Page 86 of Love on the Waiver Wire

“I’m sorry.”

I shake my head, and he groans, his shoulders slumping. “I don’t think you are, Leo. You’ve been a real dick.”

“What can I do to make it better?” he pouts. “I don’t like this fighting we’re doing.”

“And I don’t like you controlling everything I do.”

“I know, and I’m really, really sorry. I can’t even describe how sorry I am, Isla.”

I sigh, walking away from the door.

“Am I forgiven?” he asks.

“It’s a start.”

* * *

Most of the guys on the team had to pick up their lives and move here on a whim. And because of schedules and games, most of them can’t go home for Thanksgiving.

Considering my parents usually aren’t even in the same country, Leo throws a giant Thanksgiving party for the whole team. Everyone who wants to is more than welcome to come. There’s always plenty of food, a questionable turkey, and plenty of carbs to go feed a revolving door of professional athletes.

There are some traditions that come with this. Leo tries a new turkey recipe every single year despite having no luck cooking said turkey, for starters. He spends days huddled over his computer trying to find the perfect recipe for the year. Then he goes to the grocery store to find the largest turkey he could possibly find, and then he buys several others. You want to know how many turkeys one singular athlete can eat? One. Depending on the size of the bird, I’ve seen these grown men absolutely house one.

“Yeah, that one belongs to James,” Leo pointed out one year.

“Like, just James?” I had to clarify.

“I mean yeah, what else would he eat?”

I look around at all the other dishes stacked around the island. “Literally anything else. Like, I don’t know, a normal person.”

“James isn’t eating carbs right now Isla, remember? He’s trying to make those gains. Pure protein, man.”

Two years ago, Leo decided that he wanted to try frying the bird. Which, as many may know, is extremely dangerous.

After a hefty donation to the closest firehouse, Leo asked them to very politely come oversee him fry said turkey in the parking lot.

The place didn’t burn down, but the turkey was questionable at best. I’m ninety percent sure that turkeys aren’t supposed to be as pink as that one was in the middle, but my brother insisted that it was perfectly cooked.

Last year he was upset that their coach wouldn’t make them their very own turducken, so he took it upon himself to make three for everyone.

It was a massacre.

One teammate brought his son, who proceeded to cry.

A second tradition is that I make the pies. I don’t know why he doesn’t allow anyone else to make the pies, but I’m the only one allowed to touch them.

He specifically sends out his invitations asking people to no bring pies, because we have them covered.

I don’t like making pies.

Something about having to roll out the dough, the flour getting everywhere, and the science of the baking just isn’t exactly for me.

I’m an okay cook, but I’m a lousy baker.

Every single year there’s someone mumbling under their breath that they could have made a better pie. And I believe them. I’d like them to. Please.

But no. Every year when I ask to get out of it a couple days beforehand, Leo tells me that in no way could I ever ditch the pies before informing me that if I possibly stopped making them, it would ruin their entire season. It would throw the mojo off, and there would be too many injuries and they wouldn’t have enough guys to even finish. Aliens would visit and kidnap the team.

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