Chapter 5
Chapter Five
Hamish
The Jacoby kitchen looks like Santa's workshop exploded, if Santa outsourced to Costco.
Every counter is covered. A plate of chocolate mint graham cracker balls.
A ham the size of my thigh. A platter of smoked salmon, no doubt in my honor as it's one of my favorites.
A crockpot of mashed potatoes. Glazed carrots that shine with so much butter, they no longer qualify as a vegetable.
Four different dips that all claim to be "an old family recipe," even though Marie likely stole at least two from Pinterest.
And I love it.
It's chaotic, loud, warm, and it feels just like home.
Not literally. The smell is different here, more cinnamon and coffee, less damp wool and fried everything, but the energy matches.
Back in Scotland, Christmas at my parents' house means siblings shouting over football, Mum complaining about the ham glaze, Da pretending not to care and serving the expensive whisky he reserves for special occasions.
Here I've got Declan, Terry, and Jason in the kitchen with me, all with beers in hand. Shannon's husband, his older brother, and Amy's da. Different accents, same tribal vibe, similar carbs.
"So," Terry says, popping off his bottle cap, "how does a world-class athlete survive Christmas in the Jacoby house without blowing out the other knee?"
"Ye say that like I'm no' in peak condition," I tell him, patting my red-jumper-covered stomach. Amy has been calling it my "carb bump." She's one to talk, eating her body weight in peppermint cookies and maple fudge, although somehow she still looks like a bikini model.
"You have to be in peak condition to get through this," Declan mutters. "It's an endurance event."
Jason opens the fridge, grabs another beer, and hands it to me with the solemn air of a man issuing equipment before battle.
"You'll need that," he says. "We're about thirty seconds from a coordinated Christmas carol assault. When they come for us, we'll say we're on ham-security detail."
"Honored ta serve."
They laugh, and a little ache hits me under the ribs. My own family kitchen. My brothers and sisters, my parents. I've gained a whole new set of people, but the missing ones still pinch.
"Hey." Declan bumps my arm. "You good?"
"Aye," I say. "Just... loud."
"Loud is the Jacoby brand," Terry says. "You married into a franchise."
"Could be worse," Jason adds. "You could be at Agnes and Corrine's. Imagine this, plus passive-aggressive deviled egg competitions."
He's not wrong. I've seen those women at a buffet. They season with guilt. And they look up kilts.
"Speaking of passive-aggressive," Jason says, peering toward the living room, "where's the cat?"
"Under the tree," I say. "He was attacking the skirt like a Highlander fighting an English soldier."
"Of course he was." Jason's shoulders sag. "Every year..."
As if summoned by Jason's despair, Chuckles appears in the kitchen. In a reindeer costume. Full velvet antlers, brown coat, tiny bells.
If humiliation had a sound, it'd be that wee jingle.
Their dog, Chuffy, trots behind him, also in reindeer regalia, tongue hanging out, whole back end wriggling with joy. Chuffy loves this.
Chuckles does not. He gives us all a look that could peel paint, then turns his head back toward the tree. A threat.
Or a promise.
Declan chokes on his beer. "You people did this to him on purpose."
"Marie did this," Jason corrects. "I just live here."
"That is the face of someone planting synchronized pipe bombs behind every seat in the living room," Terry says, studying Chuckles.
"Is that a euphemism fer shittin' in the baseboard heaters?"
Jason casts his eyes around the floor's perimeter.
"The tree is ground zero," I warn.
Chuckles stares at Jason for a long moment, then slinks toward the living room, bells jingling softly in a minor chord, the music of doom.
"If he climbs that thing again..." Jason mutters.
"Again?" I ask.
"Remember the fire?" Declan says, eyes alight with remembered horror. "Christmas Eve a few years ago. Tree went down like timber, ornaments everywhere. Then it caught fire. Agnes screamed like someone got stabbed. Corrine yelled for a priest who wasn't there."
"Aye," I remember, laughing a bit. "Amy put the fire out with the extinguisher. Burned a hole through her shirt. Lovely black lace bra."
"May she rest in pieces," Jason sighs.
"Who?" I ask.
"The tree," he and Declan say together, and I grin.
"I marrit into a mad house."
"And you fit right in." Terry lifts his beer toward me. His gaze shifts down to my knee brace, poking against my trouser leg.
"How's it feeling?" he asks, tone changing.
