Page 38 of Merry Mischief List
I release a quiet sigh of relief. “So that’s why you’re so stuck on your routine? Because last time you strayed from it, your life blew up? And you’re afraid it’ll happen again?”
“I guess that about sums it up.”
“Seriously?” I scoff. “Porter, that’s insane. It was anaccident. One you could have just as easily had while driving from home to the stadium.”
“Yeah, but I wasn’t driving from home like I should have been.”
“And? It doesn’t matter. We’re always exactly where we’re meant to be. Everything happens for a reason.”
“Sometimes things just happen. There’s not always a reason.”
“I don’t know,” I say, smiling softly. “I see how the guys look up to you at CBU. You’ve impacted their lives. Youcareabout them. That never would have happened if you hadn’t ended up coaching instead of playing pro ball. Maybe you should stop seeing your current life as a consolation prize and appreciate it for what it is.”
“And what is it, exactly?”
“The opportunity to make a difference. Arealdifference. And I’m not saying it doesn’t suck you can’t play pro ever again, because that fucking blows. But you influence the life of every player you coach. They look up to you. Pride themselves on your approval. You have the power to make or break those guys. To bring them up to the caliber of making the pros or weeding out those not suitable for it. Sure, as a pro player you could’ve scored some touchdowns, won some rich team owner a couple Super Bowls,” I tease, trying to lighten the conversation. “But what you’re doing at CBU could affect the game of football for years to come. You’re training the next generation of pro players. Ball’s in your field, Coach. Make it count.”
“You give a pretty good pep talk,” Porter says, and I lie back down to face him.
“I’m a cheerleader. Pep is in my DNA.”
“I guess that is an important qualification.”
The room falls quiet once again, and I dislike the idea of us going to sleep after discussing such a sensitive topic. “Alright, enough heavy stuff for the night. What’s your favorite Christmas memory?”
“Hmm… that’s a hard one,” he replies.
“Top of your head. When you think of Christmas, what comes to mind?”
He’s quiet for a moment, and just when I think he won’t respond, he says, “When I was younger, after my brothers and I would go to bed, or so my parents thought, they’d sneak to the living room to set up our presents. My brothers and I would watch silently from the top of the stairs as they laughed and helped each other put everything together for us. After they were done, my dad would bring in two glasses of red wine, and then he and Mom would slow dance in the living room to ‘I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus.’”
“Why does it not surprise me you couldn’t even let the magic of Santa exist as a child?”
“The magic was there.” He laughs softly. “It just wasn’t Santa.”
I reach out, placing a hand on his chest. “That’s so sweet.”
“I guess so,” he mumbles, placing his hand over mine and giving it a light squeeze.
“The scrooge has a soft side,” I say, and he nudges me under the covers with his foot. I nudge back, and our feet end up entangled.
“What’s your most embarrassing Christmas memory?” Porter asks.
“Over my dead body.”
“Come on.” His foot rubbing against my inner ankle has me struggling to think straight. “I shared; now it’s your turn.”
“Didn’t realize we were playing twenty questions.”
“Aren’t we?”
I toy with the thin chain around my neck. “Fine, but I want to preface this by saying I know it was ridiculous, and my family has absolutely never ever let me live it down.”
“Don’t tempt me with a good time.”
“When I was five, I asked Santa for a pink rocking horse, and on Christmas morning, there was this gigantic box in the living room. I was so excited I was shaking.Finally, after what felt like an eternity, my parents let me open it.”
“Is the embarrassing part coming or…?”
