The Romantic Pact (Kings of Football)(38)

Crew laughs a little harder. “Hell, that’s perfect. Yes, I’m going to do that. We can send them out tomorrow before we take off again. Maybe they’ll get them before Christmas if we pay extra.” He sighs. “In all seriousness, I’m glad they’re in my life for many reasons, but one of the biggest ones was having them this past semester.”

“I’m glad they were there for you,” I say. “I wish you’d have let me be there for you too.”

“I know.” He holds me a little tighter and then stops. “What’s that?”

I turn to the right to spy a wave of fire erupt from a stall while the people around it clap with exuberance.

Oooh . . . fire.

“I don’t know, but I need to find out.”

Entranced, we walk over to the stall and watch as a man hovers over a giant cauldron, pouring what seems to be liquid over a spicket of sugar and fire. On the side of the stall, I see a sign and read aloud, “Fire tongs punch.”

“What’s that?”

I pull out my phone and type it into my web browser. I click on the first thing I see and read it to him. “A traditional German drink during Christmas and New Year’s. It’s a rum soaked sugar loaf set on fire that drips into mulled wine.”

“Oh damn. Mulled wine and rum—should we?”

I hold up my empty mug and say, “I am thirsty.”

He holds up his as well. “Me too.” He clinks his mug to mine.

“Then I think we have our answer.”

“Rum and wine, the perfect combination.”





“Oh my God, Crew, get up,” I say, laughing so hard I can barely catch my breath.

“These hallways are so small. How am I supposed to logroll to our room if I can’t fit in them?”

Crew is lying on the ground, in a fetal position, trying to roll down the hallway, but keeps bumping into wall after wall while I hold all the things we bought at the Christmas market, including the cherubs, our mugs, and some more Lebkuchen, because there were heart-shaped ones the size of my head and I needed it.

“Try a somersault.”

“Oh, that’s a good idea.”

Crew tucks himself into a somersault position and then flings his body forward, only to go crooked just as his legs fly out and kick open a hotel door, scaring the ever-loving shit out of a woman in a robe.

Screaming, hands clutched to her chest, the woman yells bloody murder for help while Crew scrambles to his feet and tips into the wall drunkenly.

“Excuse me.” He straightens up. “Uh, sorry about that, ma’am, just . . . uh, you know, looking for Santa Claus. Heard the sneaky bastard was lurking around here. By chance, have you seen him?”

“You have two seconds to move along before I call hotel security.”

“I’m going to take that as a no.”

“Go,” she shouts, slamming the door and locking it.

Hand to his heart, Crew says, “Holy shit. I think she’s hiding him in her closet. Didn’t she look guilty?”

I can’t even respond, I’m laughing so hard tears stream down my face.

I push him toward our hotel room, and he opens the door with the keycard from his pocket. Together we stumble into the room where I carefully set our stuff down on the dresser and then sink to the ground resting my head against the wall.

“Oh no, I think I might pass out here.” Crew tears his winter clothes off and stumbles against the wall before gaining control of his legs. “I don’t think the punch was a good idea.”

“Nope.” I shake my head. “It went downhill from there.”

“So why did we get another glass?” He laughs.

“Because our mugs told us to.”

“Ahh, that’s right.” He leans down and grabs my hand. “Come on, Twigs. Brush your teeth and then throw yourself in bed. You don’t want to sleep on the floor.”

“I’m protecting the door from that bastard of a jolly man, just in case he comes to our hotel room.”

“It’s not Christmas yet.”

“Oh . . . right.” I nod and let him help me to my feet. Together we brush our teeth and then make our way to the bed. Crew flips the covers back and then reaches behind him, grips his sweater, and pulls it over his head, revealing his toned torso.

For some reason, I decide to do the same. From behind, I grab my sweater and attempt to pull it over my head. Let’s just say, men make this move look flawless . . . me, on the other hand . . .

“Are you stuck?” Crew asks.

Stomach bare, arms sticking straight out in front of me, head tilted down, I flail about, trying to release myself from the confines of a cable-knit sweater.

“What’s happened?” I ask. “Where’s the exit?”

“Keep pulling.”

“How? My arms are stuck.”

Laughing, Crew leans on the bed, takes the sweater in his hands, and yanks it off me.

After I tilt my head back and scatter my hair out of my eyes, I earnestly tell Crew, “You just saved my life.”

He dusts off his shoulder. “All in a day’s work.”

Standing again, he takes off his pants and socks, leaving him in nothing but a pair of boxer briefs with bananas scattered all over the fabric.