Page 2 of Touchdowns and Tinsel

Turning around, I begin walking up the carpeted stairs, ignoring all of the wedding photos and family portraits hung on the wall, just wanting to get away from him as fast as I can.

But it's never that easy.

"I expect to see you tonight, Noelle," Cole says, his voice deep and commanding. "It's our Christmas Eve game, after all."

"I'll be there, Cole. I always am," I retort, not looking back as I continue to climb the stairs that seem never-ending.

Reaching the top, I quickly slip into my bedroom, closing the door behind me with a soft click that feels like locking the worldout. I lean against it for a moment, the adrenaline still coursing through my veins as I try to steady my breathing. Each day, the air in this house seems to grow heavier, laced with tension and untold stories that refuse to be buried.

I walk over to the closet and pull out an oversized sweater and some jeans, the familiar comfort of fabric around my body doing little to ease the weight settling in my chest. I stand before the mirror, staring into my own eyes as if looking for answers within the chaos. The lightness of my hair, the softness of my features—completely at odds with the turmoil swirling inside.

Pulling out a pair of underwear from my top drawer, I put them on, feeling an instant cold, slimy substance pressing against the freshly shaven lips of my pussy. My nose scrunches as I slide my hand down the front of my underwear, curious as to what the wet substance is. Running my fingers over it, I pull them out and hold my hand up in the light, seeing the tips of my fingers glisten, soaked in what looks like cum.

Bile rises in my throat, and I stand frozen, not sure what to make of the situation. Did he really cum in my underwear? Shaking in confusion and fear, I quickly slide them down, ball them up, and toss them into the wastebasket, cringing as I dig through my drawer to see if any others are ruined. A brief inappropriate thought of my stepson flashes in my mind, tightening the muscles in my stomach. My breathing quickens, the feeling of his cum still coating my pussy, and for a moment, I think about leaving it there.

What the fuck is wrong with you, Noelle? I ask myself, muttering under my breath.

I grab a wet wipe and clean myself up as soon as I come to my senses, deciding to skip underwear all together for the day.

Moments later, I emerge from my room, making my way to the kitchen with purpose. I need to take control back. The thought of Cole's icy demeanor grips my spine, and I grab my phone tosend a quick message to a friend—someone who understands the complexity of family grief. Just as my finger hovers over the screen, a crashing sound reverberates through the house.

My heart drops as the echo of laughter filters through the air, followed by a loud thud. I quickly race down the stairs, adrenaline propelling me forward. Panic skitters along my nerves as I reach the living room, where I find Cole and his friends doubling over in amusement at the sight of an overturned chair and soda spilled all over the white carpet.

"What happened?" I demand, though my voice shakes slightly, masking the surge of worry that knots my stomach.

"Nothing, Mom, just a little action before the game," Cole retorts, brushing the soda-soaked slipcovers with exaggerated nonchalance.

The others laugh, but the sound seems hollow in my ears, a veneer of enjoyment stretched thin over something darker lurking beneath.

I take a step back as one of the football players, Aiden, bows his head in mock apology. "Sorry, Noelle! We were just testing the durability of your furniture," he says, smirking, his voice playfully disrespectful.

"Better get that cleaned up before it stains," I reply, attempting to reestablish some authority in the room, even as the situation feels like it spirals further from my control.

Cole turns to me, a glint of mischief in his eyes. "You know,Mom, it’s your turn to host Christmas this year. Why don’t you show us what you can do with that kitchen of yours? We can all use a little festive cheer, right guys?”

Laughter erupts behind him, and I feel my heart race in panic and anger. “Cole, we talked about this. Just because your dad isn’t here doesn’t mean you can act like this is just another party.”

For a moment, the room falls still—an electric tension hanging in the air—and I see the mask slip from Cole’s face. The facade of the carefree quarterback is gone, replaced by something darker and more volatile.

“Why not?” he replies, his voice low and dangerous, the image of the playful boy evaporating. “You think you can just hide in here and pretend everything’s fine while you’re clearly not okay? I know what you've done. Did you get my gift I left you?”

My heart stutters. Each word feels like a knife, cutting deeper into the already painful wound that I’ve tried so hard to mend. “What are you talking about?” I demand, voice trembling but firm.

His eyes, usually so green and sparkling, are like dark pools now, full of accusations and implications. “Don’t play dumb, Noelle. You can’t just replace my dad and expect me to accept it. You should feel guilty for taking his place.”

“I'm not trying to replace anyone!” I shout back, my frustration boiling over, a shriek born from years of bottled-up emotion and fear. “Nicholas was my husband. I loved him just as much as you did—but he's gone—and I’m trying to pick up the pieces! I’m not your enemy, Cole.”

His friends exchange uneasy glances, and I sense the tide of the atmosphere shifting. Suddenly, all eyes are on me as Cole’s earlier bravado seems to waver under the weight of what I said. Something snaps within me—an unyielding resolve blooms in the pit of my stomach.

“Everyone gets a choice in how they grieve, Cole. If you want to spend Christmas sulking—”

“I’m not fucking sulking, Noelle,” he interjects, his voice dangerously quiet, but there’s a tremor of disbelief in his tone.

“Then make a damn choice,” I challenge him. “Quit acting like I’m the villain. I’m trying to create a new normal for us. Maybe you should stop trying to destroy what little peace we have left.”

His gaze shifts, conflicted, and I can almost see the battle within him. The room is silent except for the distant hum of the refrigerator and the muted sound of snow piling outside. Finally, after what feels like an eternity, he tilts his head as if really looking at me for the first time.

“Maybe you’re right,” he mutters, the bravado flickering but not extinguished. “But I need to know if you can handle being here without him.”

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