Page 8 of Secret Santa

With that, she disconnected. The cast of characters in the Presley Murray life story sure were a strange bunch. Not that I’d beenlonelyin Palo Alto, but I’d been kind of alone. Hyper focused on my career, desperate to get out from behind the Beckett Murray shadow had meant little socializing and certainly no dating. While I’d beenfriendlyduring my time there, I didn’t know if I had any friends, specifically. So how did I suddenly find myself surrounded by a motley collection of them? All of my brothers suddenly careened back into my life simultaneously. Two of them had women that were rapidly traveling toward familial permanence. And now a strange amalgamation of people in this new town I called home quickly ingratiated themselves into my orbit of concern and care.

“Hi Mrs. Murray.”I heard Beckett greet his soon-to-be-wife just as I disconnected. “No, nothing of importance. My brother rudely took a call in the middle of our sibling bonding, so I figured I’d check in with you and see what you’re up to.”

I chucked a bread roll at his head.

“I’m finished. The call was an unknown number from Texas I didn’t know if it was a team member,” I explained trying to reign in my impatient eye roll.

“I know you won’t be for another month,” he continued, smirking at me, and batting away the roll. “But I like the sound of it too much to wait to use it. Besides I’m about to ask Presley his thoughts on filling you up with babies before the wedding. It’s close enough now to ourI do’sthat it could be passed off as a miscalculation.”

“Beckett, I’m off the phone. And quickly losing my fucking appetite with all your sex talk with Lane. That is exactly the kind of thing Idon’tneed a mental picture of.”

After another easily five minutes of stomach-churning flirting, he finally wrapped up his call.

“If you’re gonna interrupt brother time with women, so will I.” He shrugged, tucking his phone back into his jacket pocket.

“Except mywomanis a seventy-year-old who also is my landlord.”

“Well, never expected you to be the cub to a cougar but whatever gets your engine running.” He laughed and smiled as our waitress brought another round of drinks.

“She’s got me roped into some ridiculous Secret Santa thing for the tenants of the building. She did me a solid and delivered my gift while I’m here in Toronto.”

“And the Secret Santa is also a seventy-year-old woman?” Beckett asked.

“No—she’s like our age. God she is something. Owns this kitschy little diner that leans hard into the whole Elvis theme. I’ve never seen someone so deeply satisfied to exist exactly where they are. I think it’s why I can’t stop thinking about her. She just seemed so fucking content. Not nervous, or anxious, or afraid of failing gloriously, like me. It’s her and a small staff at a rinky dink diner in a college town and she appears to love every single second of it.”

I didn’t realize until after my long monologue that I’d openly admitted to Mr. Raging Hard-On that I couldn’t stop thinking about her. A woman with whom I’d had a single interaction. And most of that conversation comprised of “oh you don’t have meatloaf, bummer.” I needed sleep. That had to be it. I was transferring my own feelings of doubt and inadequacy to someone who seemingly in the five minutes of boiled down conversation appeared to have it together.

“Presley Murray can’t stop thinking about someone?” Beckett raised his eyebrows. “This is an interesting turn of events for the Texas brother who is supposedly laser focused on his career right now.”

“Beck—I didn’t mean it like that. Iamlaser focused on my career. I can’t be interested in anyone right now. It’s just.” I took a deep breath as if that fresh air pumping through my lungs would bring me a sudden rash of clarity. “She seemed so with it. Like she never doubted her career path or what she did for a living. And given I wake up every morning in abject terror that I’m going to fuck this up, the idea of being that confident definitely holds its appeal.”

Our server placed our dinner in front of each of us, and the conversation lulled while we tucked in.

“Look.” Beckett began, holding his knife and fork at the ready of his plate. “I know it sucks living in my shadow. I say that with zero arrogance. You’re an excellent swimmer and an even better coach. I’veseenhow good you are. Don’t think I haven’t realized we lived in the same state for two years but somehow always made excuses about busy schedules and missed opportunities. I understand. I do. It’s because of me. You got punished for being my younger brother. It wasn’t fair to you.”

Palo Alto wasn’t exactlycloseto San Diego. Sure, they’re the same state. But California is huge. That’s like saying“Sorry I was visiting Pittsburgh and didn’t have time to stop by and see you in Vermont.”

“Pres—I will do everything in my power,anythingin my power—to help give you some wind in your sails. If that will make up for all the ways you caught the brunt of my bad press, just say the word.”

When we were in Vegas, ESPN asked us to do an interview together. Ever since that interview though, theBeckett Murray’s Brothermoniker only solidified the concrete around my ankles. I just wanted to be me. Presley Murray—great swimmer, even better coach. Not because of Beckett Murray.

“I appreciate it. Truly. But I need to stand on my own. To earn the respect of the team and the coaches outside of being the one off of Beckett the Olympic rockstar. I need to be Presley Murray, Big 12 coach who earned it all on his own.”

He nodded and looked down at his folded hands for long moments. “Just know that I’m sorry, okay? I’m sorry that as your big brother, I didn’t protect you. There were plenty of opportunities where I had a choice between tucking my tail between my legs and asking for forgiveness from USA Swimming. Instead, I arrogantly and mulishly dug in because I felt victimized. If I had to take the fall the rest of the guys should have too. But I was captain. It should have only been me taking the fall. That’s the role of a leader. And, as your older brother, I should have also considered how my actions impacted you.”

* * *

“So tell me exactly what we’re looking for?”

After the heavy absolutions that accompanied dinner, Beckett decided he should pick my Secret Santa gifts for Priscilla.

“Have you never bought a gift for a woman before?” he asked, as we walked the aisles of the Blue Banana Market across from our hotel. “This place is just like kitschy slash funny stuff you could get anywhere. Maybe we should go to the mall. Get her like a roots scarf or a bottle of maple syrup.”

“You obviously missed the secret part of Secret Santa. If I get her something from Canada she’s going to know it’s me.”

“You’re the only person traveling to Canada?” he asked, picking up a Moose singing “Oh Canada.”

“In town? Yes. It would be a dead giveaway.”

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