10. Elijah
Considering I didn’t have the exact ingredients that I would have back in Sweden, I think I’ve done a decent job preparing our Christmas Eve meal. Fish, ham, beef, more sides than you could shake a stick at, sauces, and sweets cover the island counter, letting out a mixture of fragrant steam that takes me back home to the common dining room of my family’s compound. It was the only space large enough to fit all of us, the meal laid out just like this on a solid table, ready for everyone to take their portions.
And it’s only slightly cool by the time Tori and Oli are presentable. Well, Tori is presentable. Oli isn’t leaving much to the imagination with the towel slung low across this waist. Spencer and I share a commiserating look, not that we can fault our linemate for taking care of our girl.
Our girl.
It feels weird to even think it, but I don’t know if any other description fits better. I hope we can change that, but I know we have to do this cautiously. Tori is just as likely to bolt as she is to hear us out, especially when it comes to matters of commitment. Hopefully, good food and hot glogg will go a long way to putting her in a favorable mood.
I ladle the steaming mulled wine into coffee mugs from the pot simmering gently on the stove, carefully bringing them to the dining table as Tori and Oli enter. She has that freshly-fucked glow about her, and once I’m within arm’s reach, I can smell Oli’s bergamot scent mixing with her sweet tea, like a good cup of Earl Gray.
“Merry Christmas,” I say brightly, holding out two of the mugs for them to take.
Oli nods with a smile, taking a sip without hesitation before walking off toward the other bedroom. He claps Spencer on the shoulder as he passes, and I can practically hear him rolling his eyes. Tori accepts her mug with both hands, cradling it gently as she raises it to her face and takes a long inhale.
“I brought the festive spirit from home with us. We can do presents after we eat,” I tell her, turning to hand Spencer a mug.
“But it’s only Christmas Eve,” Tori objects, confused.
“Who has the patience to wait another day? No, back home, we’d open gifts after sunset,” I explain excitedly.
“Then what do you do on Christmas Day?” Spencer asks before taking a sip of his wine.
I shrug. “It varies. But usually, it’s recovering from the hangover for the adults, and playing with toys or out in the snow for the children,” I reply, remembering my own Christmases with my siblings.
Everyone laughs, and Oli rejoins us, this time wearing athletic shorts and a t-shirt, both in festive shades of red and green. He grins at all of us, lifting his mug in a silent toast. We all move as a unit, gathering plates of food to bring back to the table, and I’m pleased to see Tori taking portions of some of the more traditional dishes. Something about caring for her like this warms my chest and makes my stomach flutter, and not because of the second cup of glogg I take to go with the meal.
Conversation is light as we eat, sharing holiday memories from our childhoods, even Tori. She doesn’t come from a large family, but she was surrounded by a hockey team full of chosen uncles and their partners, which made their gatherings interesting. Spencer had his mom, and they always took time to do things together. He and Oli share similar woes that hockey training would make the festivities short. But soon enough, the meal is over, and the sun has set. And that means it’s time for presents.
We disperse for a moment, each of us bringing out our gifts to place under the soft gold-and-green lights of the Christmas Palm, and I grin to myself over the wrappings. Spencer’s are all the same paper, in odd shapes, and with copious amounts of tape. Tori’s gifts are in perfect boxes with different paper and coordinating ribbons. And Oli has impeccably fluffed tissue paper sticking out of gift bags. As for me…
“Is that why we needed to bring back spruce twigs? For your Christmas gifts?” Spencer asks with a bemused chuckle.
I grin, not ashamed. “It’s tradition,” I say simply, straightening the smallest of the boxes to sit straighter. Brown paper tied with red twine, and a sprig of pine needles tucked into the crisscross.
“I think it’s charming,” Tori says, sliding up beside me and threading her fingers through mine. Turning my head, I kiss her hairline, smiling a little wider. God, she smells amazing, the warm undertones coming out with her delight.
“So, how do we want to do this?” Oli asks, exhaling slightly as he sits in one of the armchairs nearby.
“For my family, we would go around the room and, starting with the youngest person and going up, each opened one present at a time until their pile ran out,” Tori suggests, squeezing my hand before letting go to claim the cozy spot in the bend of the sectional.
