The Romantic Pact

by Quinn, Meghan

  “Hazel.” My lips press together, knowing the truth is the only way to explain this, to make her not feel dejected and worth less than what she actually is. “I wanted to kiss you back.”

  “What?” Her eyes grow confused.

  “I did. I was shocked at first, but then I wanted to kiss you back, and that fucking terrified me. So, fight or flight kicked in, and I ran. I ran as far away as I could because I knew if I stayed around, I would have probably got lost in something I shouldn’t be getting lost in. I needed to focus, to train, to keep my head straight. Much luck that did me, given how shitty I played this season, but that was still the end goal.”

  “I wasn’t trying to distract you, Crew.”

  “I know.”

  “It was a weird, spur-of-the-moment thing, and I regret every second of it.”

  “Don’t regret it, Hazel.”

  “Don’t?” She raises a brow as she drops her fork and crosses her arms over her chest. “Why wouldn’t I? I lost one of my best friends over it. You have no idea what it’s like to grow up in a small town, Crew. You have no idea the kind of reputation my mom had around town. It’s why I hung out at Pops’ farm all the time, just to get away from the talk. We didn’t have much, and my mom did anything she could to make money . . . everything. And everyone knew it, too. You were an outlet for me.”

  “I had no idea,” I say, that guilt intensifying. Why didn’t Pops tell me? Probably to keep Hazel separate from her mom.

  “Yes, I had friends growing up, but they all knew my dirty laundry, and they all judged me for it. I was Patricia Allen’s daughter, which meant the apple probably didn’t fall far from the tree. The looks I got, the sneers. It was suffocating at times, but then there were the summers. Every summer there was a wave of fresh air that came to the farm and it was you.”

  “Hazel, I—”

  “Let me finish.” She takes a deep breath. “I counted on seeing you every summer, on spending lazy Sundays on the pond with you floating on innertubes. I looked forward to driving the four-wheelers in the back woods, or racing to the house for homemade pie, or even cleaning out the pigsty with you because we always made it fun. But then you took it away. You ignored me. You stopped coming. It was . . . devastating. You made me believe that I’d ruined everything we’d built.”

  “You didn’t, Hazel. I did. This is my fault.”

  “Coming on this trip, I wanted it to be you who was my travel buddy. I was begging and pleading in my head for it to be you and for you to show up. Just so I could say sorry. So that I could see you and make sure that you weren’t . . . repulsed by me.”

  A tear falls down her cheek, and I can’t take it anymore. I stand from my chair and pull her from her seat as well. Hand in hand, I bring her to the bed, where I sit next to her. I cup her cheek and say, “I’m not repulsed by you, not in the slightest. To be truthful, I’ve always had a mini-crush on you. I mean, you’re Hazel Allen, the girl who can toss a hay bale on a truck without breaking a sweat.”

  “It’s disturbing that me heaving hay bales is a turn on.” Her voice is light with humor but there’s still sadness in her eyes.

  “You know what I mean.” I shift. “But once I felt the pressure of my future, I started to have tunnel vision. Nothing else mattered to me at the time except training and making something of myself. And, fuck, do I regret that on so many levels.” I push my hand through my hair. “I hurt you. I hurt myself because I didn’t have you to talk to. And I didn’t . . .” My voice grows tight. “I didn’t give myself those last summers with Pops, too.” I let out a long sigh and place both my hands in my lap. “Fucking biggest mistake of my life so far. I can never get back that time, ever.”

  Hazel’s hand falls to my back and she leans against my shoulder, giving me a soft hug.

  “Will you forgive me, Haze?” I ask, my voice coming out pathetically sad.

  “Only if you can learn to forgive yourself during this trip.”

  “That doesn’t seem possible at this point.”

  “Make it possible,” she says simply. “You know how to reach a goal. That’s evident through your football career. Maybe in order to move forward with everything else, you’re going to need to forgive yourself first.”

  “When did you become so wise?”

  “Oh, you know, I did grow up while we weren’t speaking.”

  “Yeah, I noticed,” I say before I can stop myself.

