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Winter Break - Christmas Eve
Noel
As car-jackings go, I know I lucked out. But still.
I shoot a killing glare at my teammate as he grips the wheel inmy carand swears before cutting around a mattress delivery truck going eighty-five. Diesel doesn’t even blink.
Dick.
The problem isn’t the speeding. Even headed out of the western burbs at Mach 5, this is Chicagoland and he’s mostly keeping up with the midmorning traffic. Something I still can’t seem to manage.
The problem isn’t even that he shook me down for my keys in the O’Hare parking lot and forced his way into the driver’s seat of my new Yukon, or that he’s broken so many traffic laws, I’ve lost count.
The problemis that this fucker promised to spend our three-day break over Christmas with me and then had the nerve to tell me to get on the planealonewith some half-assed assurance he’d meet me in Vegas… when he finished stealing my car, I guess.
“Bullshit,” I grumble, turning the heat for my side of the car up another degree and then turning his down by ten.
Diesel’s knuckles go white, and for the first time since we peeled out of the parking garage, he spares me an apologetic glance.
“Sorry.”
I cross my arms higher. Raise a brow. And wait like some pissed-off chick from one of the soap operas I don’t really watch that often.
He blows out a tight breath. “You should’ve gotten on the plane, man.”
Oh, that’s what I should have done? “Yeah, that would have been awesome. Hop on the plane by myself. Kick it in Vegas. Over Christmas. Alone.”
“Yeah, right,alone,” he snorts. “You can’t go to the grocery store without the checkout girl, bagger, and guy behind the deli counter sliding into your DMs before you leave. You would have had some babe sitting on your lap in the airport bar before the first drink even arrived.”
“So?” You think I want to hang for the holiday with a bunch of strangers?”
He does a kind of double-take and then grits his teeth. After another high-speed half-mile and a blaring horn that has me twitching, eyes flashing to every possible point of collision around me, he shakes his head.
Jesus, what the hell is happening here? Twenty minutes ago, we were unloading our bags in the O’Hare airport parking garage, shooting the shit about what we were going to do in Sin City.
I was thinking we’d hit a Cirque show. I’m not really a gambler, but I’d be willing to blow some bank on roulette if that’s what it took. Anything to pass the time until we’d clink our glasses for a single, “Merry Christmas,” and then be done with the holiday until next year.
Diesel would have been perfect. Dude’s not much for bunnies, or anyone else I’ve seen in the year since I got picked up as a defenseman for the Chicago Slayers, and he sounds about as enthusiastic about the holidays as I am.
Anyway, one minute I was locking the car, talking about getting a picture with the showgirls walking the strip, and the next, my generally chill teammate went bat shit.
Something crazy flickered in his eyes, and he demanded my keys, looking like he was about to take my head off when I gave him the keep-away treatment for less than two seconds. And then he was tossing his bag in the back, shoving me out of the way to climb in the front, and telling me to get on the plane without him.
Hard pass.
I’ve spent enough Christmases on my own, thank you.
The fucker nearly ran over my foot. Wouldn’t wait for me to come round front, forcing me to dive into the second row as he peeled out.
FYI, getting this six-foot-one frame into the front seat while he took the down parking ramp way too fast… not awesome. But I’m badass. Flexible as fuck. And Diesel deserved the slow-motion roundhouse he took to the head while I got situated anyway.
Twenty minutes later, I still don’t have an explanation for Diesel’s GTA cosplay beyond the grunts and half-started sentences that never complete, so I ask again, “What the hell’s going on? And who’s in the blue Taurus we’re following?”
No answer.
Then, without warning, we cut across two lanes of speeding traffic and take the exit fast enough that I’m pretty sure the Oh Shit handle’s about to come off in my grip.
