Page 1 of Secret Santa

ChapterOne

I’d spent my entire life living in his shadow. Beckett Murray. Gold medal Olympian in London and Rio. The bad boy of swimming, whose Rio scandal rocked USA Swimming. He was also one of my older brothers.

While he will never admit it, his antics cost more than justhisreputation. Being the next one in line in the Murray swimming empire, I bore the brunt of his bad boy ways. Sure, I swam for Stanford, but everyone knew the reason I didn’t make Team USA had little to do with my second-place finish at time trials, and everything to do with them not wanting to take a chance that the middle Murray brother was the same—or god forbid worse—than the older one.

While Beckett spent years pulling himself out of a public relations nightmare, I developed relationships on the sidelines instead of in the deep blue. I actually stumbled into coaching. Once I was out of contention for USA Swimming, I had far too much time on my hands. That, and I needed money. A girl’s swim team at a local private school in Menlo Park needed a coach. I applied, and in those two years I rediscovered my love of swimming again. They were the most fun I’d ever had in or next to the pool. That’s when I knew where my destiny lay.

From high school coaching, I worked my way up through the college system. Community colleges morphed to a small local college and then the Big 12 came calling. Now, the Big 12 didn’t tend to be where the swimming power houses were located. The Pac 12, Michigan, Florida… Historically those were where the best swimmers in the country went. Lately, the Ivy Leagues had snuck into the top ten more years than not as well. The one division that rarely made a showing in the rankings? The Big 12. And that is why when a Texas area code popped up on my cell phone, I was more than a little shocked.

They wanted in they said. There was a myriad of reasons. Recruiting, of course. Bringing in a female focused sport that could be as lucrative as football was. Whether that was possible was up for discussion, but I couldn’t pass up the dollar figure they threw at me. And that is how I ended up moving into Fitzpatrick Place a few weeks before the school year started.

“Aren’t you an ice-cold glass of sweet tea?”

There was a giant pool in the middle of the complex. An older lady, I assumed it was Mrs. Fitzpatrick, lazed on a pool chaise, wearing an oversized hat and a sequined mumu that would put Elton John to shame, fanning herself with a magazine.

“Mrs. Fitzpatrick?” I asked, setting my bag down and extending my hand in greeting. “It’s a pleasure meeting you. I’m Presley Murray, your new tenant. Coach Kimball said you’d be expecting me.”

“First, honey,” she set her magazine aside and pushed herself out of her chaise, “when you say Mrs. Fitzpatrick, I turn and look over my shoulder for my mother-in-law. The name’s Fitzy. Second, you tell that big lug that he better come over dinner for I’m fixin to call his mama.”

She began walking toward the back of the property, pushing through a set of iron gates. “This is you right here. Here are your keys.”

They dangled from her brightly manicured fingernail. Just as I reached for them, she pulled them back, hiding them in her fist.

“I have an idea!”

We’d barely spoken on the walk over. She told me about the pool and how friendly the residents were. Where I could find her if I needed her. Nothing deep, so I wasn’t exactly sure what her “idea” had sprung from.

“I run an auction every holiday. And what would a holiday auction be without a new hunky hottie in the mix. I bet you’d get a pretty penny. All the ladies will sacrifice their paychecks to have a date with you.”

I definitely didn’t want to piss off my landlady at our first meeting. I had a swimming empire to build. The job hadn’t even started yet, and already I felt the pressure closing in. ESPN already showed an immense interest in my new position. Like that didn’t gird my loins.

“Mrs. Fitzpatrick—”

“Now, I done told you once, the name’s Fitzy. You callin’ me that’s giving me serious flashbacks to that old bat that raised my husband, and she and I are nothing alike. I am—what’s the word the kids these days are using? I’mflossin’.”

“My apologies,Fitzy.” I should win points for maintaining a stoic, properly apologetic face. “While I would love to take part in something that would help make new friends in the area and raise money for a good cause, my new job is going to pull a lot of my focus. It would be something awful to sign up for your date auction only to have to cancel on the woman who paid for that date if we make it to regionals, or something came up with work. It’s my first year as head swimming coach, and between you and me, my firstbigjob. The kind of job you wait your entire career for. I don’t want to mess that up. I hope you understand.”

She nodded and shooed me into my apartment.

* * *

Over the weeks while I settled in, she introduced me to various people in the building whenever she saw me pass back and forth. Once the collegiate swimming season started, the hours were long. Other than my bed, I saw little of Fitzpatrick Place, including its residents or landlord. That was until November first.

I nearly missed the bright red, glittery envelope practically super glued to my door. My name “Mr. Presley Murray” filled the expanse of the front in large swooping letters. Inside it was an equally bedazzled card from none other than my landlord herself.

I’m coordinating a Secret Santa at Fitzpatrick Place. From now until December 10th, please gift your neighbor a small trinket or treat ($10 max) each week. On December 10thI’ll be hosting a Holiday gathering in my house for all the participants. Plan to come with a $25 gift. And don’t tell me you can’t afford $75, young man! You told me all about your big job, so I know you can afford to have a little Christmas spirit!

Your Secret Santa is Ms. Priscilla King. She lives in C1and owns Ito Eats.

I know you’ll make me proud.

Go get ‘em!

Fitzy

The woman had moxie, that was for sure.

ChapterTwo

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