  “Was that a nod to my newfound bosom?”

  “Can you not call it that?” I ask in a tired tone.

  “No, it’s more fun to annoy you.” She nuzzles my shoulder. “Come on. I’ll forgive you if you start to forgive yourself. Remember what Pops said—clean slate. This is an opportunity to reminisce, to remember, and to say goodbye. It’s time that you work on your emotional health, rather than your physical.” She squeezes my bicep. “Because oh boy, do you have the physical down.”

  I chuckle and wrap my arm around her, bringing her in close. “Okay, I’ll work on it.”

  “Promise?”

  “Promise on Funyuns.”

  She lifts up and looks me in the eyes seriously. “The golden promise. You better mean it.”

  “I wouldn’t have said that if I didn’t.”

  “Good.” She stands from the bed and heads back over to the cart of food. “I’m hungry. Let’s eat.”

  Still on the bed, I call out, “Haze?”

  “Yeah?” Her fork is loaded.

  “I wish I kissed you back. One of my biggest regrets.”

  Smiling shyly, she says, “Glad to hear it.” She then winks and points to my plate. “Get to work on that food. We have some wine to drink tonight, and I can’t have you acting like a lightweight because you didn’t eat anything.”

  I walk over to the cart and take a seat. Having spent the last ten hours with Hazel has made it glaringly obvious what I’ve missed. She’s intelligent, witty, direct, and she also knows me well. Football did become my life, but despite the friendships with the guys, there have been times I’ve felt alone. And I was surrounded by people. Who did Hazel have? Pops. The farm. Working it. Now she’s worried she’ll let Pops down, and she’s probably had no one to talk to about it.

  Munich is about reconnecting. We’ve such limited time here on Earth, which means you need to make the most of the moments you have together.

  That’s what I want to do more than anything now. Still staring at her, I add, “I couldn’t imagine being on this trip with anyone else.”

  “Damn right, Hollywood.”

  Chapter Five

  HAZEL

  “Are you ready for this?” I ask Crew, who’s finishing tying one of his boots.

  Hollywood has style. On the farm, he’s always dressed casually in athletic shorts and T-shirts. He wore jeans occasionally, but that was rare.

  So I’m not used to seeing him dressed up like this.

  Jeans that hug his hips and legs in all the right ways are cuffed just above a pair of brown boots. The jeans rest low on his hips, where his maroon shirt dances along his waistline. He paired the outfit with a gray knit cardigan and slouch beanie that hangs off his head in that sexy kind of way that Ryan Gosling can pull off.

  Yup . . . he’s hot.

  Deathly hot.

  Making-me-reconsider-my-begging-and-pleading-to-be-on-this-trip-with-him kind of hot.

  “Ready.” He pats his legs and stands. With a smile, he walks over to me and tugs on one of the braids peeking out from under my white knit hat. “Your hair has gotten long.”

  “Grew it myself.” I smile.

  “All by yourself? Wow. You’re quite the phenom.”

  I laugh and push at his stomach—his rock-hard stomach. Gulp. “Are you mentally prepared for this? It’s twenty thousand square feet of Christmas market.”

  “I’m actually excited.”

  “Yeah?”

  He nods and goes to the window, where he looks down at the market. We spent some time eating our food and getting ready
. We played a few rounds of Dots and Boxes, both agreeing that we wanted to explore after the sun went down to take in the nighttime magic of the Christmas market.

  Now that the sun has set, the twinkle lights down below are lit, and the large Christmas tree in the middle is sparkling with cheer; we’re ready.

  “Christmas was Pops’ favorite holiday. You were always visiting your mom’s parents but there was something about Christmas that put Pops in an unwavering good mood.”

  “Tell me more,” I say, walking toward the door of our hotel room and strapping my purse over my shoulder like a messenger bag.

  Crew pulls on his jacket and opens the door for me, and together we make our way to the elevator.

  “Did you ever get to have a cookie-making day with Pops?”

  “No, but I did eat a lot of the cookies he made.”

