15. Zach
ZACH
I’ve been sitting in my parked car on the street outside the Anderson house, staring at it through the windshield for the past six minutes.
The house is big. Twenty-years-in-the-NHL big.
There are already cars in the driveway. I recognize Rodriguez’s Jeep and what I think is Coach Barrett’s Mercedes.
Through the front windows I can see warm light and movement while I debate with a bottle of red wine and flowers that I bought for Mackie’s mom about why I’m allowing myself to walk into this disaster.
My phone buzzes.
Mackie
are you here yet?
Me
I’m outside.
Mackie
how long have you been outside?
Me
I just got here
Mackie
you’ve been sitting in your car haven’t you.
Me
No.
Mackie
ZACH. Get out of the car. Ring the doorbell. It’s going to be fine.
Me
Define fine.
Mackie
nobody dies and the turkey gets eaten. That’s the bar.
Me
That’s a very low bar.
Mackie
it’s Christmas Eve. The bar is always low. Now get in here before my dad looks out the window and sees you lurking.
The walk from the curb to the front door takes approximately forty-five years. Every step is a conscious choice to keep moving toward the house where Jack Anderson lives, where his daughter grew up.
The door opens. Jack is standing in front of me in an apron that says GRILL MASTER, grinning. Behind him, I can see the bright chaos of a full house, and I know somewhere in that warmth is Mackie.
“Almardon! Get in here, kid. You’re just in time, turkey’s almost done.”
He claps his hand on my shoulder the way he always does, but I feel the weight of it land differently tonight.
Rodriguez appears from the living room holding a beer. “Z! Welcome to the madhouse. Beer’s in the kitchen, wine’s on the counter, and don’t touch the turkey. I’m serious. Don’t even look at it. Jack has a perimeter set up.”
Mackie’s mom finds me in the kitchen while I’m setting the wine and flowers on the counter.
She’s petite and blonde, and Mackie clearly got her freckles from her.
She takes the flowers like I’ve handed her something precious instead of a ten dollar bouquet from the grocery store.
I’m struck by how much Mackie is probably going to look like her in twenty years.
“Zach, this is so sweet. You didn’t have to bring anything.”
“Thank you for having me, Mrs. Anderson.”
“Chloe. Please.” She sets the vase on the windowsill above the sink. “How are you settling in? Jack tells me you’ve been working hard.”
“Trying to. He’s been really generous with his time.
” Generous is an understatement. Jack Anderson has given me more one-on-one time than any mentor I’ve ever had, and I’ve repaid him by falling in love with his daughter.
The thought makes the wine bottle I’m still holding feel like it weighs forty pounds.
“He sees something in you. He doesn’t do that with everyone.
” She says it casually, but she leans against the counter and looks at me directly.
“You know, I was about Mackie’s age when I met Jack.
He’d already been in the league for two years by then and he was completely out of control.
” She laughs softly. “Nothing at all like you, I’m sure. ”
I don’t know what to say to that. I stand there feeling pinned, because it sounds a lot like Mackie’s mom just told me she knows exactly what it looks like when a young woman falls for a hockey player, because she was one.
She said it while looking right at me, calmly, with the same green eyes her daughter has.
I have the sudden, disorienting thought that this is what Mackie will be like as a mom: warm, knowing, and impossible to lie to.
“Thank you,” I say, because it’s all I’ve got.
She touches my arm on her way past. “Enjoy dinner. And eat the turkey, Jack’s been talking about it for three days.”
Then Mackie walks into the kitchen.
She’s in a burgundy dress with a tie at the waist. Her hair is down in soft waves, and her legs are—I look at the ceiling. Don’t look at her legs. Don’t look at her chest. Look at nothing except her face while her father is in the next room holding court in front of half the team.
She meets my eyes for exactly one second. The whole room disappears, and I’m back in my apartment with her under me, her fingers in my hair.
One second. That’s all I allow myself.
“Hey, Zach!” Her voice is bright and friendly, exactly the way she would greet any other player on the team. “Glad you could make it.”
“Thanks for having me.” My voice sounds almost normal for a guy whose blood pressure is in the red zone.
