Page 35 of Playing Santa

“Get out there and win this thing,” coach says, whacking me on the shoulder as I trot by him, strapping on my helmet. I nod, then I glance up at the crowd a dozen rows up at the fifty yard-line and I see them. Ronnie and Jimmy standing and holding onto each other, watching me. My whole family fills the row in front of her and they’re all madly yelling and screaming. I feel like everything is on the line, as if how I handle the next few seconds will determine the outcome of so much more than this game, this moment representing how I handle my life.

Do I rise to the occasion, perform with cool passion and excellence in the biggest moments or do I shrink back from the test, crash and fail?

The thudding in my heart slows, my breathing steady and strong as I reach the spot on the field where I need to set up. Nothing else but my concentration on the task at hand enters my mind. Each step, each movement, each frame in my line of sight is crystal clear and defined. Only the moment at hand, my body and each movement and decision plays out as the ball is snapped and placed.

Then I take my steps and with well-practiced perfect form, I kick the shit out of the football. Watching, my breathing in and out normally, I don’t need to see the ball to go through the uprights, to see the ref’s arms go up, or hear the crowd’s cheering rise to a crescendo, to know the kick is good.

Sometimes I just know when a thing is right. Like the thing I have with Ronnie and Jimmy and Dasher. I turn back to the stands as my teammates crowd me and I trot to the sidelines, my joy-fueled adrenaline now kicking up, catching me up to the excitement of the moment as I reach the bench and glance into the stands.

Catching Ronnie’s eyes, I throw a kiss to her as if I’m a love-sick fool. Because maybe I am.

* * *

Family? She didn’t want to meet them, so I have her wait outside in the tunnel while my family goes back to their hotel rooms. They’re disgruntled about not meeting the girl I’m having dinner with, but my mom comes through and backs me up, understanding this is a new and big step that I’m not ready to take. I don’t correct her that it’s not me who’s not ready because it’s too much to explain. I barely understand the problem myself. But I respect Ronnie’s line in the sand.

After I shower in record time, we go back to my house and I order dinner in from Louie’s. A light snow falls as dinner arrives. Christmas eve hasn’t felt this special in a lot of years with Jimmy and Dasher playing and Ronnie sipping a glass of wine. I bring the food to the table and whistle, spoiling the Norman Rockwell-ish tableau because it has me anticipating too much.

We sit to eat and I watch them eat, their enjoyment more important than my empty stomach right now.

“This is delicious. As good as homemade,” she says. Jimmy nods and is about to talk, but Ronnie silences him with a reminder that he has a full mouth. She smiles at him and touches his cheek with affection, making him grin. Making my heart do funny things, a new dance move I’m going to call the Ronnie heart stutter.

What has my nerves on edge is the gift I have for her and Jimmy all in one big box, but after dinner when it comes time, I give her the gift.

“Thank you, Sean.”

“Oh boy. It’s is so big. Can I open it now, Mommy?”

“No. We’ll open it tomorrow, on Christmas morning. Only one more sleep to wait.” She ruffles his head and I breathe a sigh of relief that she’s accepted the gift gracefully.

“I have a gift for you too,” she says and goes to the mudroom to retrieve it.

When she brings it back into the kitchen I’m surprised. “What’s this? How did you sneak this gift in here?”

“I cheated—Garino helped me out while we were at the game.”

She gives me her gift – a cake wrapped up in a container that looks like it’s made especially for carrying cakes with a handle.

“It’s beautiful.” I take the top off and feast my eyes on every detail. She beams at me.

“It’s for desert after your Christmas dinner with your family. What do you think of the cake carrier?”

I laugh. “That what you call it? It’s pretty nifty.” She must have splurged on it and I’m touched at how much trouble and expense she went to in order to make this cake and present it to me.

“Let me take the cake out of the carrier so you can take it back and re-use it,” I say.

“No. It’s part of the gift.” Furrows of distress crease her brow.

“What the hell am I going to do with a cake carrier?”

Her face clears with a half-smile. “You have a point.”

I remove the cake from the carrier and put it on a plate on the counter. It’s decorated beautifully in red and green on white. It’s three layers high and big enough to feed twelve. She puts toothpicks all over it and then covers it in plastic wrap.

“That should hold it until tomorrow,” she says, looking as giddy as I feel.

“It looks fucking delicious. Irresistible.” Like you. I can’t say it out loud. She’s too skittish to tell her half of how I feel. Instead, I tease her. “I don’t know how you’re not big as a house making cakes all the time.”

She gives me a playful swat and a grin, those gorgeous sapphire eyes, twinkling. “I have more self-control than a six-year-old.”