The Romantic Pact (Kings of Football)(45)

“Like what?”

We’re walking down the long aisleway of all the wine, barely taking in the different years and flavors. Honestly, I’m completely inept when it comes to wine. I only know if it tastes good to me, and that’s about it. I’m more of a beer guy. I know that doesn’t shock anyone, given I’m in a fraternity and I’m a student athlete, but thought I’d put it out there.

“Christmas Eve, we’d do the traditional thing of wearing matching pajamas and then take pictures in them. Pops always read ‘Twas the Night Before Christmas to us which, when I got older seemed kind of weird, but I know it’s something I’m going to miss terribly this year. And then, when I was older, Pops would sneak into my room at midnight and whisper, ‘Merry Christmas,’ and together, we’d have a Christmas cookie before he went back to his room. Christmas morning was meticulously planned out. It wasn’t a free-for-all. We all sat around the tree and opened up individual gifts while everyone watched. Took hours to get through the presents, and we always paused to refill on hot chocolate or hot cider. A tray of donuts, turnovers, and cookies was always in the middle of the coffee table to add to the sugar high of the day. Christmas music played in the background, there was always some sort of argument going on between my mom and Uncle Paul, and Dad would just sit back, coffee in hand, and take it all in. If magic was real, then it would be Christmas morning at Pops’s house.”

“I love that,” Hazel says just as Ingrid comes up behind us.

“Your wine is ready if you’d like to take a seat at your table.”

“Sure.” I hold my arm out for Hazel to take but either she doesn’t see me, or she ignores it. She walks in front of me with Ingrid as I trail behind her.

Yup, something is off, and I’m not sure she’s going to let me pry deep enough to figure out what it is.

Hell, I don’t need to figure it out. The problem is still at the forefront of my mind. I dry humped my friend, and now things are awkward. That’s what happens when you cross that line and have no plan of action for the repercussions afterwards.

Really smart, Crew.





Comfortably seated in our bar-height chairs, I stare at the three bottles of wine in front of us. Are we supposed to drink all of that?

If so, I’m thinking we might have a repeat of last night. There’s also accompanying bread and a butter spread, but I doubt that’s going to soak up all the alcohol.

Standing beside our table, Ingrid holds a towel over her arm, acing the butler vibes as she speaks to us. “There are three types of wine to know about.”

Shit, I hope there isn’t going to be a test after, because all I know is white and red. That’s it.

“Some might tell you there’s more, but here at our winery we believe there are three types: the New, the Classic, and the Great.”

“Oh, I thought you were going to throw down some different classifications of wine.” Hazel laughs.

“Ah, everyone does. But let me show you what I mean.” She gestures to the first bottle. “To us, this would be listed under the New. This would be considered for everyday drinking. A Bacchus wine. Something you mindlessly pop open while making dinner, or that you share with your friends during a gossip night while the best of Shawn Mendes plays in the background. Simple, gets the job done, and good.”

Hazel chuckles. “Got to love the sweet combination of a bottle of wine and Shawn Mendes.”

“Oh ja, a great combination.” Ingrid points to the middle bottle. “This is the Classic. Also known as a dinner party wine. A Sylvaner. You would buy this for your birthday or if you are trying to impress your boss while attempting to earn a promotion.”

“Ah, the give-me-a-raise wine,” I say, pulling a smile from Hazel. “Take notes, Twigs.”

“And the third.” Ingrid lifts up the bottle carefully and holds it so gently that I actually believe she thinks it might break if handled too roughly. “This is the Great. This is a once-in-a-lifetime wine. A look-but-don’t-touch. A dream-about-but-never-open. This is saved for the most special of occasions, like wine tasting in an old wine cellar in the heart of German wine country.” She winks and sets the bottle down. “Shall I start you off with the New and work you up to the Great?”

“I couldn’t think of doing it any other way,” I say, bringing my glass closer to Ingrid. Hazel does the same while Ingrid opens the bottle.

“Now, here in this winery, we pour wine the old-fashioned way.”

“How’s that?” Hazel asks. Her hands are folded on the table, but her eyes are intrigued.

“It’s called ‘over the top.’” Ingrid pours the wine into the tall, round glass, filling it all the way to the brim. She sets the glass in front of Hazel and says, “Always to the brim.” She takes my glass and does the same, emptying out the bottle. When done, she rests the bottle between us and then takes a step back from the table. “Prost.” She takes off, leaving me with Hazel and a giant glass of wine.

Hazel and I connect eyes and then we both chuckle as we look back at our wine glasses.

“We’re totally fucked if we don’t like this wine,” I say. “What kind of assholes would we look like if we don’t drink it all?”

“Like American assholes.”