Touchdowns and Tinsel

1. Noelle

one

Noelle

I think my stepson is stalking me...

Shaking off the rush of goosebumps that surge across my skin, I roll over in bed, facing the frost-covered window. I half-expect to see him peering inside, and as I exhale slowly, I’m relieved to find nothing but heavy flurries tumbling from the overcast sky.

My gaze catches the framed picture resting on the windowsill and tears well up instantly. I thought I had shed every tear I could, yet each day dawns with the same haunting memories, and each one brings me to the same painful tears.

But can you ever truly move on from the loss of a loved one? Especially a man you believed would be by your side for all of eternity?

Sitting up, I wrap the blanket around my shoulders, as if shielding myself from the unseen eyes that I feel watching me. A dark presence lingers—I know it’s there, he's there—even if my eyes haven’t confirmed it.

Ever since his father was murdered, my stepson, Cole, has taken on an unsettling demeanor. He was never particularly fond of me, and Nicholas's tragic death has only aggravated the tension. Cole seems to think I played a role in his father's murder, as if I orchestrated the home invasion that tore our lives apart. Even when he's home, he makes his hatred for me painfully clear.

So why would he be stalking me?

Swinging my legs off the bed, I slide my feet into my slippers and stand, letting the blanket drop back onto the bed. A shiver runs through me from the brisk air that kisses my skin, and I quickly reach for my robe draped over the chair near the window, tightening the belt around my waist.

As I walk toward the door, my eyes land on an unnerving sign that someone has been here watching me sleep—a single melting ice cube on the table by the door. My heart races as I scan the room, searching for other signs of intrusion, but the rest appears untouched. Cupping my hand, I sweep the melting ice cube into the wastebasket beneath it, wiping the table with the sleeve of my robe.

I know it’s Cole. I can’t explain it; I just do.

Craving coffee more than ever, I head to the kitchen, letting out a sigh of relief when all I hear is silence, a reassuring sign that I’m alone. I pop a caramel-flavored K-cup into the machine and retrieve the cream and sugar as I wait for it to brew. Leaning against the counter, my gaze drifts to the expansive floor-to-ceiling windows that overlook the living room, and I watch, emptiness gnawing at me as the snow falls in thick sheets, quickly accumulating outside.

Ugh, I’ll need to shovel soon or risk getting snowed in.

The mere thought of braving the cold to spend hours clearing the long driveway to the massive house my husband and I bought before we married fills me with dread. It feels so much larger now that he’s gone, and I can’t help but question whether living here is the right choice for me anymore.

The gurgle of the coffee machine jolts me from my thoughts, and I turn to face it, inhaling deeply as the rich aroma of caramel coffee wafts through the air, steam curling from the cup. As I pour in a splash of cream and add a couple of spoonful's of sugar, a pair of cold hands wrap around my hips from behind, startling me and nearly making me drop the container.

"Ahh!" I shriek, my heart racing as I shut my eyes tight, bracing for another potential home invasion.

“Oops, did I scare you, Mom?” Cole’s voice drifts close to my ear, a conspiratorial whisper that sends chills down my spine, giving me goosebumps once more.

Furious, I spin around, narrowing my eyes before I even come face-to-face with him. “Cole, what the hell was that for?” I gasp, suddenly aware that he isn’t alone; several of his college football teammates stand in my kitchen, bundled up to brave the Boston chill.

“What, can’t I come home and surprise my stepmom?” He chuckles, winking at the guys huddled around the island.

“Of course, you can come home. I just wasn’t expecting you,” I reply, turning back to grab a spoon to stir my coffee, trying to steady the trembling in my hands before he notices. “Did you need something?” Clutching the warm cup, I bring it to my lips and take a deliberate sip before facing them again.

“Nah, we shoveled the driveway for you,” he says, his dark green eyes boring into mine as if he’s attempting to unearth my deepest, darkest secrets.

I stifle a shiver and force a smile, refusing to show him how uneasy his presence makes me. Glancing around the kitchen at Cole, Aiden, Ryder, and Hudson, something chilling and unspoken travels in the small space between us, and I can feel my feet moving quickly to leave the awkward situation I've suddenly found myself in.

As soon as I pass the entryway to the kitchen and round the corner to the first set of stairs to go back up to my room, I hear a throat being cleared from behind me, and I can't help the slight jolt that wracks my entire body.

"Disappearing so soon?" Cole asks as I slowly turn around, breathing a sigh of relief and noticing that it's just the two of us.

