Page 94

It’s not true.

Obviously.

You don’t just quote Dr. Yelensky like that, in conjunction with being mysteriously a yes-man, by coincidence.

Still. A part of me so desperately wants to hope.

Maybe.

“Annnnd hut.” Wesley overshoots the ball between his legs to little Micah, who, after a moment of fumbling, gallantly clings to the football with his life and shoots off at a run. The group spreads; parents call out cheers of support from the porch; James hops, hops, hops on one leg like a maimed but eager kangaroo, blue tail from the waist flag flying; Nanny waddles and yaps while chasing, ready to pinch his backside if he slows. Micah runs behind James, and James spins toward him in support with a cluster of two others.

“Spread! Spread!” James calls, and after some small confusion Micah shoots out like a fly out of water.

He clings to the bundle now zipped in his coat, grinning wickedly, and the Turtles, with cries of protest, chase after him all the louder.

I’m the only one who sees James.

“Trick!” I roar, pointing at James. “It’s a trick!”

Because while Micah with his bloated, zipped-up coat may look the part, James is mischievously quiet, his body half turned away, his right elbow noticeably tucked in.

I charge after him while the rest of the Turtles split between continuing the chase on Micah and abandoning ship for the new development.

Now I’m certain of it.

James is hopping furiously, a childish grin on his face. He spots me and, more importantly, how I’ve caught on, and he hops all the faster.

People get louder. Those on the porch are cheering James on. His team spies the situation and halts, calling helplessly from their distance to the touchdown line for him to “Go! Go!”

I run faster.

The ground is slick, the dew of halfway-frozen frost having caused more than one kid to slip over the course of the past hour. But I charge on, spurred by the cries from my own sweet little team.

Tennis shoes, for the record, are perhaps not the best form of traction when it comes to Turkey Bowl on frozen terrain. James is more than halfway up the field toward a touchdown when I reach him, and when I stretch out my hand for the flapping blue flag I miss, and he, with a wild whoop, hops more desperately and chaotically—albeit, humorously—toward the line.

I correct myself and work to charge again while he, noting his own vulnerability, twists around to keep the flag as far from me as possible. He begins hopping backward, ball cradled in his arm, eyes dancing wildly.

This rightfully earns a few more cheers.

I rush and reach for it at his left side, and miss.

Charge right up to him, my face so close that I can’t see past his chest as I reach blindly and desperately hard right, and miss.

“Stop him!” Colton roars over the others.

And maybe I wouldn’t have felt so compelled, except that something snaps in that moment, what with the rush of emotions and the people and fourteen-year-old Colton, who is admittedly far more intimidating than any of the others. I feel a need to impress the teen. I want to impress the six-year-olds, sure, but they were impressed when I tossed the ball with a little spin. Colton, on the other hand . . . well, I’ve felt the criticism in his eyes whenever the other team scored. Heard the tiny thought of I wish I wasn’t a Turtle.

And it’s a game. A stupid little Christmas party game. But doggonit, there’s a moment here to stop this grown man hopping with his football, and I have to try.

So I’m a little more reckless in my speed than I would’ve been otherwise on frozen blades of grass. It’s hard to even see given that my deep breaths are making me a steam engine as I run, great plumes of crystallized air covering my head through the roars of children and adults alike. And I’m not a “sports” person, but in this moment, I feel their cheers driving me onward. I suddenly “get” the power of a fandom—the very real influence of a distant human being cheering you on.

Which is why it make sense that, when I determinedly grab again for James’s fluttery blue flag, my hands are my priority. And not my feet.

Let’s just say, my hands succeed winningly. Rip that flag right off.

And my feet, well . . .

The gang all cheers in the millisecond I feel the Velcro gorgeously rip off James’s hips, and then with a push down on my left leg to stop my pursuit, there’s a slick first-step-on-the-rink-in-ice-skates slip underneath my shoe, and when my right step proves to be just as useless, I realize my doom.