CHAPTER 26 Tatum Barker
Peppermint Schnapps
Once we’re on the road on our way back home, I ask, “What happened with the quarterback?”
Ford clenches his jaw, and I watch as it works back and forth. “He sprained his shoulder.”
“Ouch. What does that mean?”
“Torn ligaments. He’ll push to come back sooner, but if it doesn’t heal completely, he won’t have the range of motion to throw deep balls.”
I force away the rather immature inclination to make a joke about deep balls.
“But if he doesn’t come back sooner, our playoff run is fucked before we even get underway,” he finishes. He glances over at me. “Nice sidestep on the deep balls, by the way.”
I giggle. “You like that?”
He chuckles as he reaches over and grabs my hand, keeping his other hand on the steering wheel. At least he can laugh about it.
“I’m sorry, Ford,” I say quietly, and I squeeze his hand. “This must be so hard for you, but isn’t there still a chance you could make the playoffs?”
He lifts a shoulder. “There’s always a chance, I guess. But Reggie isn’t as seasoned as Grant. He doesn’t have the accuracy or the instincts. He’s nervous on his feet because he’s young and inexperienced.”
“Guess that means the tight butts have to work harder,” I say, and my cheeks burn when I realize my mistake.
“Tight butts?” he repeats, calling me out on it.
“Sorry. I know you’re a tight end. I know that’s what it’s called. In my head, though, I see those tight, white pants over your cute little butt, and that’s where my head goes.” So much for resisting those immature urges.
“You think my butt is cute?” he asks.
“Adorable.”
He chuckles, but the levity doesn’t last long. He lets out a heavy sigh.
“How does this time of year usually go for you?” I ask, genuinely curious.
Christmas is a week from Friday. In my part of the world, we’re hanging wreaths and decorating trees and hosting office Christmas events.
In fact, I should be in Vegas now, but I have Kenzie on it.
She’s taking care of several Christmas events while I run away from my life in Vegas and attempt to create a new one here. Same last name, different brother.
He lifts a shoulder. “Depends on our record. There’s nothing predictable about December. Sometimes we’ve already secured our playoff spot, and other times we already know we’re out. And then there are the times like this year where every second on the field counts.”
“Which do you like best?” I ask. It’s a ridiculous question, right? Of course he’s going to prefer the year where his spot is secure.
He surprises me when he says, “Years like this one—minus the injury. I’m a competitor at heart, and there’s nothing more frustrating than being in a locker room with people who have already given up or, worse, who get cocky because the rest of the season doesn’t matter.
I’m leaving everything I have out there each week, but you find all kinds in a locker room. ”
“Are you close with your teammates?”
“I’d call most of them friends, but I’m probably closest to Cole, TJ, and Kellan.”
“Who, what, and where?” I ask.
He laughs. “Cole Andrews is a tight end. TJ Brooks and Kellan Price are both wide receivers. We hit the town together sometimes.”
I’m not sure why my chest tightens a little at that. They hit the town, and everybody knows that has to mean they’re out picking up women.
I don’t like the sound of that. It makes me wonder how many women he’s been with. It’s not my business, not really, but at the same time, if we’re getting married, it kind of is. And my big mouth opens before I get the chance to stop it. “What does hit the town mean?”
He shrugs. “You know. Go out. Get a few drinks together.”
“Pick up ladies and head home separately?”
“Sometimes,” he admits carefully.
“Is that what you do?”
“I can’t say I never have. But what I can say is that the last time Cole talked me into going out, even though I technically went home with the girl, I never stepped foot into her apartment and instead caught an Uber home.”
My brows dip down. “Why?”
He stares straight ahead, and his voice is low as he says, “Because it wasn’t fair to her that I was thinking of someone else.”
My breath catches in my throat.
Oh.
He means me.
I’m not quite sure how to respond to that, and I mumble something about how that was gentlemanly before I switch back to the topic at hand. “So do you even celebrate Christmas?”
“Depends what day of the week it falls on. If it’s a Monday or Tuesday, I’ll fly to Chicago for the day. Any other day, I either have practice or a game.”
“So this year it’s a Friday,” I say. “What are your plans?”
“Breakfast with my fiancée, maybe exchanging a gift if that’s something you’d like to do, and then it’s practice and preparing for Sunday.”
I press my lips together. What do you get the guy you’re going to marry that hails from a billionaire family and can get anything he wants at the snap of a football?
