Page 12 of King of the Crease

“Agnes, the prince must have security with him at all times,” Alfred says.

“We’re going to make an exception, Alfred,” she says with a hard edge, reducing Alfred to a quivering schoolboy. “We can tell the press that the prince flew home on the royal jet. He’s currently battling a non-life threatening illness that he picked up in the States and will be recuperating in the palace for the next few weeks. All scheduled appearances will have to be canceled, unfortunately. Is that clear, Alfred?”

“Y–yes.”

“And you will act with the decorum expected of royal security and not share the details of this conversation with anyone, lest you would like to face my unyielding wrath. Is that understood, Alfred?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Even Millie stands up straight, afraid to speak.

“Lovely,” says Agnes with a firm smile. “This also means that the prince will not be posting on social media nor getting into any adventures that would garner any press. Since he’s under the weather.”

I give a nervous nod. Millie gives her a salute.

“Are you sure, Agnes?” I ask.

“With all due respect, don’t tell me how to do my job. Do you need me to fetch your things from your hotel room?”

“No, I have clothes I can borrow.”

“Very well, Your Highness. I’ll arrange for the royal jet to come back after the holidays. Enjoy your time in Sourwood.” She gazes at me for a maternal second. I want to wrap her in a hug, but that’s not her style. She gives me a curt head nod and departs with Alfred.

“We did it. We actually did it,” Millie says as we watch them drive off. “Holy shit.”

“Holy shit, indeed.” I exhale my first breath as a regular Joe.

4

HANK

Itake my Christmas tree search seriously.

Look, the way I see it, you have one chance each year to get a good Christmas tree for your home. If you pick wrong, then you’re stuck with it all holiday season. Selecting a tree that isn’t full enough or that’s drying out the second you bring it home? That’s on you. Ho-ho-horrible decision making on your part.

I don’t want to look at a bad Christmas tree in my living room for a month. The holiday season is meant to bring us joy. So I take my time.

“No good?” Griffin asks me with a knowing sigh. He rubs at his temples.

“The branches are too thin. You can’t hang hardy ornaments on this one. I have an ornament in the shape of Homer Simpson’s head. It’s going to slide right off.” I walk around the Christmas tree in question, the fifth one I’ve checked out so far today, quickly cataloguing its many faults.

“I think I’m close to a beheading myself,” Griffin grumbles. I’ve known Griffin since high school, when we were back-to-back hockey champions, me on goal and Griffin as a brick wall of defense. We reconnected recently when a few former teammates started a team, affectionately named the Comebacks, in a recreational beer league. In all the years I’ve known him, Griffdog has never been a cheerful person per se, but even by his standards, he’s extra grumpy this morning. It’s okay. I still love him.

“What about this one?” He points to a perfectly fine tree, but…

“This one…it screams ‘tree,’ not ‘Tannenbaum.’”

“Hank, you said you needed help hauling your tree home. I didn’t know it was going to be a beauty pageant process first.” Griffin gulps his coffee. “Where’s Brody? Don’t you guys usually do this together?”

“Brody couldn’t make it. He’s hanging out with some friends.” This is the first year we aren’t picking out a tree together. He used to be so excited, making a checklist of different criteria. Watching your kid go from wanting to be your shadow to wanting to hang with his own friends is a heartbreaking kind of torture that I’m still adjusting to. Brody has had trouble making friends, so I want him to enjoy today. I was a social butterfly in high school. Still am. I love mixing it up with people. My son is more introverted, yet another way we share roots but our branches grew in opposite directions. And soon, our branches could be on opposite sides of the country.

Will he ever come home for Christmas again once he’s in California? I can’t help but wonder if he’s been dying to get away from me for years, counting down the days until he escapes his dimwitted dad.

“I can’t believe he’s all grown up,” Griffin says.

“It’s weird…you’ll know the feeling when your girls are grown.” Griffin has two daughters in elementary school. He may project the image of tough, scary hockey player, but underneath, he becomes instant putty around his girls. I’ve seen the man rock an Elsa dress and tiara.

“Let’s go to the next row. I feel some quality trees calling to me.” I rub my hands and zip around the corner.