Page 182 of Nutmeg + Mistletoe
Matteo follows, gentler. “It hurt, hermano. You’re one of us.” Matteo winks because he was in on the secret but I don’t let the guys in on that piece. This is mine to carry. My mess to clean-up.
Then Justice.Whack!“Made me feel like I wasn’t on your team. Like we weren’t enough for you to lean on.”
Each one takes a swing, each one letting me feel the weight of what I’d said. And then, slowly, the mood shifts.
“You work harder than anyone.” A thump to the chest.
“You push us to be better.” A tap on the shin.
“You always pick up the check when the rookies forget their wallets.” Another whack, this one paired with laughter.
“You’re a pain in the ass—but you’reourpain in the ass.”
By the time they’re done, I’m bruised in body and ego, but my chest feels lighter than it has in days. They didn’t just beat me down. They built me back up.
When they finally untie me, we’re all laughing, the locker room buzzing with something that feels a hell of a lot like Christmas spirit.
And then Croix, never one to waste momentum, shouts, “And now it’s time for caroling! That’s on the Las Posadas agenda, right, ‘Teo?”
Matteo’s grin is wide enough to split his face. “That’s right, hermano! You sing, you share joy—it’s part of the tradition.”
The locker room buzzes with sudden energy. Justice hops to his feet, clapping his hands. “Let’s do it. Let’s go caroling.”
Matteo adds, “To the front office staff. They’re the ones who really need to see we’re united.”
The suggestion lands like wildfire, spreading fast. Guys start whooping, tossing sweaty shirts across the room.
Croix raises his rubber candy cane in the air like it’s a mic. “We do it shirtless. With Santa hats!”
The roar of approval nearly rattles the lockers. Someone digs into the equipment trunk, and I swear to God, out comes a box of Santa hats like they’d been planning this all along.
I shake my head, still half tied up. “I know the perfect song,” I say, grinning despite myself. “But can someone untie me before I become the world’s saddest Christmas decoration?”
Luca rips the tape free from my wrists, and before I can catch my breath, I’m swept up into the ridiculousness—twenty grown men, bare-chested, Santa hats crooked on their heads, buzzing like they’ve just won the damn championship.
Next thing I know, Coach Jones is at the front of the pack, strutting down the hallway with a radio hoisted on his shoulder like some old-school rap crew, only instead of N.W.A., he’s blastingMerry Christmas, Happy Holidaysby’N Sync.
And the Strikers—God help us all—are caroling shirtless through the executive offices—half naked, sweaty, and off-key. All belting out the chorus while the front office staff doubles over in laughter.
And of course, everyone has a phone in hand recording us.
By the time we hit Marlow’s office, Eslin and Tatum are in there with her, clearly scheming over wedding plans, I’m sure. The three of them look up, startled, as twenty half-naked Strikers crowd the doorway.
Coach clicks the radio, and the room shifts as the opening notes ofO Holy Nightswell through the hall.
Matteo steps forward, voice rich and steady as he begins the first verse in Spanish, his accent warm and reverent. Croix follows, picking up the next lines in his native Irish tongue, Gaeilge, his tone rougher but no less heartfelt, the old language giving the carol a weight that settles over everyone.
Then, one by one, the rest of the team joins in English, their voices uneven but full, echoing down the corridor. It’s messy, imperfect, but somehow it feels holy all the same.
When the chorus rises—“Fall on your knees”—I drop to mine without thinking, my body moving before my mind can catch up. My head finds its place against Marlow’s belly, her warmth grounding me as the world narrows to just this moment.
“Oh night divine,” I whisper, the words sinking into her skin, into me, into the life we’re about to build. And the one we’re about to bring into this world.
Chapter sixty
Hitched On the Pitch
Eslin
