Page 29

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

CHRISTMAS MEMORIES

EMMA

A fter three hours on the road, I pull up in front of my childhood home and climb out of the car on weary legs, barely stifling a yawn. I’m tired and hungry after hours on the road and only stopping for necessities. The front door of the house opens with a clang and I look up to find my little sister grinning at me from the front steps.

“‘Bout time you got here!” She calls, running down the steps and throwing her arms around me. “I’ve got dinner in the oven, if you’re hungry.”

“I’m starving.” With our arms around each other’s shoulders we walk up the steps and into the house, as warm and cozy as ever.

“Get settled in, there’s still time until dinner is ready.”

Taking my bags down the hall, I find the door to my old room and open it gently. It’s still a bedroom, but it’s grown into a guest room from a little girl’s room. Where once there was a set of bunk beds is now a queen sized bed with a simple blue bedspread and matching pillow shams, a far cry from the tie dye and floral bedspreads Molly and I had growing up. My soccer posters and Molly’s baseball posters have been replaced with art prints, our nightlight replaced with table lamps on either nightstand.

“I thought…” Molly’s soft voice comes from the open bedroom door, “...if you were at all interested, maybe we could put up the tree together?”

“And do a movie?” I ask with a hopeful smile.

“I’ve already got Mom’s sugar cookie dough chilling in the fridge, too. I was thinking we could mash all of Christmas into the next two days so that we can have Christmas together.”

“I love that idea,” I close the distance between me and my sister and hug her tight, her arms. “Three bits of sticky tape?” I ask, quoting our favorite Christmas movie.

“As if we’d watch anything else.”

Molly takes dinner, a pan of her homemade enchiladas, out of the oven, and I take the sugar cookie dough out of the fridge to come to room temperature while we eat. Molly sets places for us at the coffee table in the living room where we eat stretched out on the floor, making quick work of the meal and laughing at bits of the movie before getting to work on our abbreviated Christmas. I’m on sugar cookie duty while Molly sets up the tree in front of the bay window in the living room.

I roll out the dough and cut it into shapes with Mom’s old cookie cutters, carefully lining the tray with stars and bells and sugar cookie people, snapping a picture to send to Jax. After the cookies have been in the oven for a few minutes the sweet, familiar smell of butter and sugar fills the house and with it comes the memories of every Christmas spent in this house.

“Hey,” Molly comes into the kitchen with her hands behind her back and a mischievous gleam in her eye. “I got you these.”

She tosses a bundle of fabric at me and I reach out to catch it, feeling the soft flannel and waffle knit under my fingers. “You better have a matching set.”

“You know I do,” She grins.

Molly and I change into our matching Christmas pajamas of plaid flannel pants and green waffle knit shirts, slip our feet into matching reindeer slippers, and I mix up a batch of Ben’s homemade hot chocolate to enjoy with our cookies, fresh from the oven. We decorate the tree in our pjs and start another of our favorite Christmas movies as the night drifts on.

As the clock ticks toward midnight, Molly and I find ourselves on the couch, covered in a blanket and singing along with Bing Crosby and Danny Kaye at the top of our lungs. The only thing missing is Dad’s crooning voice trying to fit in with our nonsense and Mom doing her best to harmonize with us. As kids, Molly and I tried to learn the choreography to go along with the movie, but neither of us wanted to be the male leads, so the only parts we learned were those of the sisters, but we made it work.

A faint ringing from the dining table grabs Molly’s attention and I pause the movie so she can grab her tablet, and when she returns, Mom and Dad’s faces fill the small screen, and they appear to be wearing the same pajamas that Molly and I are.

“Merry Early Christmas!” Mom calls, as a bleary-eyed Dad waves. They’ve made it to Vienna where they’ll be spending Christmas. It’s a six hour time difference, so just after midnight for me and Molly is just after six AM for Mom and Dad, and Dad is decidedly not a morning person. “How’s it going, girls?”

“We’re two movies in,” Molly says.

“And we’ve made your sugar cookies,” I hold up an unfrosted star and Mom grins.

“The tree is up,” we turn the tablet so they can see the lights on the tree and the paused movie on the screen. “And we’ve got cocoa and Christmas pjs!”

“And Emma,” Dad’s brows pinch together in a look of concern that I’m all too familiar with. “How are you feeling? Are you ready for your trip?”

Those are two very different questions, and the answers are pretty mutually exclusive from each other. How am I feeling? Incredibly nervous. Second guessing myself at every turn. Wondering why I ever agreed to do this in the first place.

