Page 72 of First Down Promise

“I’ll get that for you,” Abby’s sweet voice chimes from down the hall. Her heels click on the tile as she approaches.

“Happy Friendsgiving, Abs,” he says and gives her a quick hug.

I press my knuckles into the counter. “Get the smooth one?” I ask Coop.

“You know it, brother. Whole cranberries are nasty,” he answers and pulls two cans from a grocery bag.

“Oh, shit, I should check the bird,” Pete adds, turning to the large, sliding backdoor.

“Ooh, I’d better come with.”

As Coop and Pete head out to the backyard, I overhear Coop telling Pete he needs to embrace the South and try frying next year. I laugh to myself because, frankly, it’s true. That’s the only way Dad did it for the fifteen Thanksgivings I spent with him.

“Dane, looking crisp. New shirt?” Abby says, washing her hands at the kitchen sink.

“More like, I’ve had it hanging in my closet with the tags still on for a while,” Dane replies.

“You need to take Pete shopping. His style is…not it,” she says, making Dane laugh.

Dane’s the only one who ever dresses up for things like this, whereas Coop, Pete, and I always stick to casual. Abby usually did too, so seeing her in heels and a skirt was a surprise. And those high socks better make a comeback soon. Oh my God, I’m thinking about Abby’s calves being sexy. I rub my temples and try not to keep looking at her, but fail miserably.

“He’s trying too hard. Subtle is the way to go.” Dane’s smile fades as his sharp blue eyes flicker between Abby and me. “So, I don’t know if I should be impressed you can hide this from Pete or concerned by how well you lie.”

She steps toward him and smooths his collar that’s threatening to roll up. “Oh, Dane. It’s Friendsgiving. Lighten up, okay?” She smirks at me as she returns to prepping the side dishes.

“Need help?” I ask.

Dane brushes past me. “If I catch you two in the coat closet, so help me God,” he mumbles low enough only I can hear.

“Don’t be jealous,” I quietly joke.

“What are you guys talking about?” Abby asks with a furrowed brow.

Just then, the sliding glass door opens, and cold, smoke-scented air rushes in with Coop’s southern drawl, blabbering on about frying.

“I haven’t had fried turkey since I lived in Texas,” I say to back up Coop. “It’s the best.”

His face lights up. “See, man?” He playfully smacks Pete on the back of the shoulder. “You’ll never go back, Pete!”

“That’s my throwing shoulder, you motherfucker,” Pete groans, trying to stretch his shoulder and wincing.

“Oh, shit. Sorry,” Coop says and drops his gaze like a dog with its tail between its legs.

Pete tilts his head back and closes his eyes. “Fuck,” he groans again.

“You need to get a trainer to check that out,” I say.

“No shit.”

Coop hadn’t smacked Pete that hard, but I think it aggravated an already bad shoulder after Thursday’s game. We really need that damn shoulder to behave for the next five or so weeks remaining in the regular season.

Abby’s heels clicking on the tile again breaks the tension as she walks to the wine refrigerator and pulls out a bottle of red. “Anyone want any?” she calls over her shoulder as she pours herself a glass. She had to cheer on Thanksgiving, and she deserves to loosen up after spending the game in the cold wearing so little.

“What are you getting?” Dane asks.

She lifts the bottle and reads the label. “Vintage red?”

“Alright,” he replies.