Page 12 of Christmas Cheer

If she decided to keep it.

If we were going to have a kid together.

If that would keep her from going to Germany.

The packaging is funny. Not only does it have that cardboard holding it in place, it also has four empty pop-outs that match up with spaces in the top piece of cardboard. I’m debating if there’s a way for me to peel off the foil and just glue it back down, but blister pack foil isn’t like kitchen foil. This is going to be complicated.

I flip the oven to preheat because I promised Keira I’d make us brunch. I intended on making something fancy to impress her with my cooking. Instead, I pop out the frozen hash brown casserole mom dropped off on their way out of town, absolutely the proudest she could be of herself for remembering how important this tradition is to me.

It’s not. I was excited to not have to force it down to avoid upsetting Mom. I was going to pawn it off on my roommates, who don’t care nearly as much about what they eat. Now I’m crossing my fingers Keira will think it’s endearing. Memories to build off of and shit.

We’ll make our own Christmas casserole that doesn’t suck. Our kids will probably hate it.

If I get her pregnant this week, will we be forcing it on our kid in a year’s time? No, right? They’re still into boobs?

I’m gonna have to find a book about this. Or a YouTube channel. There’s gotta be something for guys just graduating college who decided the best way to keep their girl is to get her pregnant but have no idea how babies work.

Visions of Christmas cards received this month from the wives and girlfriends of former teammates, the matching sweaters and the babies in Halloween costumes but for Christmas, swim in my head as I raid my roommates’ bathrooms. Plan B is a plain white, round pill only a little bigger than an aspirin. With how closely doctors monitor us, I figure one of them has to have something close.

I strike gold in Gilmore’s bathroom with a laxative because the dude will not fucking listen to me about fiber. The pill is nearly identical and in a blister pack big enough that with some arts and crafts, I can get it to work.

Do I feel bad about giving Keira laxatives? Yes. Do I decide that we better do butt stuff tonight before she takes this? Also yes. Do I feel bad when I realize I’ll be giving her a laxative directly before we go to the airport where she’ll be stuck going through all the TSA stuff and then in coach seats because the cheerleaders don’t get to fly on the private jet with us? A little.

I’ll be really sweet and sympathetic if she complains about tummy troubles when we’re reunited in Miami.

I find nail polish from an antifungal kit in Wright’s bathroom because that dude will not listen to me about not walking around barefoot in the locker room. I use it to glue the package back together. I leave it there to dry while I rush down the stairs to the kitchen to pop that casserole in the oven.

The moment the timer’s set, I hear a door open upstairs. I grab two champagne flutes from the top shelf where we keep all the barware that we use to impress ladies with, slide across the kitchen table to save time getting to the fridge, and grab a bottle of champagne along with the orange juice.

Keira appears in the coziest looking ice blue — which matches my eyes not hers, but I dig it — velour sweatsuit and cute little auburn braids as the cork pops. I have a mimosa poured just in time for her to stretch her hand out.

“Merry Christmas, girlfriend,” I say as I clink our glasses together.

Her nostrils flare, Mom’s casserole already hitting her.

Or not. Instead of wishing me a Merry Christmas and giving me the kiss I deserve, she blurts out, “Oh My God, how are you still this sweaty? Go take a shower while I scare us up a French toast.”

Chapter 6

Keira

Between my Frenchtoast and Mrs. Wright’s hash brown casserole — which Ryan thankfully warned me about years ago so I knew to brace myself before taking a bite of it — we have a nice brunch as we discuss what to do with the rest of the day. Evan is pushing to stay home and watch Christmas movies, a surprisingly humble activity considering that I know he must be getting stir-crazy without the whole world fawning over him. It’s nothing I’ve ever done before — the Christmas movie part, not the staying home on the holiday — but he’s enthusiastic enough about it that I can’t complain. He even says he wants to curl up in front of the TV in the den so we can get a fire going, and that’s surprisingly innocent for him. I can dig it. He’s not pushing for sex, and that I can very much dig.

Not that I’m not thinking about it. I may not have had much recently, but I do enjoy sex. I’ve had some wonderful partners in my life, although none of them quite match what happened yesterday with Evan. But I prefer to be in a relationship, definitely. Partially for my reputation, but also for myself. I’m not someone who generally goes for one-night stands.

This plan to be a couple for a week is a good one. This could be my love affair. Everyone needs to have one, right? This could be mine, just to get it out of my system before I go to Germany and focus on my career. I’m sure I’ll eventually find someone to marry and start a family with, but that’s a distant thing. Nothing is going to be more important than establishing myself as a top-tier trainer, so it’s good for me to have that one fling everyone should have while I’m still in the U.S.

With Evan.

But we’ll watch the movies first.

I have this whole schedule laid out. We’ll watch the first movie and then pop popcorn and make hot cocoa before the second movie. We’ll get cozy enough during that second movie that maybe I casually touch his thigh or wrap my arm around his waist. I’m sure it won’t take much encouragement.

Can we have sex while a Christmas movie is playing? Is that weird? I don’t know. I’ve never really watched Christmas movies.

I’m feeling good about this plan as I stand and pick up my plate to take it to the sink.

“Oh hold up,” Evan says. “I haven’t had dessert yet.”

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