Page 43 of The Brotherly Shove

Tuscaloosa, Alabama

This is the worst Christmas Eve of my entire life. Even worse than the one when I was eight and snuck downstairs after I was supposed to have been asleep, just in time to catch Ma putting my gifts under the Christmas tree. She tried to play it off like she was Santa's helper and I had just missed him, but the jig was up. The magic was gone, Santa wasn't real, and I cried in Ma's arms while she rocked me to sleep like a baby.

Nope, this is worse than that. Here I am on some overzealous, overly funded college football field somewhere in Alabama. For some goddamn reason—whether it be global warming or the fact that the American South never got the memo that 85 degrees in December is not normal—the air is thick and muggy and I'm sweating through my pads. The Panthers are 56 yards away from the goal line, ten points down with :25 seconds left on the clock.

It's a lost fucking cause.

We line up, I call the play, and Lennon snaps me the ball. I take a few steps back, spot my wide receiver down the field. Isend the ball flying and he catches it, making it only a few steps before he's tackled to the ground.

Of course, the ball comes loose, and of course, it's picked by an Alabama defensemen who takes it and sails 70 yards to a touchdown with the ease of a kindergartener playing tag on the playground.

It shouldn't matter. We weren't going to win either way, but shit, that goal on a fumble is like a metric fuckton of salt poured into an open and festering wound. It takes all of my willpower not to take my helmet off and throw it to the ground, watch it crack under the force of my disappointment. However, the last thing I want to do is get myself stuck with a fine from the NCAA and a disqualification from the next game, so instead I hang my head, blocking my anger from the TV cameras as they angle towards me on my jog to the bench.

Alabama hits the extra point, knees out the last few seconds, and the game is over.

I'm like a zombie with the way I go through the motions of congratulating the players of the other team, even if I don't mean it. I shower, even though I'm too tired. I listen to Coach's attempt at cajoling us while also reaming our asses for the mistakes we made that cost us the game, even if we don't hear it. And I blindly follow Lennon to the back of the team bus and then eventually, into the elevator leading up to our hotel room.

To his credit, Lennon doesn't push. I know he's feeling the loss as hard as I am. We're athletes, we're programmed to win, win, win no matter what.

Ah shit, now I sound like DJ Khaled.

What I mean to say, losing gracefully is not in our DNA.

If it were just the loss, I wouldn't be feeling so awful. No, if it was just the loss, Lennon would be cracking stupid jokes to try to ease our pain, or maybe bitching incessantly about roguereferees like he was doing after our last loss in Chicago last month.

It's not just the loss, though. It's me, and the fact that I'm a giant baby who is ridiculously sad that it's Christmas Eve, and for the first time in my twenty-one years, I'm not spending it at home in Philly with my mom. I wish I could say I didn't know it would hit me so hard, but I knew. The moment we got our schedule for the season and I realized I'd be away from Ma on Christmas, I began sulking, and as the holidays have gotten closer and closer, the sulking has gotten worse and worse.

Sure, I'll be back home in a few days for New Year's Eve and Ma promised to do all our traditions, Feast of the Seven Fishes at the Flanningans' next door for early dinner, then home to drink hot chocolate and suck on peppermint candy canes in matching pajamas while watching a marathon of Rankin and Bass classics, ending with my favorite, The Year Without A Santa Claus. Then, I go to bed and pretend not to know that Ma is putting my presents under the tree.

It just won't be Christmas, so it won't be the same.

"Breaker," Len sighs, breaking the silence as the elevator reaches the eleventh floor.

"Don't, Len. It's fine. I'm fine. I'm just being a butt. It's not like half the players out there today didn't lose. It's not like they aren't missing out on something either," I say, pushing away from the elevator wall as the doors open. I speed walk towards the room, already ready to shake off Lennon's condolences and hop into bed with my face buried in a pillow. I get to our door, and I feel Lennon behind me before I see his arm snaking around me to swipe his key card while I continue to fumble with mine.

"You never know, B. Your night could be about to turn around," he says, and I snort.

"I seriously,seriously, doubt that Len," I say as he pushed the door open and nudges me inside.

It takes a moment—maybe even several moments—to register what the hell is going on in this room.

It's all lit up, but not by the usual harsh hotel lighting. No, there are strings of white, twinkling lights strung from the ceiling, the furniture, and the walls with what I think is probably Scotch tape. Fluff, like the kind you find inside a cheap body pillow, is scattered over the dresser and bedside tables, as well as in piles that resemble real snow on the floor. I see Len messing with his phone in peripheral vision, and in a moment, some Michael Bublé song starts to hum low from the Bluetooth speaker I always bring with us to away games.

I walk slowly into the room, circling and taking it all in. On the bed are two pairs of red and green flannel pajama pants decorated with snowflakes, and on the small table there's…

Oh my god.

"Lennon, is that…?" I ask pointing towards the table covered in food. I look up at him, and he has his hands tucked sheepishly in his pockets, a blush blooming on his cheeks under his thick facial hair.

"It's not exactly the seven fishes. If I had brought in a bunch of clams, cod, scallops and whatever else this morning, I have a feeling they'd have to burn this hotel room to get rid of the smell. But I did my best."

I move closer to the table, where bowls of Goldfish crackers, Swedish Fish, Whales cheese snacks, and cut up fruits shaped to look like various fish, octopus, and shrimp are practically overflowing the space. There's even some gummy lumps rolled into what I think are supposed to look like sushi rolls, as well as about a hundred peppermint candy canes and the makings for rich, yummy hot chocolate. If I checked the mini fridge, I know I'd find both whole milk and vanilla almond, because Lennonknows that even though I prefer whole, sometimes too much sugar bothers my stomach and dairy can exasperate it.

Hence, vanilla almond.

I run a hand over the table, then turn to look back at Lennon. He's stripped off his jacket and is fidgeting with his tie, clearly nervous.

"Len, you did all this? For me?" I ask, and I can feel myself choking over the words, the emotion overwhelming me and welling up in my eyes. He just shrugs.

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