“Not lyrics to an old Guns N’ Roses song. Christmas songs. ‘Rudolph.’ ‘White Christmas.’ ‘We Three Kings.’”

“Hey, you haven’t heard ‘The Twelve Days of Christmas’ until you’ve heard us, sweetheart.”

“Liar.”

“Cross my heart.” And he does the accompanying motion.

“Tell me what Honeysuckle Ridge is.”

Oz’s entire face brightens with his smile. It’s a gorgeous one. Dazzling even. “Good try, but not good enough. Already told you, I have no idea.”

“Now you’re a liar.”

One slow, sexy-as-hell shoulder shrug. “What are you going to do about it?”

Is he flirting with me?

The screen door screeches open and Oz casually stands as if it’s normal to be crouched in front of someone he barely knows. Violet and Oz eyeball each other as she walks out and he walks in.

When the door shuts again she clicks her tongue at me. “You are destined to be the type that learns the hard way, aren’t you?”

My body rolls forward and I lower my head into my hands. Evidently I am.

Oz

IT’S CHAOS.

Yelling.

Screaming.

And it’s only the second quarter of the game.

I’m blowing my damn ears off with the whistle, but the little punk kid from the home team is still chasing the skinny kid with the ball. “You’re not on the field anymore!”

Both kids turn their heads to look at me and realize they’ve raced past the end zone and onto a farmer’s private property. There’s a chuckle from the parents on the sidelines as the two run their asses back.

“Ball,” I call out because they never remember to hand the football back before they huddle with their coach. It’s summer so it’s flag football instead of tackle. Half the time, the kids forget the flag part and hammer the hell out of each other.

“Time out!” Two hundred and fifty pounds of once-upon-a-time linebacker and now dad to the little punk in question waves at me.

There’s only seconds left until the half, but it’s eight-year-old flag football so why the hell not? “You got it.”

The kid with red hair being chased attempts to throw the ball to me and misses by twelve feet. There’s a reason why he’s not the quarterback. The ball lands behind Emily. She sits on a blanket beside Mom and Olivia and the three of them are grinning at me, but Emily more. Fuck me for liking it. She has the type of smile that can light up a black hole.

The two of us have been around each other for over two weeks. Hanging. Not hanging. Just sort of existing while she and Olivia hustle each other in cards. So far, it’s been low-key, but being around Emily makes mundane easy.

“Hey!” Chevy sidles beside me wearing the same black-and-white ref shirt that I am. “Eli’s coming back today, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Think he’ll give you the night off from Emily?” Chevy inclines his head to two girls from school. “If so, we have plans.”

I graduated with them. Hell, I played on the monkey bars with them in kindergarten. One is blond and all legs. The other has brown hair and is all big breasts. Neither has anything on Emily.

“They’re good girls,” I say. “You know where I stand on that.”

They’re honor roll, panic about curfew and are on time for church every Sunday morning. I don’t have a problem with good girls. To be honest, I’m hoping I can find a good girl with a bad side to marry me one day, but this isn’t one day and right now the only thing that happens with a good girl is they get hurt because they’re hunting for what I won’t give.

Chevy flashes a sly smile. “They came to me, man. Not the other way around. Both of them are leaving town next week to travel Europe before they head out of state for college. They said they’ve watched the Terror their entire lives and want to experience one night with us before they leave town.”

Because there’s an invisible force field surrounding Snowflake. Once people leave, they never come back.

“Sometimes a good girl needs to be bad,” Chevy continues.

Right as he says it, the blonde smiles in a way that promises a night that has my type of bad written all over it. “Gotta check with Eli.”

“It’s all I’m asking.” Chevy blows the whistle to indicate the time-out is over.

Emily

OZ JOGS ALONGSIDE a young boy who doesn’t run right. He doesn’t walk right, either. At least he didn’t when he moved onto the field. His legs are in braces and he spent most of the game on the sidelines in a wheelchair.

That is until the game ended and Oz immediately lowered himself to the boy’s eye level and tossed him the football. Oz talked with the boy and then to his parents. Minutes later, both teams met at the line of scrimmage with Oz and Chevy shouting instructions.

The ball was handed off to this boy and now the crowd is yelling and cheering and my pulse pounds. Oz is jogging backward now, encouraging him to continue forward. Both teams sprint alongside Oz and the boy. All of them calling the boy’s name. The kid is pumping his little arms, pushing legs that seem to weigh against him, but he has this utter look of joy that brings tears to my eyes.

I’m on my knees on the blanket, clapping and praying and begging for him not to fall. To finish and to finish strong.

He crosses the line and the sideline explodes into a deafening sound of happiness. My arms are in the air and I’m laughing. Laughing because the kid is laughing. Laughing because Oz is laughing.