The Romantic Pact (Kings of Football)(46)

“Exactly.” I carefully lift up my glass, the white liquid teetering close to the edge. “Prost.”

“Prost . . . whatever that means.”

I tilt my head back and laugh. “Pretty sure it means ‘cheers’ in German.”

“Ah, okay.” She lifts the glass, and I watch her take a small sip, letting her be the guinea pig. When she doesn’t flinch or grimace, I take a sip as well.

A little dry, but not so dry that I feel as though my tongue is shriveling up. It has a smooth flavor that glides over my taste buds and straight down my throat.

“Huh, not bad,” I say, surprised. “I could totally see this as an everyday wine.” I take another sip.

“Oh, yeah. This is one of those wines that you don’t really savor. You just guzzle because you’re an adult and you can.”

“Yes, exactly.” We both take another drink, our sips growing bigger and bigger. “Wow, I can see how people could get drunk quick at a wine tasting, especially with glasses full to the brim like this.”

“Yeah,” Hazel sighs. “I’m going to be wasted by the end of this.”

“That a bad thing?”

She eyes me over the glass. “No, it’s probably a good thing.”





“Prost,” Ingrid says, stepping away from the table after filling up new wine glasses with the Classic.

She didn’t return until we were done with our glasses of the New, which means we need to drink up in order to get to the Great. This isn’t a tasting, this is a guzzling. False advertising.

There should be a sign outside warning, excessive wine guzzling in the cellar, proceed at your own risk.

Already starting to feel a little warm and relaxed inside, I lean back in my chair and slowly twist the bottom of my wine glass.

“Are you ready for the Classic?”

“I’m ready for it,” Hazel answers. “I need to know what kind of wine gets me a raise, that’s if I ever work a corporate job.”

“Do you see yourself doing that?” I ask. “Leaving the farm and pursuing something else?”

She slowly shakes her head. “No, I don’t think I could ever leave the farm, unless someone kicked me out. I have too much of my life attached to that acreage. I want to see it succeed, flourish.”

“You’re pretty awesome, Hazel, you know that? I really admire your loyalty and dedication. I remember when I was a senior in high school, going into my freshman year of college, Pops was talking to me on the phone about you and how hard you worked around the farm. How he thought of you as one of his own. He really loved you, bragged about you all the time.”

Her smile becomes teary. “Yeah?”

I nod. “Yeah. He did.”

“That’s nice to hear. Thank you.” She holds up her wine glass and I lift mine, as well. Delicately we clink our glasses, and we don’t have to say it out loud to know who we’re toasting to. This is for Pops. It’s all for Pops.





“That’s the fourth time I’ve gone to the bathroom,” Hazel says, sitting back down on her seat. “How are you keeping all this wine in?”

“I’ve no idea. I’ve only peed once and, frankly, it’s concerning.” I lean forward and whisper, “The longer I hold it in, the drunker I get.”

“I don’t think that’s a thing.”

“I think it might be,” I say, staring at the Great. “There might be research out there that proves it.”

Neither one of us has touched the Great; instead, we’ve been eating bread and going to the bathroom, our laughter growing heavier with every minute that passes.

“Is it me, or does it feel as if the room is slowly, and I mean centimeter by centimeter, turning counterclockwise?” Hazel’s eyes track the walls.

I take in the room, and yeah, I think it is. “You know what? I think we might be on some kind of German ride and don’t even know it.”

“Right? I’m pretty sure the entryway to the tasting room was at least six feet to the left.”

I look over my back and take in the entryway. “At least six feet, if not seven or eight.” I glance over her shoulder. “And that group of barrels over there, I think they’ve moved, too.”

“The ones behind me?” Hazel shakes her head and holds up her hand. “Don’t even get me started on the barrels behind me. Those have been different every trip to the bathroom.” She leans forward and says, “What if this place is haunted and the ghosts are floating around, fucking with the drunks?”

“Hell, that’s what I would do if I was a ghost.”

“It smells like a ghost down here,” she whispers.

“You’ve smelled a ghost before?” I ask, picking up another piece of this delicious bread, leaving out the butter this time.

“I mean, haven’t you?”

“Can’t really say if I have or haven’t. I mean, probably, but who am I to know if it was a ghost?”

“Fair. Fair.” She nods. “Well, this cellar smells like a ghost. Take it all in for future ghost-smelling references.”

Setting my bread down, I brace my hands on the table and then take a giant whiff of the room, telling myself to commit the smell to memory. “Fruity and bready with a little hint of dinge—that’s what ghost smells like. Got it.”