I’ll have to think about that, but I’m curious enough about what he’ll get me that I say, “I’d love to exchange gifts with you.”
He nods. “Then we’ll do it.”
“Can we get a Christmas tree tomorrow? It doesn’t feel like Christmas at your place, so we need to decorate.”
“Absolutely.” A cute little crooked smile plays at his lips. “But Tate?”
“Hm?” I ask, glancing over at him.
“It’s our place now.”
My heart melts a little at that.
We arrive at our place, and I pull up a cheesy Christmas movie as I settle in on the couch. “Watch with me,” I say, and he grabs some popcorn and settles in beside me.
Our thighs are touching.
I know we’re getting married. I know we’re in this trial dating phase. But he usually doesn’t sit this close to me, and I can’t help but like it.
A lot.
I want to touch more than just those thighs.
Our hands meet in the popcorn bowl, our eyes meet before either of us moves our hand away, and it’s as cute and as cheesy as the movie we’re watching.
We haven’t even made it to second base, but I’m definitely feeling some feelings.
Those feelings only intensify as we head to the store the next morning, and he tells me to pick out whatever ornaments I want.
We drive to the Christmas tree lot next, and he lets me take the lead.
He doesn’t balk when I pick out the biggest tree, as I imagine how perfect it will look in the middle of his floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the bay, and he doesn’t complain with a single word as he wraps it in twinkling lights the moment we get it unloaded and set up.
Instead, he hums Christmas carols along with the random playlist Alexa blares for us while I sing at the top of my lungs as I take the ornaments out of their protective packaging to get them ready to hang on the tree.
He pours two glasses of some sort of liquor, and he hands me one.
“A Bradley tradition,” he says, holding his glass up.
I must look confused because he clarifies as I tap my glass to his.
“I’ve had a glass of this every year around the holidays since I was fifteen, usually while I’m decorating or doing something festive.”
“Fifteen?” I repeat, taking a whiff of it.
He chuckles. “Yeah, well, when you have two older brothers and an older sister, you get started early. It was something Madden drank in college, and he brought a bottle to our family holiday gathering. Dex was home, too, and they got wasted on it. They offered me some, and I chugged a full cup. Needless to say, it wasn’t long before I was puking my guts out. ”
“Most people would never drink it again, but that made it a tradition for you?” I tease. I take a sip and wrinkle my nose. It’s strong, whatever it is, and I take a look at the bottle. “McGillicuddy’s peppermint schnapps,” I read.
“I always keep a bottle around for the holidays. Reminds me of simpler times with my brothers.”
I’m tempted to ask if Archer got drunk on it, too, but since he never kept a bottle of it around, I’d venture to guess he wasn’t part of that tradition.
And besides, I don’t particularly want to talk about my ex right now.
I tip the glass to my lips and take a sip, and it’s actually pretty good. It warms my chest and leaves me with a minty taste in my mouth.
“Hot chocolate was a tradition in my family, and honestly, I think this stuff would be pretty good in a cup,” I say.
He nods. “It is. I’ve had that many times. But straight is still my favorite.”
We sip on our drinks slowly, so nobody winds up puking his or her guts out. Once I finish the first glass, I pour a second as we continue to work on decorating the tree together.
I’m a little tipsy an hour later when I take a break to make us some hot chocolate. Only…I can’t find any.
“Ford?” I yell, and he’s behind me a second later as I stand in the pantry.
“Yes?”
I chuckle. “Do you have any hot chocolate?”
He twists his lips with a bit of disappointment. “I don’t think I do.”
“It’s a holiday tradition. I don’t just want some. I need some.”
He laughs. “There’s a restaurant downtown that has hot chocolate and churros.”
“Hot chocolate and churros?” I ask, tilting my head. “I think it just might be the combination I never knew I needed.”
“Then let’s go,” he says.
“Wait,” I say, and I grab his arm.
His eyes land on my hand first before moving up to meet mine. He raises a brow, and I yank on his arm to pull him closer to me, but he’s a huge football player who doesn’t budge from my efforts. He looks confused, so I make it clear.
I toss my arms around his neck, and I rise to my tiptoes so my mouth can collide with his.
He responds immediately, moving his arm to hook around my waist as he opens his mouth to mine.
Heat pools between my legs as I move a hand to cup his jaw, to feel the rough hairs there to remind me that this is really happening between us.