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 ifpeople 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.
Rodriguez asks me something about my pre-game routine and I answer him, calmly, while pressing my leg against Mackie’s under the tablecloth. She drops her hand under the tablecloth and grabs my knee, squeezing hard, which either means stop it or keep going so I press my leg more firmly against hers.
We sit like that for the rest of the meal. Leg to leg, her hand on my knee, this unbearable low-grade electricity running between us while Jack talks about the season and Barrett agrees and Chloe brings out pie. We just sit there, not looking at each other, barely breathing.
Jack gets a little choked up when he talks about gratitude and the team, about the younger guys who don’t have family nearby, and he looks right at me when he says it. I sit there with my knee pressed against his daughter’s, and I can’t look at him.
When everyone is distracted by the end of the speech, she leans toward me.
“Theater room downstairs,” she breathes, her voice unsteady. “After dessert.”
The table breaks apart the way tables do after big meals. Rodriguez is already talking about the game, pulling Brody toward the living room. Jack and Barrett follow slowly.
I start stacking plates because that’s what you do when someone feeds you, and also because I need something to do with my hands that isn’t reaching for Mackie. Chloe takes them from me. “Absolutely not. You’re a guest. Go watch the game.”
“I don’t mind, really?—”
“Zach.” She gives me a look that’s pure mom authority. “Go.”
I go. But not toward the living room. I can hear Rodriguez yelling about something as I take the stairs down to the basement. Nobody’s watching. Nobody’s paying attention. My heart is hammering so loud I’m convinced someone can hear it from upstairs.
The theater room is dark, lit only by the standby glow of the projector.
Mackie’s already there, leaning against the wall. The second the door closes behind me, she grabs the front of my shirt and pulls me toward her.
We kiss the desperate, messy kind of way that happens when you’ve been sitting at a table with someone pretending you don’t know what they taste like. I’ve got her pinned against the wall, my hands on her waist while her fingers tangle in my hair. I’m hyperaware of every sound from upstairs: the muffled football commentary, Rodriguez’s voice, the clink of dishes in the kitchen. Every noise is a potential footstep. Every creak is someone coming down the stairs, but the fear of getting caught is entirely eclipsed by the fact that I finally have her.
“You shouldn’t have worn this dress,” I say against her mouth. “I’ve been losing my mind all night.”
“That was the point.” She’s breathing hard, pulling me closer by the belt loops.
I find the tie at her waist and pull it, watching as the fabric falls open. My fingers trace across her hip and over her warm skin, and her head drops back against the wall. I can feel her heartbeat through her ribs, fast and hard, matching mine.
“We need to be fast,” she whispers.
“I know.” My hand slides down her stomach and slips into her underwear. She gasps against my mouth. I can hear Rodriguez yelling about a holding call through the ceiling, but none of it stopsme. The moment my fingers find her, she lets out a moan that carries in the dark room, and I immediately clamp my hand over her mouth.
