The Romantic Pact (Kings of Football)(23)

“Holy shit,” Crew says, zipping up his coat.

I chuckle. “Do you think your California skin is going to make it in this weather?”

“No.” He stuffs his hands in his pockets. “Did we fly into the artic? It wasn’t this cold earlier.”

“Ah, yes, that’s because the sun was up. Now that it’s set, it’s much colder.”

“I already feel the cold seeping to my dick.”

I laugh out loud and say, “It’s not that bad. Don’t be so dramatic, or I might have to start calling you Uncle Paul.”

“He’d be having a world-class fit about how cold it is if he were here.”

“I don’t doubt it.” I slip my hand through his arm and draw my body close to his, hopefully offering him some body heat, even though he’s much taller and larger than I am. Every little bit counts. “Try not to focus on the cold. Tell me more about the binder.”

“Wait, which way are we supposed to go, according to the map?”

“Far left and then work our way through in a zigzag motion.”

He nods and leads us to the left. “So, this binder—it was his baking bible. No one was allowed to touch it but him and there was absolutely no flash photography allowed near it.”

“Oh my God. I can so see Pops saying that.”

“Every Friday after Thanksgiving, Pops called me and ran through a list of possible cookies that would make the lineup for the year.”

“You were that involved?”

“Oh yeah. I was his helper every year. Those butter cookies that were perfectly iced with mini chocolate chips for snowman’s eyes? Those were frosted and decorated by me, with a pair of tweezers reserved for cookies only.”

“Wow, Crew, I’m impressed. Did he ever let you come up with a new cookie to add to the lineup?”

“Never, and he wasn’t ever sorry about it either. He made it quite clear where I stood when it came to the cookie lineup. I was there to help. My opinion was heard, but ultimately, Pops made the decisions.”

We make our way down to the far left, where the very first stall is filled with homemade glass ornaments. Beautifully designed and handblown ornaments dangle from wooden pegs. The lights catch off the glass, giving the stall an enchanting ambience. I’m drawn to the ornaments and pick one up, the lightness of it surprising.

“There’s no way this would make the trip back to New York,” I say to Crew, who shakes his head.

“Shame though, my mom would love these. She collects glass ornaments. Her most prized possessions are her hotdog ornament collection.”

“Shocking,” I say sarcastically. “The McManns liking hotdogs? That’s completely unheard of.” I set the ornament down and slowly look over the rest. “So, when it came to your visit, did Pops put you straight to work?”

Crew nods. “Yes. He gave me the night to gain my bearings, but first thing in the morning, he was waking me up, slapping an apron on me, and pushing me toward the kitchen.”

“You had aprons? Please tell me they were matching.”

“Unfortunately, they weren’t. Pops had a simple black apron—”

“What? That’s so unlike him. I would expect a funny apron—you know, something obnoxious, or even an apron that said ‘I’m making Mother Franklin D cookies.’”

Crew throws his head back and laughs. “Shit. Why didn’t I ever think about making him that? That would have been an amazing Christmas gift. Maybe it was because I was so distracted that he’d wear a button-up flannel shirt and a tie to bake.”

I pause on my way to the next stall and turn toward Crew. “He wore a tie to bake cookies?”

“Oh yeah. I’m telling you, he took it very seriously. He’d have the ingredients out on the counter, a lineup of the cookies to be baked and in what order to bake them on the chalkboard of the kitchen, and we were allotted a certain amount of bathroom breaks and hands were always to be washed in the kitchen as proof of proper sanitization.”

“I never knew so much went into making his famous cookies.”

Crew smiles sadly and slows his steps. “I didn’t even think about the cookies until now. My senior year in high school was the last time I made them with him. College football doesn’t lend itself to long Christmas breaks if you’re actually having a good season.”

“Maybe it was good then, you know, that you threw all those interceptions.”

“You really know how to kick a guy when he’s down.”

I chuckle and bump his shoulder with mine. “You have to look at the glass as half full. A bad season isn’t the end of your career. You and I both know that.”

“I don’t know. I could have just dug the grave of my football career.” He shakes his head. “That’s not something I want to talk about right now.”

“Fair enough. Tell me what your least favorite cookie to make was.”

We wander among stalls that sell ornaments, each specializing in a different medium. As we stroll by a stall with windowpane-like ornaments, I pause and take a look at the different designs sorted by rainbow color, all catching the light in their glass, and hung by delicate red and white strings. Some of the ornaments are square blocks with colors swirled through the middle, and then there are others that are designed to look like an object. Like a Christmas tree, snowman, nussknacker . . . a bratwurst.