"Good," I say automatically. "Strong. PT's going well. Vince has me doing all sorts o' torture. Burpees, sled pushes, hopping on one leg while he shouts about vagal nerve stimulation and flow states."
"Is he still making you drink that coffee with oil in it?" Jason snorts.
"MCT oil. Some kind o' brain rocket fuel. Or a scam. Hard ta tell."
"Doctor still saying nine to twelve months?" Terry doesn't smile. His eyes stay on my brace.
"Somethin' like that." I lift my bottle and give a casual shrug I don't quite feel. "They like ta be dramatic."
Jason watches me. Not the knee. Me.
"What about the sportscasting offer?" Declan asks. "That network still circling?"
"Aye. Solid contract. Good money. Less chance a nineteen-year-old with something ta prove takes out ma other leg."
"You sign yet?"
"Na. Close."
"What's holding you back?" Terry wants to know.
I can hear my mother's voice in my head, going on about grit and legacy and not wasting your prime years.
"I still want ta play," I admit. "Part o' me does. And ma parents, their entire identity is tied up in me being on that pitch. Signing something else feels like admittin' it's over. To them. And ta me."
"And the resort thing?" Jason asks.
"Uncle James's idea. Brand spokesman. Young da, family vacations, that market. Says I'd be a fool ta pass it up."
"And what do you think?" Jason asks.
"I think I want a minute ta breathe before I sign ma new life over ta a marketin' department."
"Imagine that. Wanting privacy over monetizing your identity." Jason's mouth twitches.
"Does Amy want you to do it?" Declan asks.
"She wants me ta do what feels right ta me. It would be easier if she just told me what ta do so I could blame her later."
Declan nods wisely and casts a glance at Shannon. "I see you have truly embraced marriage. Only married a few months and you’re a prodigy."
Jason sets his beer down and shifts closer, hip to hip. Not crowding me, just there.
"You scared?" he asks, eyes open and kind. I see Amy in him, or perhaps it's the reverse. Same coloring, same hair. Same compassionate eyes.
"Of makin' the wrong choice? Of bein' the man whose best days are already behind him? Of telling ma mum I'm no' going back on the pitch even if ma leg miraculously heals?" I blow out a breath. "Terrified."
The word hangs there.
From the living room, Tyler yells, "SKIBIDI TOILET HOLIDAY REMIX!" Ellie shrieks with laughter.
Jason looks at me kindly. "You know you're more than a job, right?" he says.
"Aye," I say, too fast. It sounds weak, even to my own ears.
"In your bones?" he presses, and I swallow.
"Workin' on it."
"When we were first married," he says, "my entire life was work. Construction. Vet tech. Whatever paid the bills. I thought being a man meant saying yes to everything and being exhausted all the time, like that proved my worth."
“Aye.”
"I counted callouses like trophies." He holds up his palm, rough and scarred.
I look at his hand, then at my own. Mine's scarred from studs and turf, his from hammers and drywall and age.
"You know what Marie remembers most from those years? Not the overtime. She talks about the Saturdays we went sledding and I nearly broke my neck. The nights I fell asleep on the couch with a baby on my chest. The times I said no to a job but yes to my family."
He looks me dead in the eye.
"You're already a good man, Hamish. You're going to be a great father. Whether you're playing pro, talking on TV, or selling ice cream from a truck. Your job description can change. Who you are doesn't."
Something cracks inside me.
"Thanks," I say, voice rougher than I'd like. "That means so much, Jason."
"It's also legally binding," he adds with a grin. "We’re family now. No one's allowed to make you feel inferior."
My phone buzzes in my pocket.
"Hamish!" Amy's voice carries from the dining room. "Come taste this fudge and tell me if it's better than the other one!"
This is a trap. There is no correct answer to "which fudge is better?" in this house.
I pull my phone out: James McCormick.
First text: Merry Christmas.
Fine. Normal. I type back before I can overthink it.
Merry Christmas to you, too, Uncle. Hope Hawaii's treating you well.
Another buzz.
About that resort offer. You should take it. The demographics are perfect. They want young families.
My shoulders tense. Message three arrives before I can respond.
Letting Amy make your business decisions is a whipped move, son. Don't blow this because you're trying to keep your wife happy.
Heat rises in my neck. Whipped. Like I'm a sad puppy on a leash, being led around by my wife. Like Amy's an inconvenience instead of the reason my life has any meaning at all outside a scoreboard.