  “Man.” Crew chuckles. “It’s a big production.” We get into the elevator and Crew hits the button for the lobby. “The process starts in the beginning of November.”

  “What? November?”

  “Oh yeah. That’s when he starts looking for different ways to improve the cookie selection from the year before. He had a binder full of pictures from cookies he made in years past with attached recipes and any notes he might have taken to help better the recipes the next year.”

  “Stop. I didn’t know this.”

  The elevator doors part and we walk into the lobby. Berdine waves to us from the front desk and Elias holds the door open for us just as a blast of cold wind pierces us.

  “Holy shit,” Crew says, zipping up his coat.

  I chuckle. “Do you think your California skin is going to make it in this weather?”

  “No.” He stuffs his hands in his pockets. “Did we fly into the artic? It wasn’t this cold earlier.”

  “Ah, yes, that’s because the sun was up. Now that it’s set, it’s much colder.”

  “I already feel the cold seeping to my dick.”

  I laugh out loud and say, “It’s not that bad. Don’t be so dramatic, or I might have to start calling you Uncle Paul.”

  “He’d be having a world-class fit about how cold it is if he were here.”

  “I don’t doubt it.” I slip my hand through his arm and draw my body close to his, hopefully offering him some body heat, even though he’s much taller and larger than I am. Every little bit counts. “Try not to focus on the cold. Tell me more about the binder.”

  “Wait, which way are we supposed to go, according to the map?”

  “Far left and then work our way through in a zigzag motion.”

  He nods and leads us to the left. “So, this binder—it was his baking bible. No one was allowed to touch it but him and there was absolutely no flash photography allowed near it.”

  “Oh my God. I can so see Pops saying that.”

  “Every Friday after Thanksgiving, Pops called me and ran through a list of possible cookies that would make the lineup for the year.”

  “You were that involved?”

  “Oh yeah. I was his helper every year. Those butter cookies that were perfectly iced with mini chocolate chips for snowman’s eyes? Those were frosted and decorated by me, with a pair of tweezers reserved for cookies only.”

  “Wow, Crew, I’m impressed. Did he ever let you come up with a new cookie to add to the lineup?”

  “Never, and he wasn’t ever sorry about it either. He made it quite clear where I stood when it came to the cookie lineup. I was there to help. My opinion was heard, but ultimately, Pops made the decisions.”

  We make our way down to the far left, where the very first stall is filled with homemade glass ornaments. Beautifully designed and handblown ornaments dangle from wooden pegs. The lights catch off the glass, giving the stall an enchanting ambience. I’m drawn to the ornaments and pick one up, the lightness of it surprising.

  “There’s no way this would make the trip back to New York,” I say to Crew, who shakes his head.

  “Shame though, my mom would love these. She collects glass ornaments. Her most prized possessions are her hotdog ornament collection.”

  “Shocking,” I say sarcastically. “The McManns liking hotdogs? That’s completely unheard of.” I set the ornament down and slowly look over the rest. “So, when it came to your visit, did Pops put you straight to work?”

  Crew nods. “Yes. He gave me the night to gain my bearings, but first thing in the morning, he was waking me up, slapping an apron on me, and pushing me toward the kitchen.”

  “You had aprons? Please tell me they were matching.”

  “Unfortunately, they weren’t. Pops had a simple black apron—”

  “What? That’s so unlike him. I would expect a funny apron—you know, something obnoxious, or even an apron that said ‘I’m making Mother Franklin D cookies.’”

  Crew throws his head back and laughs. “Shit. Why didn’t I ever think about making him that? That would have been an amazing Christmas gift. Maybe it was because I was so distracted that he’d wear a button-up flannel shirt and a tie to bake.”

  I pause on my way to the next stall and turn toward Crew. “He wore a tie to bake cookies?”

  “Oh yeah. I’m telling you, he took it very seriously. He’d have the ingredients out on the counter, a lineup of the cookies to be baked and in what order to bake them on the chalkboard of the kitchen, and we were allotted a certain amount of bathroom breaks and hands were always to be washed in the kitchen as proof of proper sanitization.”