She gives me a quick hug, but her fingers press into the back of my neck, hidden from every angle in the room. The secret touch sends a jolt through my system. “You’re being too obvious,” she whispers as she pulls away and leads me to the living room. “Look who I found,” she calls out.
I take a long sip of my beer and stare at the fireplace.
There are family photos on the mantel. Mackie at every age, gap-toothed and freckled, growing into the person I can’t stop thinking about.
I look away, because staring at childhood photos of your secret girlfriend in her parents’ living room is a level of weird I’m not prepared to examine right now.
Rodriguez drops onto the couch next to me. “You good, man?”
“Just nervous. I’ve never done this before.”
“Done what?”
“Christmas Eve. With a family. A team family.” The words come out before I can shape them into something less honest, and I immediately wish I could grab them out of the air and stuff them back in.
Rodriguez looks at me and the grin drops for a second. “Z. You’re one of us. You show up, you eat too much, you fall asleep on the couch during the football game. That’s it.” He clinks his beer against mine. “Welcome to the family.”
Dinner is hell.
There are twelve of us around the table and Mackie is on my left.
Close enough that I can smell her perfume.
Close enough that if I moved my arm two inches, our elbows would touch.
I am acutely, painfully aware of every centimeter of space between us.
I’m managing it the way I manage the crease, by staying very still and controlling what I can control.
Chloe put out place cards, which is the most organized thing I’ve ever seen, and mine says ZACH in careful handwriting with a little snowflake sticker on it.
Mackie’s card next to mine says MACK with a heart sticker.
I don’t know if there’s anything intentional in the placement, but I’m staring at the two cards side by side and trying not to read into it.
Jack carves the turkey and launches into the brine speech.
This is apparently an annual event, because Rodriguez mouths along to parts of it from across the table and Brody is trying not to laugh.
Jack doesn’t notice or doesn’t care. He’s committed.
Twenty-four hours of brining. The salt ratio.
The importance of patting dry. He’s holding the carving knife like a conductor holding a baton.
Chloe catches my eye across the table with a wink, and I take a bite and say, “This is incredible, Jack,” with complete conviction, because I have been coached, briefed, and threatened into this exact response.
The turkey is driest thing I’ve ever eaten.
Dishes get passed. Green beans, stuffing, something with sweet potatoes that Mackie made and keeps checking to see if people are eating.
Barrett asks me about the last game and I answer on autopilot, the professional version, the one that doesn’t mention I spent most of the flight thinking about his goddaughter.
Rodriguez jumps in with a joke about Luca’s glove hand and the table erupts.
I’m laughing and passing cranberry sauce, and for a few minutes it almost feels normal.
Mackie is louder here, more animated than I’ve seen her before.
Talking with her hands, arguing with Jack and Barrett about hockey, about a trade rumor she read online that Jack says is garbage and Barrett won’t confirm or deny.
She knows these people. She grew up at this table.
This is what she comes from. This is what made her.
And I’m sitting inside it pretending I’m just another teammate eating turkey.
She reaches across me to grab the salt and her arm brushes mine. Neither of us reacts, but I feel it everywhere.
A few minutes pass. Someone hands me a new beer.
Barrett and Jack get into it about a defensive zone coverage system, and Rodriguez takes sides, while Chloe asks Brody’s wife about her job.
The whole table is loud and distracted, everyone talking over one another.
This is when Mackie leans forward, gesturing with her fork to make a point about something, and without thinking I inch my foot across the floor and press it against her ankle.
She doesn’t stop talking, but her voice hitches for a moment before she recovers. I don’t look at her. I take a sip of my beer, eyes steady on her father as he launches into a story about a bad call in Dallas.
The table keeps going around us. I eat more turkey and listen to Rodriguez tell a story about getting lost in the Calgary airport.
It’s funny, and I laugh in the right places, but the entire time I’m aware of every point of contact where we’re touching—a tiny secret connection underneath a table surrounded by people who can’t know about us.
I slide my foot higher, tracing the curve of her calf under the table.
She takes a sudden sip of her water. Color is climbing up her chest, and I feel a thrill spike through me.
I’m sitting across from her father, nodding politely at his story, with my foot running up his daughter’s leg.
This is the stupidest thing I’ve ever done, and the danger isn’t killing it.
The danger is making it worse. I can’t stop.