Page 10 of All Bats are Off (Rose City Roasters)

Brock

Thanksgiving Day

W hidbey Island had a way of looking like a postcard even in November. Brown and red leaves clung to the madrona trees, chimney smoke curled into the air, and that quiet kind of calm that only came from being surrounded by salt water settled into my bones.

Along with deep-seeded anxiety, but that had less to do with the ocean and everything to do with seeing my family.

Tucker leaned against the window of the rental car, taking it all in. “It’s like if Deadliest Catch and Practical Magic had a baby.”

I snorted. “You know they filmed that here, right?”

“Which one?”

“ Practical Magic. Mom was an extra.”

His big, beautiful eyes lit up. “Shut up.”

“It’s true. Sandra Bullock still sends her a holiday card every year.”

He grinned at me, the kind that made my chest ache in the best way. And then, like he could sense the nerves under my skin, he reached across the center console and squeezed my hand.

The cabin came into view just after dusk settled in, golden light glowing softly behind the windows like the house itself had been waiting for us. It was the same as it had always been—weathered cedar siding, chipped white trim, wind chimes clinking lazily from the porch. A pair of Adirondack chairs were still out front, even though it was too cold now to sit in them for long, and the old horseshoe nailed to the beam above the door tilted slightly to one side, exactly how I remembered.

It was one of those places where nothing ever changed, not really—where the wallpaper still held faint traces of long-ago Thanksgivings and the creaky floorboard in the hallway still caught your heel if you forgot to step over it.

Tucker let out a low whistle beside me. “You grew up here?”

“Yup,” I said, trying not to sound self-conscious. “Still happy you came home with me instead of jetting off to New York with Roman?”

“C’mon, Heller,” he said. Even after nearly two months together, he insisted on calling me by my last name. Except when we were in bed. “You know I’d follow you anywhere.”

I blinked at him, a lump rising in my throat before I could swallow it down. We hadn’t even gotten out of the car yet, and somehow he’d already made it feel like coming home.

“Besides, just think of the ways we can defile your childhood bedroom tonight.”

And just like that, the moment was over. I busted out laughing and grabbed for the door handle.

The front door swung open before we cleared the gravel driveway, and my mom stepped out, dish towel still in one hand.

“There you are!” she exclaimed, eyes lighting up as she pulled me into a quick hug that smelled like butter and rosemary. Then she turned to Tucker, who barely had time to introduce himself before she was pulling him in too.

“You must be Johnathan,” she said, grinning up at him like she already knew all his stats. “Sandra Heller. We’ve heard so much about you.”

“Hopefully just the good stuff,” Tucker replied with an easy smile, but I caught the tiny flicker of nerves in his eyes. “And please, call me Tuck or Tucker.”

“Of course.” She slipped her arm through his like they were already best friends. “Come on in where it’s warm. Mulled cider is on the stove, and Laurel’s roasting enough vegetables to feed an army.”

The house smelled like Thanksgiving had exploded—in the best way. Nutmeg, cloves, caramelizing onions, cinnamon baked into the air itself. The old tile floors were warm beneath our feet, the same checkered, black-and-white pattern I’d tiptoed across as a kid.

By the time we reached the kitchen, both of my sisters had already surrounded him like a bachelorette contestant. Tucker handled it like a pro—laying on the charm, telling them stories about dugout pranks and the best stadium hot dogs. I might have rolled my eyes once or twice, but it didn’t matter. Watching him win over anybody in every room he walked into was one of my favorite things about him.

“Geez, Louise,” Laurel exclaimed while plating a tray of olives. “You sure know how to pick them, little brother.”

“He’s even taller than I expected,” said Kyla, circling around him like a shark.

To his credit, Tucker didn’t flinch one bit. “You should know, I come with a warning label.” He smiled sheepishly. “Loud snorer. Hogs the bathtub. Eats an offensive amount of carbs. Oh, and I once wore socks with sandals in public.”

My sisters exchanged impressed looks.

“He’s a keeper,” Laurel praised, and Kyla just nodded.

I caught my dad lingering near the fireplace in the adjoining room, arms folded across his chest. He gave me a small nod. Reserved, watchful, but not unfriendly. Like he was waiting to make his judgment once the dust had settled. That was his way. Always had been, always would be. It was one of the only things we had in common—we were both creatures of habit.

