Page 37 of Holiday Hostilities

Must be yet another superstitious hockey thing.

“Nope.” Lars shakes his head, then glances around mischievously, looking not unlike a hulking blond leprechaun. “But you’re on the right track. It’s a game of who can eat the porridge and find the almond the fastest.”

“I’ve always been the fastest at shotgunning beers,” Colton boasts proudly, until he scrutinizes the cauldron and its goopy contents. “Thoughthismight be a different beast.”

“What do we win?” Aaron pipes up.

“Ah, yes, the best part.” Lars’s eyes widen with excitement. “The winner receives the marzipan pig!”

Of course they do.

It’s so totally random that I love it, but it’s also another reason I unfortunately can’t take part in this seemingly delightful Norse tradition.

“A marzipanpig?” For once, even Jimmy looks thrown off.

“Ya.” Lena nods solemnly. “It is very good luck to win.”

While the guys initially seemed a tad thrown-off at the mention of the marzipan winnings, the words “good luck” act as some sort of trigger. The competition turns even fiercer, the fantastically bizarre prize clearly no deterrent.

I glance at my phone again—still nothing—and look up to find Aaron watching me. “This is no time to be checking your phone, Lil Griz. This is game-face time!”

I roll my eyes. “You really wanna win a marzipan piggie that badly, Marino?”

He looks at me like I’m a total imbecile. “It’s not aboutwhatyou win, it’s aboutbeinga winner.”

“Duh,” Jake adds, drawing out the word like he’s a sorority girl. Which gives me final confirmation that he has, indeed, had at leastdostoo many Dos Equis.

Lena begins dishing out portions of the dessert and the Cyclones players all lean forward, eagerly awaiting a bowlful. Meanwhile, I sit back in my chair, moving out of the way of the testosterone-fueled competitiveness.

And that’s when my phone buzzes on my lap.

It’s my supervisor.Finally.

When I got the email about twenty minutes ago from AmeriJet HR, I didn’t think much of it at first. Until I actually opened the email, scanned next month’s schedule and…

How, oh how, am I off for Christmas?!

It still doesn’t seem possible. I was so sure that by Christmas Eve I’d be en route to Bangkok or Bora Bora—or Timbuktu, for all I cared—that it took me a few moments to notice the little block of green on the grid, stretching from December 23rd to the 27th.

No matter how many times I refreshed and reopened the email, the block of green remained the same, glaring up at me tauntingly.

I told myself not to panic, not to stress over something I could fix. With my phone propped on my thighs under the table so as to not look completely and utterly rude to the rest of the dinner guests, I’ve since posted a trade request on our company’s internal website, and texted my supervisor and every other colleague I can think of. I’ve tried to make my messages short and sweet and not nearly as panic-stricken as I’m currently feeling.

Because so farno oneI’ve contacted is willing to swap shifts with me. You’d think someone would jump at the opportunity to have the holidays off work, but so far, I’m seeing excuse after excuse. Apparently, AmeriJet pays extra for Christmas shifts, and my colleagues are eager for the dough.

As I open the text from my supervisor, my heart sinks all the more.

There’s nothing he can do.

Fricking Christmas, I tell you.I’m legitimately starting to think that Christmas magicisreal, but it’s black magic that’s out to get me.

Pressure builds in my temples. On top of my general need to escape for the holidays, I obviously cannot be anywhere near my apartment during the seasonal sacrilege that is my roommates’ three-day Christmas rave.

I’m so preoccupied, chewing on my lip and texting Jing to see if she knows anyone else who might like to have Christmas off, that I barely register the bowl placed in front of me.

“Thanks,” I say with a distracted smile.

My attention still firmly focused on the three little dots where Jing is typing, I dig into my bowl.

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