"I need to get dressed. Last minute trip to the grocery store, you know." I smile, taking another slow sip of my warm coffee, feeling the strong taste of caffeine and creamer wake me up even more.

"Good. Mind picking me up a few things?" He asks, his thick, dark brow arching as his wet lips curl unto a mischievous grin. "Me and the guys are going to crash here for a few days after the game tonight."

"Sure, Cole, just make a list and leave it on the fridge for me," I tell him, my heart sinking at his news.

He stays behind me, his back against the front door, his eyes roaming over every inch of my body, even though there's nothing to see since I'm covered. The look he gives still makes me tremble, but I refuse to let him see it.

Why am I petrified of a little twenty-one year old? I'm seventeen years older than him but afraid of what he's capable of. Does that even make sense?

Turning around, I begin walking up the carpeted stairs, ignoring all of the wedding photos and family portraits hung on the wall, just wanting to get away from him as fast as I can.

But it's never that easy.

"I expect to see you tonight, Noelle," Cole says, his voice deep and commanding. "It's our Christmas Eve game, after all."

"I'll be there, Cole. I always am," I retort, not looking back as I continue to climb the stairs that seem never-ending.

Reaching the top, I quickly slip into my bedroom, closing the door behind me with a soft click that feels like locking the world out. I lean against it for a moment, the adrenaline still coursing through my veins as I try to steady my breathing. Each day, the air in this house seems to grow heavier, laced with tension and untold stories that refuse to be buried.

I walk over to the closet and pull out an oversized sweater and some jeans, the familiar comfort of fabric around my body doing little to ease the weight settling in my chest. I stand before the mirror, staring into my own eyes as if looking for answers within the chaos. The lightness of my hair, the softness of my features—completely at odds with the turmoil swirling inside.

Pulling out a pair of underwear from my top drawer, I put them on, feeling an instant cold, slimy substance pressing against the freshly shaven lips of my pussy. My nose scrunches as I slide my hand down the front of my underwear, curious as to what the wet substance is. Running my fingers over it, I pull them out and hold my hand up in the light, seeing the tips of my fingers glisten, soaked in what looks like cum.

Bile rises in my throat, and I stand frozen, not sure what to make of the situation. Did he really cum in my underwear? Shaking in confusion and fear, I quickly slide them down, ball them up, and toss them into the wastebasket, cringing as I dig through my drawer to see if any others are ruined. A brief inappropriate thought of my stepson flashes in my mind, tightening the muscles in my stomach. My breathing quickens, the feeling of his cum still coating my pussy, and for a moment, I think about leaving it there.

What the fuck is wrong with you, Noelle? I ask myself, muttering under my breath.

I grab a wet wipe and clean myself up as soon as I come to my senses, deciding to skip underwear all together for the day.

Moments later, I emerge from my room, making my way to the kitchen with purpose. I need to take control back. The thought of Cole's icy demeanor grips my spine, and I grab my phone to send a quick message to a friend—someone who understands the complexity of family grief. Just as my finger hovers over the screen, a crashing sound reverberates through the house.

My heart drops as the echo of laughter filters through the air, followed by a loud thud. I quickly race down the stairs, adrenaline propelling me forward. Panic skitters along my nerves as I reach the living room, where I find Cole and his friends doubling over in amusement at the sight of an overturned chair and soda spilled all over the white carpet.

"What happened?" I demand, though my voice shakes slightly, masking the surge of worry that knots my stomach.

"Nothing, Mom, just a little action before the game," Cole retorts, brushing the soda-soaked slipcovers with exaggerated nonchalance.

The others laugh, but the sound seems hollow in my ears, a veneer of enjoyment stretched thin over something darker lurking beneath.

I take a step back as one of the football players, Aiden, bows his head in mock apology. "Sorry, Noelle! We were just testing the durability of your furniture," he says, smirking, his voice playfully disrespectful.

"Better get that cleaned up before it stains," I reply, attempting to reestablish some authority in the room, even as the situation feels like it spirals further from my control.

Cole turns to me, a glint of mischief in his eyes. "You know, Mom , it’s your turn to host Christmas this year. Why don’t you show us what you can do with that kitchen of yours? We can all use a little festive cheer, right guys?”

Laughter erupts behind him, and I feel my heart race in panic and anger. “Cole, we talked about this. Just because your dad isn’t here doesn’t mean you can act like this is just another party.”

