s actually brilliant. I could do play-by-play analysis of you doing normal holiday tasks like they’re Olympic events.”
“Exactly! And I just act completely serious about it, like I’m actually competing.”
“Oh, this is perfect. We could use household items as props. Make it look official. I could even do instant replays.”
“Instant replays?”
“Yeah, you know. You do something, I make you do it again in slow motion while I analyze your technique.”
The rest of the day goes by in a blur of preparation and laughter. Travis and I rehearse in his room while we snack on Mom’s homemade gingerbread cookies until Maddox knocks on the door to tell us we’re expected downstairs for dinner. Travis and I quickly change into our talent night outfits first, because it’s about to happen right after dinner.
I change into black yoga pants and a white tank top, then pull my hair back with a headband, like I’m actually about to compete in the Olympics. Travis emerges from the bathroom wearing his old college football jersey, and I have to actively stop myself from staring. The jersey fits him perfectly, showing off shoulders that have only gotten broader since his college days. It’s not fair that he’s almost forty and looks even better than he did in his twenties.
“Looking very quarterback-y,” I manage to say.
He laughs. “Thanks, but I’m a linebacker.”
“I know literally nothing about football positions, sorry.”
“That’s totally okay. Let’s head downstairs, eat dinner, and win this talent night, okay?”
“You bet,” I say with a grin.