I laugh out loud, trying to imagine how long that method would take in my family. With my siblings’ partners and children included, we would probably still be opening gifts when the sun rose on Christmas Day.
“One of my dads would play Jultomten , or Santa Claus, and would pass out gifts from the top of the pile downwards. And we would usually have the wrapping paper shredded by the time the next person got their gift. There are too many people to make a show of opening every gift with an audience,” I explain when Tori gives me a questioning look.
We eventually agree to pass out the gifts and each person will open all their presents before we move on to the next. Taking on the role of Tomten , I make sure everyone has their packages before settling on the end of the couch down from Tori, with Spencer on the other arm of the L-shaped piece. Everything for me is relatively small, though the lumpiest one is rather heavy.
There’s a pause as we all look at each other, silently deciding who’s going to go first. Eventually, Spencer sits forward, clearing his throat.
“Let’s not all jump at once,” he jokes, a wide smirk pulling at his handsome face.
“Go on, then. You first.” Tori giggles, motioning to him before taking a sip of her mulled wine.
Spencer gives her a little smirk and picks up the neatly wrapped present from her, not sparing the beautiful paper on his way to the prize. He pulls a lumpy bag from within the box, the text on the back too small for me to make out.
“Is this from—”
“McCally’s, yeah. I had my mom send me some,” Tori says, cutting him off, her face split with a wide grin.
Spencer turns the bag around for Oli and me to see, and I smile as I realize it’s a bag of coffee in his hands.
“This is from the local coffee chain around U of M. I haven’t had coffee that good in years. Thank you,” Spencer explains, his face lit up with a genuine smile.
Tori simply nods, an endearing twinkle in her eyes. Spencer moves on to the bag, tossing the paper aside to find an envelope, which he promptly tears open. His jaw nearly hits his knees as he pulls the long, rectangular pieces of cardstock free.
“Holy shit, dude! How did you get these?” Spencer asks.
A pair of tickets with the iconic colors of New Orleans’ NBA team flash in the dying light. Tori sits forward, brow furrowed slightly. Oli just relaxes back into his seat, propping one of his ankles on his opposite knee.
“I have my ways,” he says simply.
Spencer is still absorbed in his courtside tickets that he misses the subtle wink Oli throws Tori’s way. I shouldn’t be surprised; the depth of her connections never ceases to amaze me. Spencer’s head snaps up and he motions with one hand to Oli.
“Open yours from me,” he says eagerly.
“What about our system?” Tori asks with a little sniff of frustration.
I reach over and give her leg a soothing pat. “Christmas isn’t the time for order, sunshine,” I say, mock seriousness on my face and in my voice.
She rolls her eyes and swats my hand away even as Oli is ripping apart the lumpy gift from our linemate. It’s mostly stuffing, a disguise to hide the simple envelope inside. Oli’s more careful as he opens it than Spencer was with his, and I don’t fault him. We haven’t established what sort of gift-giver Spencer is, and it could be anything from cash to a glitter bomb waiting within that paper. But then the shock and delight on my lover’s face ends the debate.
“We listen to them a lot in the car, and I saw they were coming into town,” Spencer explains, a boyish smile still splitting his face.
Oli doesn’t move for a solid minute, and I’m not even sure if he breathes. I lean forward, concern replacing joy. But then Oli is out of his seat and tackling Spencer in a hug. For his part, Spencer doesn’t move very much, just wrapping his arms around Oli’s chest, laughing. But then Oli pulls back, and plants a full kiss right on his lips. Anyone else might have been jealous at the overt display of affection, but it only makes my chest warm to see Oli and Spencer finally giving in to the undercurrent of tension that’s been brewing between them for months. They pull apart relatively quickly, but Oli remains leaning over Spencer, his thumb brushing against the sharp cheekbone of our dark-haired teammate. He whispers something in Spencer’s ear, too low for me to hear over the sound of waves spilling in from the open patio doors, before retreating to his seat.
Spencer clears his throat, ruffling his hair slightly and not looking at us. He reaches for the last parcel at his feet and opens it with the same vigor as the others. But he only gets half the paper off before he cracks up, devolving into deep, full belly laughter. He can’t even speak, but he gestures at me, and it’s clear enough that he wants me to open my gift.