For a moment, the room falls still—an electric tension hanging in the air—and I see the mask slip from Cole’s face. The facade of the carefree quarterback is gone, replaced by something darker and more volatile.

“Why not?” he replies, his voice low and dangerous, the image of the playful boy evaporating. “You think you can just hide in here and pretend everything’s fine while you’re clearly not okay? I know what you've done. Did you get my gift I left you?”

My heart stutters. Each word feels like a knife, cutting deeper into the already painful wound that I’ve tried so hard to mend. “What are you talking about?” I demand, voice trembling but firm.

His eyes, usually so green and sparkling, are like dark pools now, full of accusations and implications. “Don’t play dumb, Noelle. You can’t just replace my dad and expect me to accept it. You should feel guilty for taking his place.”

“I'm not trying to replace anyone!” I shout back, my frustration boiling over, a shriek born from years of bottled-up emotion and fear. “Nicholas was my husband. I loved him just as much as you did—but he's gone—and I’m trying to pick up the pieces! I’m not your enemy, Cole.”

His friends exchange uneasy glances, and I sense the tide of the atmosphere shifting. Suddenly, all eyes are on me as Cole’s earlier bravado seems to waver under the weight of what I said. Something snaps within me—an unyielding resolve blooms in the pit of my stomach.

“Everyone gets a choice in how they grieve, Cole. If you want to spend Christmas sulking—”

“I’m not fucking sulking, Noelle,” he interjects, his voice dangerously quiet, but there’s a tremor of disbelief in his tone.

“Then make a damn choice,” I challenge him. “Quit acting like I’m the villain. I’m trying to create a new normal for us. Maybe you should stop trying to destroy what little peace we have left.”

His gaze shifts, conflicted, and I can almost see the battle within him. The room is silent except for the distant hum of the refrigerator and the muted sound of snow piling outside. Finally, after what feels like an eternity, he tilts his head as if really looking at me for the first time.

“Maybe you’re right,” he mutters, the bravado flickering but not extinguished. “But I need to know if you can handle being here without him.”

Someone snorts from the back, cutting through the tension, but I don’t glance away from Cole. “I’ve got no choice but to keep going, Cole. Just like you do. But if you’re here to keep stirring the pot, we’re going to keep butting heads.”

With that, I turn and walk away, feeling the weight of his stare boring into my back—even through the oversized sweater I’m wearing—as I retreat to the sanctuary of my kitchen. I pour myself another cup of coffee, needing the warmth and comfort as I think about the unnerving shadows lingering around me—real or imagined, they’re all too close.

I may have momentarily pushed him back, but the battle lines have been drawn, and I can feel the jagged edges of our grief tearing us further apart. I can only wonder: how much longer will this standoff continue? And what will be left of either of us when that breaking point finally arrives?

Things weren't always this bad between Cole and me—but they were never great either. When his father was alive, the three of us did things together, and he didn't resent me like he does now. It's been two years since the home invasion that took my husband—his father—away, and he still blames me for it to this day.

I still remember it like it was yesterday, of course. It was Christmas Eve, and the three of us were doing last-minute decorations on the tree we had picked out later than usual. Out of nowhere, our front door was kicked in, and three masked men barged in and changed our lives forever.

Nicholas was well known in the community for his many accomplishments, and with the amount of money he was sitting on, he knew he had a target on his back. Being the best defense attorney in Hyde Park, he defended some of the worst criminals—the high-profile ones—and almost daily he'd receive death threats and hate mail because of it. We never took any of them seriously, though. But we should've.

To this day we don't know who broke in, murdered him, and raped me, and two years later the investigation is still ongoing. But I’ve given up hope that the police will ever solve it; it’s like we’re another statistic, forgotten about. But it’s just too painful to relive the haunting memories and carry on with the investigation.

Cole, being the stubborn twenty-one-year-old that he is, thinks that I set his father up and had him killed for his money—money that I still haven't touched to this day. Our relationship went even further downhill than what it had been, and I have no idea how to fix it. I often wonder if it’s worth fixing, but then I remember that any part of Nicholas is still a part of me—including Cole.

The air in the kitchen feels heavy—suffocating almost—as I wrestle with the tangled web of memories and emotions that swirl around me, each thread tightening its grip. I take another sip of my coffee, relishing the familiar warmth, a stark contrast to the coldness that Cole seems to radiate.

As if on cue, I hear footsteps approaching, the unmistakable sound of Cole’s heavy boots making their way down the hallway. I brace myself, uncertain whether to stand my ground or retreat again into the safety of my room. A part of me wants to confront the pain head-on, while another wants to avoid the inevitable clash that seems poised to erupt.

