Snowed In with the Quarterback by Christy Pastore

Author:Christy Pastore [Pastore, Christy]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Christy Pastore Publishing
Published: 2020-12-20T18:30:00+00:00

CHAPTER SIX

Spencer

“Get a room. There are kids out here for Cripes sake,” a gravelly voice shouts.

Amy’s lips freeze to mine and her hands grip the hem of my shirt tighter. She pulls back to look up at me and snowflakes land on her long lashes.

“Guess we better go,” she whispers. “We have a tree to decorate.”

“Holy shit. And I mean holeeeey shit—it’s Spencer Ward. This guy’s got more sacks than Santa Claus.”

My eyes close and I let out a deep breath. You know that meme of Ben Affleck taking a puff of a cigarette and the caption says something like: “smoking through the pain of existence.”

That’s me right now.

It doesn’t help matters that I played exceptionally terrible on Monday night.

When I crack my eyes open, I see a man approaching holding a plastic bottle of whiskey sporting twenty pounds of real belly, layered up in red velvet with ivory fur trim, and a white beard that’s hanging off his chin.

Amy and me kissing is offensive to the children but this faux Santa…Bad Santa impersonator, isn’t?

“As I live and breathe, Spencer Ward,” he slurs my name. “You fucking suck. You know that?” he says, pointing the half empty bottle at me.

A guy wearing a red and green plaid sweater and black jeans comes into view and stands next to Bad Santa. “That’s for sure. Coach Carr should bench your loser ass and put in Crosby Quinn.”

I swallow down my rage. “I’m sorry I let you down on Monday night. I’m working on my timing and reading the D line. Don’t give up on me and the Renegades, yet.”

Beady black eyes squint at me. “Pfft. You’re the worst QB in the league, Ward.” Bad Santa strokes his fake beard. “Hey honey, why don’t you ditch the loser and take a ride on good ol’ Saint Nick’s lap.”

Amy scoffs and grips my arm. “Let’s go Spencer.”

“Are you too good for Santa, honey?”

Before she can answer I’m in his face. “Hey man, remember the kids. They’re watching.”

“I don’t give a rip about the kids. And I ain’t taking no lip from no loser jerk like you.”

Jerk? I’m the jerk.

Ignore him.

I turn back towards Amy but don’t make it two steps before Bad Santa continues his assessment of my skills, or lack thereof.

“You make a lot of money,” he barks out. “Too much to be losing games and tossing passes in the middle of nowhere. Not a receiver in sight.”

My fingers curl into my palms as I whip around. Blazing pain shoots down my neck and into my arm. I grasp the back of my neck.

Bad Santa stumbles forward grasping the rope dangling off my Range Rover.

Crack. Snap. Pop.

Bad Santa takes a dive into the side of my SUV and then lands in a small pile of dirty wet snow.

“Be careful, Santa. You’ve got work to do tonight.” Amy points out and offers a hand to Bad Santa.

He grumbles under his breath and reaches for her hand. My reaction time is too slow. Bad Santa pulls Amy forward and she lands face first in his crotch.

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