Tristan
After the hayride, we make the pilgrimage to Young’s Dairy’s holy grail: fried cheese curds with cold apple cider.
Every bite is a sinful glimpse at heaven.
Some might find my description an exaggerated contradiction.
It’s likely, those people have never been in the presence of this Midwestern feast.
Across from me, Ligaya is casually destroying the willpower of every man in this county. Knee-high boots, jeans that should come with a warning label, and that caramel-colored sweater that I want to bury my face in. Preferably right where her cleavage peeks out.
It's a practical mom outfit on most women. But on her? I’m a goner.
Olivia is busy licking grease off her fingers while Orlando fights sleep, cheek smushed against Ligaya’s shoulder. She juggles both kids without breaking a sweat. My wife’s hair is a little messy from the hayride, lips pink from the cold. She catches me staring.
“What?” she asks.
I grin. “Just appreciating how hot my wife is. It’s a full-time job.”
Her eyes soften, heat flickering under the teasing. I reach under the table and squeeze her thigh. Ligaya takes a sip of the apple cider and makes a show of licking her lips.
“You know what you’re doing,” I state with a tinge of warning because this is a PG rated event. Giving me a hard on with those sultry eyes and lush lips is simply unfair.
“What do you mean?” Ligaya bats her lashes in mock innocence.
By the time we pile into the SUV, the sun is bleeding into the horizon, fields lit like fire.
Golden sunflowers hang heavy by the roadside, bowing as we pass.
Orlando snores softly in the backseat, Olivia mumbling about carving her pumpkin into a princess riding a dragon before she joins in the snoring.
I drive one-handed, my other hand laced with Ligaya’s across the console.
I think about that autumn years ago when our paths crossed again, colliding to alter the course of our lives. At the time, I didn’t realize I was lost. But Ligaya found me. Or rather, we found each other.
I retired over a year ago. Do I miss hockey? Maybe a little. But my knees don’t. And being home every night to cook for my family is a huge bonus.
Besides, I’m not completely cut off from my hockey family. I continue to work for the Mavericks in my role with community outreach, building programs for kids and expanding free hockey lessons to underserved communities.
Our house waits at the end of a leaf-littered drive, porch swing swaying in the breeze. We do the silent-parent move, scooping up sleeping kids, carrying them inside. They fit against our bodies like puzzle pieces.
When the twins are tucked in the toddler beds of their shared room, Ligaya and I go outside to the porch swing. It’s a gorgeous sunset, the sky converting pink streaks to deep indigo. I nuzzle into her neck.
“Give me some of that apple cider,” I murmur before taking her mouth, slow and deep. Ligaya greets my sweeping tongue with equal passion. I delve past the sugar to something much more delicious. Ligaya is my absolute favorite flavor in the world.
“Mm. Better than cider,” I tell her.
“You’d say that about fried cheese curds too.”
“Nah. Fried cheese curds have no rival,” I quip.
She laughs, soft and musical, then leans into me. “Better get carving, Daddy. Olivia’s expecting a dragon-riding princess by tomorrow.”
“Sure. Let me call Michelangelo from the grave.”
The swing creaks as she stands and tugs my sleeve to lead me into our home. By the time the front door closes behind me, I’ve already whipped off my shirt and her sweater.
Other things come off as we make our way past the messy living room and up the stairs. We’re nearly naked at the threshold of our bedroom when I see them.
Orlando and Olivia have crept out of their toddler beds and buried themselves deep in the blankets of our king-sized bed.
Ligaya looks up at me wide eyed, her hands covering her breasts.
“Wanna use the gliding chair?” I whisper.
Like teenagers sneaking around the house, we tiptoe to their old nursery which we converted into a playroom.
She drapes a blanket over the gliding chair and orders me to sit down. That is exactly what I do on the Best. Chair. Ever.
THE END