Like I'd do anything for her pussy.
Aye, well....
My jaw clenches and my thumb curls around the phone so tight, my fingers ache.
"Let me guess," Terry says, watching my face. "My dad?"
I look up, startled.
"How d'ye ken that?"
He and Declan trade looks.
"Because that," Terry says, tipping his chin at me, "is the expression of a man being degraded by his father. Seen it. Wore it for years."
"I still keep mine in the drawer for special occasions," Declan mutters.
Some of the air comes back into my lungs.
"Aye, it's Uncle James. Pressuring me ta take the resort contract."
"Tell him no," Terry and Declan say in unison.
"I'm no' answering," I say, locking my screen. "No' today."
"Good," Jason says simply.
"If you're interested," Declan offers, "I've got a whole folder of pre-written responses that all boil down to 'No.' Happy to share."
"I appreciate it. I dinna have a hard time sayin' no. It’s that yer da has a hard time hearin' it."
"Everyone!" Marie's voice could silence a stadium. "It's time to sing!"
The kids groan, except Tyler who, for some reason, cheers. Chuffy barks. Chuckles flicks his tail side to side under the tree.
"We're on," Jason says. "Let's go, basses and baritones."
We drift toward the living room, where the tree glows in the corner, miraculously still upright. Chuckles crouches under it, eyes locked on one glittery ornament like he’s tracking prey. B stares at him through her giant lenses and I can't tell who looks more judgmental.
Amy's already at the piano. She looks over her shoulder when I come in, cheeks pink, eyes bright, hair a little messy from a kid's hug or some candy cane-related incident.
I don't think I'll ever get used to being the reason she looks like that.
Happy.
"Roll over, Beethoven," I say, sliding next to her on the bench. I set my beer down and wrap my arms around her. "Make room for your emotional support baritone."
She snorts, leaning into my chest.
"You're here to provide warmth and bad harmony."
"And rear support," I murmur in her ear with a love pat on her arse. She elbows me, laughing.
Tyler stands in front of the piano with the dramatic seriousness of a choir director on a caffeine bender, his awkward grade seven body an assemblage of bones that don't quite fit where they need to.
Six-year-old Ellie bounces at his side. The oldest of the grandkids, Jeffrey, in grade 10, hovers near the wall, B fused to his arm, a pink-haired barnacle.
Carol and Shannon flank Marie. Jason has taken the corner near the tree, where he can intercept a flying cat if it comes to that.
Terry leans in the doorway, beer in hand.
I've been told Terry plays piano so well he could have been a professional, yet he's always stayed quiet, letting others take the bench.
Marie claps to get our attention, as if that's necessary.
"All right! We're starting with a classic."
"Mom," Shannon warns.
"Please not that one," Carol begs.
Marie ignores them with years of practice and drops the sheet music onto the stand.
"'Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer!'"
The laughter bursts out of me in one bark, then another. Of course this deeply strange, slightly horrifying song is the official Jacoby holiday anthem. Amy starts laughing too, shoulders trembling against my chest.
"It's tradition," Marie says, hand to her heart, indignant. "And your grandmother would have loved it."
"She really would," Shannon admits. "Except she'd want to add a verse about suing Santa."
"Next year," Marie promises. "From the top!"
Amy's fingers find the keys. Even giggling, she plays perfectly.
The room quiets just enough for Marie to come in strong on the first line, voice warbling.
"This is the grandma murder song!" Tyler gasps.
"Yes," Ellie says reverently. "Shh, it's starting."
I swear B looks impressed for the first time all night.
Everyone joins in on the chorus, loudly and off-key.
Jason sings with grim determination. Terry harmonizes just enough to make it worse, because his bass is so low, it's basically vibration.
Declan belts it out like he's trying to scare the reindeer off the road so they’ll drag grandma, aka Marie, into a ditch, and Shannon watches him, amazed.
I sing into Amy's hair, arms snug around her, the hum of her laughter traveling through me along with the piano chords. Homesickness is still in there, an ache for Glasgow and my own parents and the familiar mess of being their son.
My knee still hurts. My future is still a question mark. But Jason's words echo in my chest.
Job descriptions change. Who I am doesn't.
I tighten my arms around Amy and join in, laughing through the lyrics about tragedy, tinsel, and the kind of family you get stuck with but would choose anyway.
I'm exactly where I want to be.