Page 26 of Cross Checks

“Hey, don’t worry about it,” Chase insisted, wrapping an arm around my waist. “All the rest of the meal looks and smells amazing. I’m sure neither of us will go hungry.”

His carefree response helped ease my frustration. It was good to have him ready to accept me unconditionally, mistakes and all.

“Thanks for being okay with it,” I said as I leaned into him. “I wanted everything to be perfect for our first Thanksgiving together, but it was a lot to try and balance.”

Chase kissed me gently on the cheek, his breath warm against my skin. “It already is perfect because we’re together, and that’s all that matters.”

The golden turkey, expertly basted and perfectly roasted, was juicy when I sliced into it. The enticing aroma filled the entire apartment. Chase stood by my side, his eyes wide, as I carved the meat.

He applauded. “I don’t think I could ever shove a turkey in the oven and have it come out like that. It looks like the ones on the magazine covers.”

“Thanks,” I smiled as I carried a platter of sliced turkey to our table. Chase followed at my shoulder, his gaze fixed on the Thanksgiving masterpiece.

As we sat down to our feast, we started to talk about memories of Thanksgivings past. Chase spoke about large family gatherings and how many years he had to sit at the “kids' table.”

“I can’t believe they don’t happen anymore in my family, but some key people have passed on, and it feels like the rest moved all over the country. I don’t have the time to get to anybody’s place and make it back in time for my hockey games.”

I laughed when he told me about joining his cousins to sneak bites from the dessert table, only to be chased away by his grandmother with a fly swatter in hand.

“It sounds like you had some amazing holiday celebrations growing up,” I said as I wiped a stray tear from my eye.

“Definitely,” he agreed, with his eyes sparkling. “Still, I’m not sure any of them can match this. It’s the best because you’re here.”

I agreed. Our intimate Thanksgiving dinner felt like a celebration of our growing love. Each shared memory would only bring us closer together.

We heard a knock at the door as I took my last bite of green bean casserole. “Did you invite somebody else?” Chase asked. He looked a little nervous.

I shrugged. “I wonder who it could be. I suppose I should go answer the door.”

Chase watched me suspiciously as I got up from the table. When I opened the door, his hockey coaches stood there waiting with Hoss holding a pumpkin pie.

“Happy Thanksgiving!” they both shouted.

I took their coats while Chase looked dumbfounded. “What are you guys doing here?”

“Well, I may have invited them,” I admitted sheepishly when I returned. “I know how much Coach Z means to you, and you told me about your conversation with Hoss about our relationship.”

“Thank you,” Chase said, his voice trembling with emotion simmering just below the surface.

“And Hoss here makes a mean pumpkin pie,” Coach Z insisted. “By the way, please call me Pete.”

“Couldn’t let the two of you have Thanksgiving dinner without a proper pie,” Hoss added as he handed it to me.

While Chase scraped his plate for any final pumpkin pie crumbs, Pete leaned back in his chair and started to share an amusing tale of an epic culinary disaster.

“So, there I was, in Hoss’s sister’s kitchen, determined to make a perfect Thanksgiving dessert from scratch.”

“Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “Youwere making the pies? I’m sorry, but that's a little hard to see.”

“Hey, I can be domestic when I want to be,” he insisted, feigning offense at my comment.

Hoss pushed his face into his coffee mug to avoid laughing.

“Let me continue,” Pete requested. “I’d found an amazing little recipe online, and it sounded so simple. I knew it would be easy to impress everyone.”

“Famous last words,” whispered Hoss.

As the tale unfolded, we learned about a whole raft of misadventures. First, Pete accidentally used salt instead of sugar, and before he got the pie in the oven, he nearly set the kitchen on fire.

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