The Romantic Pact (Kings of Football)(27)

“Wow, aren’t you pleasant?”

“It was endearing.”

“Yeah, sure sounds like it.” She taps the envelope. “Just get on with it so we can move along to the next place.”

“Want me to read it out loud again?”

“If it weren’t for the dumpster fire comment, I would tell you that your voice adds a certain charm to the letters, but I’m going to skip that now and just say, yes, read it.”

“That’s fair.” I take the letter out and smile. Clearing my throat, I read, “‘Hey kiddos. How was the Christmas market? Spectacular, right? Oh, wait . . . let me guess, you made it to a couple of stalls and then passed out. Am I right?’”

“Oh my God, how did he know that?” Hazel whispers as if Pops is in the other room listening in on our conversation.

“Seems as though he knows us a little too well.” Turning back to the letter, I continue. “‘It’s okay if you did. I expected that. Although, if you made it through the entire market, color me impressed. But my gut is telling me you didn’t. As long as you stopped by the Christmas tree and took a picture.’” Hazel squeezes my arm and I know she’s feeling just as relieved as I am. “‘I hope you got some sleep last night, because this is where the trip picks up. Today you’re headed to one of my favorite places in Germany during the holiday season: Nuremberg.‘”

“Sounds exciting,” Hazel says, leaning into me.

“‘Nuremberg not only has one of the most enchanting Christmas markets you’ll ever visit, but it’s also widely known for its gingerbread. Word on the street is, when you think of Christmas in Germany, you think of Nuremberg Lebkuchen—their gingerbread. And we’re not talking about the stale gingerbread recipe I never seemed to be able to master. This is different. It’s nutty and full of spices and flavors that will keep you coming back for more. Every Christmas, before my dear Gloria passed away, she had some Nuremberg Lebkuchen shipped to the house. It was a staple of our holiday for a long time. Now, I would love for it to become a staple of your holiday. But instead of buying it, you’re going to learn how to make it.’”

“What?” Hazel says, excited. “We’re making gingerbread?”

Continuing with the letter, I read, “‘The bakery is expecting you. It’s the small hole-in-the-wall bakery where we purchased our gingerbread every year. They know you’re coming today. Do me a favor and learn from the unique experience, so when you have children or grandchildren of your own, you’re not swearing up Ronald Reagan’s name in the kitchen with every burnt or foul-tasting piece of gingerbread you attempt to make.’”

I laugh as tears spring to my eyes. Shit. I miss him.

I take a deep breath and Hazel quickly wraps her arm around my waist.

“Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize. I get it. Feel free to cry anytime you want.”

I chuckle lightly. “I’ll attempt to keep it together.” Going back to the letter, I continue to read. “‘After that, I expect you to check in with the hotel and then get ready to spend your evening at the Christmas market, and this time, no clocking out early. Eat some gingerbread, get a bratwurst, drink the wine . . . literally, drink the wine. Enjoy the music and, before you retire for the night, make your way to the Sch?ner Brunnen. The fountain is a rather large statue wrapped in gold and protected by an impressively built iron fence. But off to the side, in the fence, there are two bronze rings dangling from the iron. Legend has it that it’s good luck to spin the brass rings. I spun them with my Gloria when we were in Germany, and I’d say I was a very blessed man through my lifetime. I can only hope the same for the both of you. Give it a spin and know that I’m there with you in that moment. Addresses that you’ll need and hotel information is attached. Have fun. Love you both. Pops.’”

I rest the letter on my lap as Hazel grabs her phone and opens up her directions app. She types in Nuremberg. “Two-and-a-half-hour drive. Think you can handle it?”

“You’re not driving.”

“I wasn’t going to suggest it.”

“Liar.” I playfully push her back on the bed and then get up, taking the note and sticking it in my backpack carefully, where the other notes and maps are.

“It’s not nice to push. Didn’t you learn that when you were younger?” Hazel comes up next to me and bumps me with her hip. I don’t even move. “God, that’s frustrating.”

“That you can’t move me?”

“Yeah.” She turns toward me and gestures with her hands, “Face me.”

“Face you?”

“Yes, face me.”

Confused, I turn toward her, only for her to place her hands on my chest and start pushing, digging her feet into the brown hotel carpet.

I don’t move an inch.

“What are you, made of stone?”

“Pretty much.” I pat the top of her head and then set her upright. “Looks like you need to throw more hay bales.”

“Apparently.” She takes a deep breath and then says, “Are you ready to spend two-and-a-half hours in the car with me?”

“Depends.” I shoulder my backpack and take out the handle to my suitcase. “What’s on your playlist?”