  “I never knew so much went into making his famous cookies.”

  Crew smiles sadly and slows his steps. “I didn’t even think about the cookies until now. My senior year in high school was the last time I made them with him. College football doesn’t lend itself to long Christmas breaks if you’re actually having a good season.”

  “Maybe it was good then, you know, that you threw all those interceptions.”

  “You really know how to kick a guy when he’s down.”

  I chuckle and bump his shoulder with mine. “You have to look at the glass as half full. A bad season isn’t the end of your career. You and I both know that.”

  “I don’t know. I could have just dug the grave of my football career.” He shakes his head. “That’s not something I want to talk about right now.”

  “Fair enough. Tell me what your least favorite cookie to make was.”

  We wander among stalls that sell ornaments, each specializing in a different medium. As we stroll by a stall with windowpane-like ornaments, I pause and take a look at the different designs sorted by rainbow color, all catching the light in their glass, and hung by delicate red and white strings. Some of the ornaments are square blocks with colors swirled through the middle, and then there are others that are designed to look like an object. Like a Christmas tree, snowman, nussknacker . . . a bratwurst.

  “Linzer tortes,” Crew says, examining one with a tree in the middle. “They were incredibly delicate and difficult to make. Lots of steps, and Pops was all about perfection. Not only did his cookies taste good, but they had to look good as well. He never allowed for a burnt edge or a cracked corner.”

  “It’s why they were so popular on the farm. Tasty and pretty. Some might say they resemble me.”

  Crew sets the ornament back down and chuckles. “The pretty is obvious, the tasty—well, I can’t comment.”

  “Such a shame,” I playfully say, moving to the next stall, which is decorated in intricately carved pieces of wood. “Oh, wow, look at these.” I run my hands over handcrafted cheese boards. “The wood grain is positively beautiful.”

  “I recall you making a cheese board for Pops once and him using it every day as a plate, not quite sure what it was.”

  I laugh out loud and nod. “It went over his head. Not much of a charcuterie man, but he sure did love using that board as a lunch plate. Fit his sandwich perfectly.”

  “Remember when he used to grumble about his grapes falling everywhere and he finally stopped taking them o
ff the vine and instead would put the bundle on the board so they didn’t roll?”

  “So many presidential swear words thrown around during the grape-rolling days,” I say.

  We keep moving along, and the farther we walk, the more I see Crew’s shoulders creep up to his ears.

  “Where’s your scarf?” I ask him.

  “Didn’t bring one.”

  “That wasn’t very smart, was it?”

  “I’m lucky I remembered a winter coat,” he says.

  Just then, I spot a stall selling hand-knitted items. I grab him by the hand and stand him in front of the stall. “I think it’s time we buy our first souvenir.” I pull down a gray knitted scarf and hold it up to him. “What do you think?”

  Talking quietly, he asks, “Is it scratchy?”

  I chuckle and remove one of my gloves so I can feel the yarn. “Yeah, a little.”

  “I’d rather be cold.”

  I hang it back up and pull down another gray one. This time, it feels extra soft. “Oh, this is nice.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Mm-hmm. Very soft, and, hey, look, matching gloves. Hold up your hand.” He removes his large hand from his pocket and I fit the glove over it. “Shocking. They fit.”

  He clutches his hand, testing out the glove, and slowly nods. “Yeah, this is nice.”

  “You know why booths like this exist?”

  “For suckers like me?” he asks.

  “Precisely.” We turn toward the shop owner and hold up the scarf and gloves. “We’d like to purchase these, please,” I say.

  “Twenty euros,” the man shouts over the noise of the crowd. What a deal. I reach into my purse, grab a twenty, and hand it over to the man.

  “We don’t need a bag,” I say when the owner goes to hand us one. “Thank you.” I give him a wave before pulling Crew to the side and putting the remaining glove on his other hand.

  “You know, I’m capable of putting on my own gloves.”

  “Yeah, but I’m being a good friend.” I place the scarf over his head and around his neck. I tuck it into the collar of his coat and then take a step back to look up at him. “Ugh.”