Tucker noticed him too and extended his hand. “It’s really nice to meet you, sir.”

“Keith Heller.” Dad’s grip was firm, his brow slightly raised. “Congratulations on your big win last month. You boys played a hell of a series.”

Tucker shrugged modestly. “Had to impress someone.”

I bit back a smile as everyone chuckled, even my dad. And just like that, some of the tension in my chest started to melt away.

Dinner was a warm, noisy blur of second helpings and overlapping stories. Mom’s stuffing was legendary around these parts, full of sweet peaches, toasted pecans, and cubes of sourdough so soft they nearly melted into the gravy. The cranberry sauce was homemade—my sisters would mutiny otherwise—and the green beans were sautéed with lemon and almonds the way my dad swore he didn’t like but devoured, nonetheless.

My plate was a patchwork of all the side dishes: roasted root vegetables, vegan mac and cheese my sister Laurel had made just for me, and mashed potatoes with oat milk and olive oil that somehow still tasted like the real deal.

Tucker, of course, had everything—and seconds of most. His appetite had already endeared him to my mother, who kept placing more rolls near his elbow like she was trying to fatten him up for winter.

The only real hiccup came when my dad carved the turkey.

“You sure you don’t want any?” he asked, holding up a slice and glancing at me across the table. “It’s just the way you used to like it.”

“I’m good, Dad. I don’t eat meat anymore, remember?”

He huffed a little under his breath and set the slice down. “Seems a bit dramatic.”

The room quieted—not fully, but just enough for me to feel the words land.

Before I could come up with something diplomatic, Tucker jumped in, all easy charm and warmth. “Sandra, that stuffing is unlike anything I’ve ever had,” he said, nudging me with his knee under the table. “And I don’t know how any of y’all could pass up the sweet potato casserole. I’m going to have naughty dreams about those bad boys tonight.”

My mom laughed, tension dissipating like steam from one of her pies. “Finally, someone who appreciates my love of marshmallows.”

Tucker’s eyes met mine from across the table, and I mouthed a silent thank you. He just winked and stole the last crescent roll off my plate like the smug little shit he was.

Throughout our meal, my dad kept circling back to Tucker like he just couldn’t help himself. Like Tucker was the son he had always hoped for.

“That slide into home during game four?” He pointed his fork like it was part of the replay. “Split-second decision-making like that—you can’t teach it.”

Tucker smiled, but instead of soaking it in, he shook his head. “Brock wrote this whole breakdown of the play for his column. He called it ‘a study in controlled chaos.’ Honestly, it made me sound like I had a PhD in base running.”

My dad chuckled but didn’t let up. “Still. That final inning—hell of a clutch performance.”

Tucker gave a modest shrug and gestured across the table. “I was just trying to live up to the hype. Your son’s articles have the whole city thinking we’re some kind of superheroes.”

It kept going like that. With every compliment, statistic, and memorable play my dad brought up, Tucker volleyed back.

Each time he did it, my mom smiled a little softer, my sisters exchanged knowing looks, and my dad, to his credit, started looking at me a little longer. Differently, even. Like maybe I wasn’t just the guy sitting beside the star athlete—but someone who mattered to him, too.

“Brock’s the one with the real discipline,” Tucker added at one point, resting his hand on mine. “He wakes up at dawn, writes until his fingers cramp. Anyone can train for a game. Sitting with yourself long enough to write a book, though? That’s a different kind of endurance.”

“A book, huh?” Dad asked.

“Yeah, I was going to tell you about that,” I said, my voice rough with nerves. I wiped my palms across my thighs. “I, um— I’ve taken a leave from the paper. I’ve had this book in me for a while, and now I finally have a chance to write it. And before you say anything, I’ve already found a great literary agent, and she thinks I show a lot of promise.”

I glanced over at Tucker, who was watching me like I’d hung the moon. Our eyes met, and for just a second, the hum of conversation around us faded. His gaze didn’t waver—steady, warm, like an anchor in open water.

He reached across the table and brushed his fingers lightly against mine. Nothing big. Nothing dramatic. Just a simple touch that said I’m here. I’ve got you.

“ And I’ve got someone who makes me believe I can actually do this,” I finished, my voice steadier now with his quiet reassurance wrapped around me.

My dad didn’t say anything right away. Nobody did.