The heavy, lumpy thing in my hands feels familiar, though the mulled wine is making it hard for me to place where I might have encountered this before. A few rips later, and I understand why Spencer is dying laughing. I join him as I pull a bottle of tequila from the paper, holding it up for Tori and Oli to see, and Spencer mirrors me, holding up the exact same bottle of expensive tequila, down to the special holiday-edition label.
We all share a good laugh, and I get up for refills on drinks. If this is how it’s starting, I can’t wait for the rest.
Once I’m seated again, Oli picks up his two remaining gifts and settles them in his lap. “What one shall I open, princess?” he asks Tori, holding them up for her.
“Open Eli’s first, I think. Mine’s sort of weird,” she answers, blowing on the top of the fresh drink to cool it.
“Mine’s not,” I add, which earns another laugh from everyone.
Oli takes his time with mine, carefully setting the sprig of pine aside before opening the butcher paper. Inside, there’s a simple black velvet box, larger and flatter than a ring box. He cracks it open, and a soft smile comes over his face, eyes shining with affection as he looks back at me while turning the box for everyone to see the necklace and its charms. The braided gold chain should be strong enough to avoid snapping if someone happens to grab it during a scuffle, if he chooses to wear it under his gear during games.
“That’s a dala horse, a symbol of good luck in Sweden. And the other is an ace of spades,” I explain, flushing hotter the longer he goes without speaking.
“I love it, Elijah,” Oli replies, leaving no room for me to doubt his sincerity.
He takes a moment to extricate it from the box before slipping it easily over his head. I breathe out a sigh of relief when the charms settle right over his sternum, just like I’d planned. Setting the box aside, he picks up Tori’s gift, giving it a gentle shake, a smirk playing on his cheeks. Tori scoffs, and I catch her rolling her eyes. Not that Oli gets much for his endeavors. Nothing rattles or shifts, at least not that I can pick up. And when he opens it, I realize why. Yet another envelope appears from one of her perfect boxes, but Oli doesn’t have the same reaction as he did when he opened Spencer’s.
“Where is this?” Oli asks, looking between the slip of paper and Tori.
“That is one of the best artists in the French Quarter. I’ve paid a floating deposit, and his email is on that card. You just have to text him and let him know who you are and he’ll set you up for whatever you want, whenever you want,” Tori explains.
I open my mouth to ask for clarification, but then Oli pulls the business card out and turns it around, showing us the intricate tattoo-style background surrounding the name of a tattoo parlor even I recognize.
“This is too much, Victoria. I can’t possibly—”
“Yes, you can,” Tori interrupts, lifting her chin in defiance.
Oli sighs and looks at her long and hard for a moment, and it’s only because I’ve known Oliver for so long that I can decipher the words his eyes are projecting. He’s smitten, head over heels, but there’s a hint of fear. Not unwarranted, considering the conversation we’re going to have once we’re finished with the gift opening. But the expression is gone before anyone else can pick up on it, and Oli turns his half-smile onto me.
“You go ahead, Eli,” he says, tucking the card lovingly into the velvet box beside him.
My hand hovers over my two remaining gifts, settling on Tori’s. I have the same perfect box as the others, but when I shake mine, I pull back, confused, as I hear something like sand against plastic from inside. Curiosity at its peak, I make my way through the carefully creased paper and ribbon, popping the tape securing the box lid closed.
“It’s not another envelope! It’s...” I explain, trying for a joke, but trailing off as I pull the cylindrical bottle free from the tissue cushioning it.
Staring at the label for a long while, I’m not quite sure I can believe what I’m seeing. I can read the text, a tasteful scrawl of Swedish words wrapping around the label, and I pop the top, taking a long inhale. Even through the safety seal, the distinct smell of home fills my nose. It’s the spice blend my mothers would use in their cooking, the perfect way to season practically anything.
“Is that the right stuff? The website I ordered from was all Swedish, and you can’t always trust the auto-translate functions,” Tori asks, an uncharacteristically insecure tone to her voice.
My head tilts upward, and I smile widely, nodding even as the backs of my eyes burn. Not from the spices, though. A wave of homesickness I haven’t felt in a long time comes over me, but it’s easily contained, especially once I crawl over to the omega sitting on the other end of the couch and give her the biggest hug and softest kiss I can muster.
Oliver isn’t the only one smitten, that’s for sure. I only hope we don’t fuck this up.