When he steps into the kitchen, I keep my gaze downcast, pouring another cup of coffee as if the act could somehow shield me from the impending confrontation.

“You said you were going to the store,” he states, his tone begrudging, almost accusatory. “Are you just going to ignore everything that was said back there?”

I set the coffee cup down with a quiet clink, feeling the heat radiate through my skin, almost as hot as the brewing tension. “I didn’t say I wouldn’t go, just... I need a moment to breathe first.”

“Breathe?” His laugh is incredulous. “Is that what you call it? You’re acting like you belong to a different world right now, like nothing from that night even matters.” The edge in his voice pierces through me, and I risk stealing a glance at him, my heart thumping in my chest.

“It does fucking matter, Cole. More than you know.” The words spill out before I can rein them in. “But I can’t live in the shadows of that night forever. Every day is a struggle, and I’m trying to—”

“Trying to what?” He interrupts, stepping closer.

The gap between us shrinks, and I can feel the pulse of anger mixed with something else timing the air. “Forget? Move on? Because you can’t expect me to do that just because you want it. I wasn’t the one who had the most to lose that night.”

With that, he shuts his mouth tight, his brows furrowed in anger. The defensiveness deepening in his posture makes it clear that he’s ready for a fight, one that I know I have to engage in, even though every fiber in my being is screaming to back down.

“I never said I wanted you to forget, Cole. But I need you to understand that what happened doesn’t define who I am or what I can be. Just like it doesn’t define you!” My voice wavers slightly, but I hold my ground, forcing myself to look him in the eye. “We’re not enemies, and if we keep treating each other like this, we’ll lose what little we have left.”

His expression softens just for a moment; again, the mask starts to slip. “You don’t know what it’s like to feel like this, to feel anger and betrayal in every corner of your fucking soul.”

“Then let’s talk about it. You can’t just keep throwing accusations at me without giving me a chance,” I plea, my voice urgent but fraught with vulnerability. “You think this is easy for me? I’ve lost not just your father but the life we had, the hopes and dreams we shared.”

Cole’s shoulders slump, surrendering just a fraction of his defiance. “It’s just—” he halts, his voice thickening with emotion. “It’s painful. I don’t want to feel like this, but how can I not? Seeing you here, living in this house... it feels wrong. Like you’re just waiting for the right time to take everything from me.”

“I’m not here to take anything from you! I’m trying to survive, just like you,” I reply, my heartbeat steadying, connecting with the flicker of empathy I now see in his eyes. “And do you think this was easy for me? The scorn, the whispers—the all-consuming sense of guilt? You know they still ask questions. You know they think I’m a suspect too.”

Cole’s breath catches as he processes my words, and I can tell he’s torn. “Then why don’t you move away?” He challenges softly. “Why do you insist on tormenting yourself in the place where it all happened? None of this feels like home anymore.”

“Because it was once our home,” I admit, the weight of the truth pulling me down. “And somewhere beneath the pain, the memories are worth fighting for. You’re still here, and I want to fight for us, Cole. For the family we both lost, to find a way to remember him together instead of apart.”

He blinks, taking in what I’ve said, and for a heartbeat, the distance between us feels like it could shatter. “It’s not that easy." His voice trails off, revealing the cracks in his facade.

“I know it isn’t,” I whisper, feeling the bond between us like a fragile strand, almost ready to snap but still tethered. “But nothing worth fighting for ever is. You have every right to be angry—to be hurt. But we can’t let that anger destroy what little is left of us. I won’t allow it.”

His green eyes find mine, raw with emotion, complete human vulnerability now casting aside the hurt shields he’s built. “Things will never be the fucking same, Noelle. There’s no use trying."

In the corners of my mind, doubts still lurk, shadows spawned from the past. “We could start with something small,” I suggest, my heart beating slowly back to a rhythm of cautious optimism.

But as he turns to leave, a shiver travels down my spine, the awareness of our lingering scars echoing in the silent space between us. Yes, we’ve taken one small step forward, but I know the battles ahead could be just as turbulent as the ones we’ve already faced.

The fractures in my heart remain deep and unsettling. For now, we have a fragile truce, but I can’t shake the feeling that beneath the surface, the real fight is still waiting to be unleashed. If pain ties us together, then the scars may just tear us apart if revenge, grief, or even hate decide to rise once more.