Page 73 of Love at Teamsgiving
The Knights come into the third period fierce. Beau is on his game as usual, but the Rebels play dirty, trying to handicap the home team with checks and hits rather than skill.
Apparently, our guys don’t appreciate that and instead of playing dirty back, they get deadly. I’ve never seen a group of hockey players move so swiftly or skillfully. They’re a veritable blur as they streak across the ice, almost like ghosts.
You see Hayden Savage, the right-winger one minute, then he vaporizes and is somehow at the other end of the rink the next. Redd is on offense and then disappears to play defense. All the while, Mikey hustles, but I can tell he’s conserving his energy. I’ve seen him play enough to know when he shifts from fourth gear to fifth and I anticipate it in three, two, one.
The guy is unstoppable as he performs a hat trick—scoring three times on the Rebels with less than twelve minutes left in the game.
The fans are in a fervor and I am too, screaming myself hoarse because the MVP tonight is mine.
I want to give him a post-game kiss, but don’t get a chance because they have to leave almost immediately to travel to an away game ahead of a storm up north.
The next day,it’s after dark and I’m unboxing supplies for the salon when I receive a fruit bouquet, also from Mr. Sensational.This is great timing because I’m starved.
Strawberries are out of season, but they’re delicious even though I stab myself with the skewer.
Mama must’ve heard me curse in Italian under my breath.
She chides, “Young lady.”
“Sorry, Mama.”
Her eyes light up when she sees the spray of fruit. “We were going to do these for your wedding.”
“At the time, I thought it was a good idea.” Rubbing my finger, I’m glad we called it off so none of our guests, young or old, got stabbed in the eye.
“Where’d it come from?”
I shrug, but I have a hunch and he’s over six feet of pure muscle, hockey tough, and has a weakness for Rice Krispies Treats. I’m still working on my pumpkin pie recipe, but I’ll make him some of those for when he gets back.
Mama riffles through the cellophane wrapping and says, “A card to Junie.” Unlike my friends, she breezes past boundaries and reads it first. “From your secret admirer.”
My cheeks warm and my heart flutters. Mikey doesn’t know this yet, but he’s already won me back.
Mama grunts. “He’s going to have some competition at Thanksgiving.”
“Who’s having what?”
“Your secret admirer is going to have some competition with Mikey,” my mother repeats slowly as if I’m dense.
I squint, trying to understand, but despite her speaking in Italian and me using English, there’s no language barrier. “Do you mean we’re having Thanksgiving with the Cruzes?”
“Carlotta and I have been planning the meal. Of course, there will be lasagna, but I’ve come across several corn-based dishes that we may enjoy, including polenta.”
Reflexively, I say, “We can’t spend Thanksgiving with them.”
“Of course we can,” Mama says as if that’s final.
“What about the food fight or the time the boys put gummy worms in the green beans or—?” She used to say the Cruzes were ruiners—much like the Roman Empire—especially of holidays,birthdays, and special events. It never made sense that we’d spend them together when things would routinely go so wrong, but it was like the moms wanted to prove that they could be the one to rise above it and make things perfect—or see the other one crash and burn.
Her gaze softens and she says, “Being mad and hating someone isn’t the same thing.”
I stagger, thinking about this for a moment, when I realize she and Carlotta have fully reconciled. I no longer have to play offense or defense between the families.
The feud is over, which means Mikey and I don’t have to choose sides or be loyal to one or the other. We can be to each other. Be together.
A sigh escapes at the same time as my mother makes a splatting sound, like the kind a little kid would do by sticking their tongue out of their mouth and blowing. Only, no, she’s crouching on the floor.
The sound comes again and I whip around as eggs fly at the windows of the salon. Forget the angry old man shaking his fist at kids who ride their bikes across his lawn. I fly out the door and start chasing the car down the street, but it speeds away.
