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“This is amazing,” I said in an awed voice. “They’re toasting marshmallows. Look!”
Tiller’s voice rumbled with laughter. “This is what it’s like visiting a real Christmas tree farm and not one of those home store lots in Houston.”
I hustled out of the vehicle and reached for Tiller’s hand to yank him toward the trees I could see beyond the parking area. His laugh followed me down the long rows until I finally stopped and stared at the view I spotted beyond the last tree in the row.
A horse-drawn sleigh moved across a snowy field in the distance with the jagged peaks of the Rockies in the distance.
“Tiller,” I breathed, pointing with one of the bright red mittens I’d purchased at the gift shop next door to Truman’s spice store. We’d already been back to see Truman twice since our first full day in Aster Valley, and he’d introduced us to the woman who owned the shop. “Look.”
He slid his arm low across my back as we stood at the edge of the tree farm looking at the sight. “Truman said there was someone here who did sleigh rides. Did you want to book one?”
“Oh, no. God no,” I said quickly. “I hate horses. But it’s pretty from afar, isn’t it?”
He laughed again, a sound that was beginning to feel like oxygen to me. Necessary… and thankfully plentiful.
“Very pretty.” He turned and kissed me slowly on the cheek. “But not as pretty as you. And not as pretty as this giant tree is going to be in our house.”
I turned to look at the one he pointed to. He was right. It was gorgeous. I didn’t correct him when he called it our house because I wanted to pretend it was.
It could all be pretend until the real world threatened to interfere again.
Which, of course, it did only a few hours later. This time it was my dad.
Coach had discovered the truth about our time in Colorado.
15
Tiller
Watching Mikey at the tree farm had been a joy, but even being able to go out into the snow and select a tree for the first time in years was special. I hadn’t realized how much I missed it.
We got the tree back to the house, surprising Mikey with the unique trick of blowing all the snow off the branches simply by driving with the tree tied to the roof. On the way back, we stopped at a store to grab lights and decorations, but we ended up having to hustle back so I could get the tree inside the house before calling into the coaching staff and turning on the pregame coverage.
Despite having to work, I enjoyed every minute of the domestic scene that followed. Mikey spent the first hour of the game prepping and cooking something in the kitchen while the tree dried off in front of the picture window between the sitting area and the kitchen.
At one point he brought me a crudité plate with little pieces of salami, cheese, and olives on it, and I snacked in between conversations with Gonzales. So far, Brent Little and Derek Mopellei were working well together, and thankfully the run game was also bearing fruit. We were up by three points going into the second quarter when Mikey asked if I could talk on the phone and string lights at the same time.
For the next hour, I used the Jaguars’ possessions to focus on helping Mikey with the tree and then stopped to watch the game as soon as the Jags scored and the Riggers got the ball back. While I enjoyed Gonzales asking for my advice and treating me like a key consultant on the Riggers’ passing game, I was selfishly annoyed it was causing me to miss out on giving Mikey and the holiday decorating my full attention.
Unfortunately, a late hit penalty halted our momentum right after the two-minute warning in the fourth quarter. The setback made the final half hour of the game excruciating. Gonzales didn’t listen to my suggestion to trust Brent in the slot, and he advised Coach to call a running play instead. It wasn’t enough. Time ran out without a touchdown, and we lost 20-27.
By this point, Mikey had disappeared from the kitchen area completely, and I could see the familiar veins popping up on Coach’s head on the high-def television. He was pissed. And Mikey had bolted.
I wondered how many times Mikey’d had to bear the brunt of a Rigger loss in his lifetime. How many times had he been left with a Sunday night depression at the very least and a raging father at his worst?
After hanging up with Gonzales, I blew out a breath and ran my hands through my already messy hair. I’d spent the last half hour pacing and barking into the phone. My adrenaline was pumping, and my stomach hurt. I hated this part. My father had always warned me that high highs meant low lows.
