“What’s up, Cookie?” Baker says as he follows me down.
“My brother is here,” I say as I get to my phone and read the message he sent me. “He’s come to pick me up and take me home for Christmas.”
8
BAKER
She has no more words for me as she gets dressed. Silently putting on the clothes she had so gleefully taken off before. To say it’s disconcerting to me is a bit of an understatement.
“Thank you for your help,” she says, the first words to me in what feels like forever. She’s hobbling on her foot, her boot barely back on.
“Let me help you out.”
“I’m... I’m fine, Baker. I can take enough steps to get out to my brother’s snowmobile.”
The truth is dawning on me as she heads out into the snow. Her brother meets her and helps her the rest of the way onto the back of the vehicle.
I let out a deep sigh, my heart heavy as they turn and burn into the distance.
In less than ten minutes I went from the highest of highs I’ve ever felt to absolutely and utterly crushed.
Looking for something to distract myself, I head into the kitchen and check on the meal we started cooking earlier.
It’s dawning on me pretty hard what just happened. She’s twenty years old. Me? I’m thirty-seven. She didn’t lie to me either. She doesn’t know what she wants to do with her life, because most twenty-somethings don’t know what they want.
I knew from my teenage years I wanted to play pro hockey and everything had to go into that. Cookie? She wants to float around, try things, express herself, see what’s waiting for her, play the field.
I’m such a fool.
So I eat my roast, my potatoes, my carrots all alone.
I saw the enthusiasm drain from her eyes as I brought up our future. At the time I thought it was so certain, with how she said being pregnant would be sexy, and shared her lactation fantasy with me.
That doesn’t mean shit, I remind myself. A fantasy is a fantasy. People want all sorts of weird shit sexually, but it doesn’t mean they want to deal with the real consequences of that fantasy.
After I eat my dinner, I’m on autopilot as I put everything away and am left pacing back and forth in my living room, wincing in self-loathing as I realize it’s where Cookie and I explored one another's bodies mere hours before.
It’s all on me. I just met her. Sure, I’d seen her from afar, but that meant nothing in the grand scheme of things. She was this curvy little minx I caught glimpses of, but after talking to her for a bit and fucking her once, I started talking about putting babies in her, marrying her, and declaring my one true love forever.
I’m so fucking pathetic.
I collapse into my bed, my memory blinking back to the wild sex I had with her. I can’t get Cookie off my mind, and I can’t sleep.
Baker Burns, two-time league MVP who brought the cup home multiple times, is brought to his knees and made into a gibbering mess by a small-town girl who delivers his milk.
The world is fucking weird.
After six hours of lying there trying to sleep and failing horribly, I get up, head down to the kitchen and start putting on coffee. It’s just about sunrise now on Christmas day. I need to make some calls and wish people Merry Christmas and all that, even if my heart isn’t in it.
I was born in Linesworth, but my family has spread pretty wide across the country. My mother went off to Arizona, only because she thought Florida was too cliche. My little sister Tracy is over in Atlanta, prepping for a big ultramarathon that’s coming up. She is just as gifted as I am when it comes to physical prowess, but I worry for her on those long runs.
With the time zone difference, this is probably when she’s getting back from her morning jog, being the type that doesn’t even let Christmas day stop her from training.
So it’s a good time to dial her up.
It rings a few times before she picks up. “Baker? Awfully early for you to be calling. It’s gotta be four in the morning still in Linesworth, ain’t it?”
“That’s about right, but I’m just calling to check up on my little sister and wish her Merry Christmas.”
“That’s sweet, Baker.” There's silence. I can’t see her, but I know her expression is cross now and if we were talking in person, she’d be staring at me. “What’s going on?”
“What do you mean? You know I like to do an old-fashioned phone call to check up on family for the holidays.”
“Yeah, you do, but one, it’s usually not at four in the morning, and two, usually you don’t sound super distressed.”