Am I ready for my trip? Of course I am. At least from a logistical perspective. I’m packed. I have flights reserved, appointments waiting for me when I get to LA, and a hotel room that I’ll be living out of for the next two weeks. But I don’t tell Dad any of this because I don’t need him worrying about me any more than he already is.

“I’m great, Dad. All set to go and ready to get back on the field.” I’m not sure that I’ve done a good job of convincing my dad, as his brows draw together even further, lips turning into a frown as he regards me through the screen. Mom and Molly both watch me with questioning faces as well and I do my best to change the subject. “How was the cruise?”

This takes their mind off of me long enough to tell us all about their river cruise and the excursions that they were a part of all throughout western Europe. Dad raves about the historical sites while Mom tells us all about the food and some of the things she wants to try to make once they get home. They’ll spend the next few weeks in Austria before flying home on the day after Christmas.

As the conversation continues, a notification drops down from the top of Molly’s tablet screen, it lingers on the screen just long enough for me to see the American Sports Network logo and my name in the headline. Not wanting to be rude to my parents, I refrain from pulling out my phone to search for whatever article this could be.

“...we want to meet him once we get home,” Mom’s voice cuts through the anxious tension that fogs my brain. She and Dad are both watching me expectantly.

“Sorry,” I shake it off as best I can. “What are we talking about?”

“Jax,” Molly grins.

“We want to meet him,” Mom reiterates. “The girls too, if he’s up for it.”

“I’m sure it would be fine. I want him to meet the two of you, too.”

“You’ll love their family,” Molly offers me an out, thankfully. I can’t stop thinking about whatever that notification was. Blessedly, Molly wraps up the conversation and once we’re off the call, I swipe into her notifications and click through to the article.

Pending a physical, Emma Mitchell’s team says she is prepared to sign a contract with Chicago once again…

“How did they get this?” My hands shake with barely contained anger and anxiety as my eyes continue to scan the small tablet screen. “I haven’t agreed to anything yet.”

“Call Scott,” Molly offers. “Take some breaths, call Scott, see if he knows anything about this.”

“Right. Yes. Okay.” I stand up, shaking out my arms and hands as I do, focusing on my breathing and not the nagging anxiety at the forefront of my brain. I want to believe that Scott has nothing to do with this story getting out, but it’s the part about “Emma Mitchell’s team” that has me worried. I don’t have a team anymore. I used to. I used to have a publicist and an agent and personal assistant that I could never fully get used to having but after my injury we mutually parted ways, the only person who I kept on the “team” is Scott.

The phone rings and I’m sent right to voicemail.

“Scott, it’s Emma. I need you to call me as soon as you can.”

Short. Sweet. To the point. I’m sure he’ll know the reason for my call without me having to spell it out for him, but I worry that he’ll be using the next few days before our meeting to formulate a story and somehow spin this to try and convince me that he’s not responsible for it. After clicking my phone off from Scott’s voicemail, a non-stop stream of notifications sets in. Emails. Texts. Calls. Molly looks at the phone in my hand and what I’m sure is a panicked look on my face, and takes my phone down the hall, into Mom and Dad’s room.

“Get some sleep,” she wraps her arms around me in a tight, comforting hug. “We’ll sort things out in the morning.”

Sleep eludes me as I toss and turn in bed, my mind racing into the early morning hours until finally I shut my eyes and manage to keep them closed. When I wake up in the morning, bone deep exhaustion weighing my body down but the smell of fresh coffee lures me out to the kitchen where Molly is perched at the dining room table, hair on top of her head in a messy bun, glasses perched on her nose, and a scowl on her face.

“It was Scott,” she says, removing her glasses and rubbing her eyes with the heels of her hands. “My contact at American Sports Network wouldn’t give up their source, but I know it was him. It had to be.”

“Yeah,” I pour myself a mug of coffee and take a sip, scalding my mouth in the process but I don’t care. “I figured that out last night.”

“I looked up flights, you can move yours up and fly out this afternoon if you want to. There’s just a small rebooking fee.”

“No. I’m not letting this spoil our Christmas together.”

“You can’t let him get away with this, Ems.”

“I’m not going to, Molly. Don’t worry.”

“Fine,” she huffs, shutting her laptop with a loud snap. My sister is feisty, and I know if it were up to her she’d be the one getting on the plane this afternoon and heading to LA to deal with this herself. She grumbles something about journalistic integrity as she gathers her stuff and heads back down the hall, calling over her shoulder, “you really should take me with you, Ems!”

Yeah. That’s not happening.