He just sat there, hands folded on the tabletop, gaze pinned to the half-empty glass of cider in front of him. For a second, I thought he hadn’t heard me. Or worse, that he was figuring out how to frame another polite dismissal.

Then he looked up.

“You think I don’t understand what you do,” he started, his voice low but even. “You’ve always been . . . different. Not the kind of kid who wanted to talk about fishing lines or football. You had your head in books. You asked questions I didn’t know how to answer.”

He got up slowly and crossed to the old wooden cabinet beside the fireplace. He opened one of the drawers and pulled something out—a thick scrapbook, worn and softened at the corners, the cover faded from sun and time.

He walked it back to the table and set it down in front of me.

“I kept all of them,” he said. “Every article you ever published. From the local school paper to the Tribune stuff. Hell, even that op-ed you wrote in college about banning plastic water bottles. I didn’t always get it, but I read every damn word.”

My fingers curled around the edge of the cover, my heart thudding like it might beat out of my chest.

Dad looked me in the eye. “I’m proud of you, Brock. Always have been. Even if I didn’t say it. And if writing this book is what makes you happy, then that’s what I want for you. That’s all I’ve ever wanted.”

The room had gone completely still. My sisters were quiet. My mom dabbed at her eyes. Even Tucker, who had seen me at both my best and worst, looked like he was holding his breath for me.

I opened my mouth, but nothing came out.

So instead, I just reached for the scrapbook, slid it closer, and laid my hand on top of it like it was some holy treasure from an Indiana Jones adventure.

“Thank you, Dad.”

Later, after the leftovers had been packed into mismatched Tupperware and my sisters had disappeared to their bedroom—the one they’d moved into when I’d been thirteen, leaving me in peace—Tucker and I slipped quietly upstairs.

My room was exactly as I had left it—gray-blue walls that made my teenage self feel more mature, bookshelves sagging slightly with dog-eared paperbacks, a bulletin board littered with faded Polaroids and scribbled notes. The bed was smaller than either of us were used to, much too small for whatever nefarious activities Tucker had been planning.

The thinning of his lips told me he had the same thought, and my smile stretched a little wider.

“You know,” he said, pulling his sweatshirt over his head, “I half-expected posters of boy bands or anime girls with swords.”

“Oh, those are in the closet,” I deadpanned, tossing a pillow at him.

He caught it easily then crossed the room and sat beside me on the edge of the mattress. We both stared out the small window, the faint glow of the porch light casting shadows across the familiar furniture.

“You okay?” he asked eventually, his voice soft.

I nodded. “I think so. I didn’t expect . . . any of that.”

He leaned into me, shoulder to shoulder. “Your dad might be stubborn, but he’s proud of you.”

“I know,” I said, my throat tight. “I just— I didn’t realize how badly I needed to hear him say it.”

Tucker reached across my lap and traced the edge of my hand with his thumb, slow and steady. “Well, I needed to hear that your sisters think I’m charming. So, I guess we’re both getting what we need tonight.”

I laughed, the sound muffled by the emotion still thick in my chest. “You’re a menace.”

“But I’m your menace.”

“Yes,” I agreed softly, my tongue darting out to wet my lips. “You are.”

He smiled then leaned in and kissed me, soft and slow. There was nothing urgent about this. Instead, we kissed like we had all the time in the world. Like we weren’t in my childhood bedroom with the creaky floorboards and the slightly-too-small bed, but somewhere entirely our own—somewhere only we could go.

When we broke apart, I let myself sink back into the pillows, Tucker following me down, curling around me like we belonged there. Like we always had.

“Don’t you think it’s time you tell me more about your family?” I spoke into the quiet room, illuminated only by a nightlight—a baseball, of course. “You know, since you’ve met mine.”

Tucker’s chest rumbled against my back, his arm draped heavy and warm across my waist. “On one condition.”

I craned my neck slightly, just enough to catch the curve of his grin in the faint light. “Name it.”

“One kiss per question,” he proposed, voice low and smug.

I snorted. “That’s extortion.”

“No,” he corrected, already leaning in. “That’s love.”

This time when he kissed me—soft and smiling with his hand sliding up under the hem of my T-shirt—I decided I didn’t really need all the answers. Not now, at least.

Tonight, I’d happily keep paying the price.

Over and over and over again.