Page 13 of King of the Crease

“I’ve giving you three more trees, and then I’m leaving.” Griffin squeezes his bloodshot right eye shut and rubs at his temples again. What makes him look so intimidating isn’t just his big, burly frame and thick beard. It’s the patch over his left eye, remnants of a brutal hockey incident in high school.

“Are you doing okay, Griffdog? Don’t take this the wrong way, but you look like shit.”

“Thank you,” he deadpans. A yawn rips out of him. “I went to a concert with Jack last night. The main act didn’t go on until eleven.”

Jack is the captain of the Blades, our rival team in the league. He used to play professionally. Originally, he and Griffin hated each other, but then they decided to convert all that rancor into passionate hate sex, and the rest is relationship history. Now they’re a disgustingly cute couple.

I do a double take. “Eleven PM? Jesus, did they get lost?”

“We didn’t get home until three. And I was up at six.”

“Why?”

“Muscle memory. That’s when the girls get up. They’re at Carmen’s this week.”

I get tired just thinking about Griffin’s last twenty-four hours. “Why do they make concerts start so late? What’s wrong with a seven p.m. start time? You’re home by ten, in bed by ten-thirty.”

“Never used to be a problem for us. I once went to an all-night house party then worked a shift the next day.”

I get even more tired thinking of that, even though that used to be me, too. Tons of partying, barely any sleeping. Throw in a case of chlamydia, and I don’t know how anyone survives their twenties.

“That’s what you get for dating a twentysomething.” There’s a twenty-year age gap between Griffin and Jack. Despite Jack being a generation younger than us, we all get along great. He fits right into our group. Sure, he’s never seen Titanic and doesn’t know what Fruitopia is, but pobody’s nerfect.

I stroll up the new row and examine the first tree on my left. It has good depth and coloring, but the branches seem to twist in odd directions. I’m not vibing with it.

“Jack really wanted to see this band. We haven’t had a date night in a few weeks,” Griffin says. “He’s wonderful with Annabelle and June, but he doesn’t want to do the dad thing all the time. He’s young. He wants to go out.” Griffin yawns. “With his boyfriend.”

“His boyfriend looks freaking exhausted.” I march a few trees down to a promising contender, but up close, the needles are too light a shade of green. Christmas trees require dark green. Light green is for Easter. I don’t make the rules. “Isn’t there another date night you can do? They just opened up a pickleball place by the highway.”

“Jack doesn’t want to play pickleball with his boyfriend. He wants to party.”

“And you want to take a nap.”

“A nap sounds so good right now.” Griffin sighs, a different kind of wariness in his eyes. “I don’t want to remind him that he’s dating a guy twenty years older than him. I don’t want him thinking that he’s wasting his life with me.”

“He’s not,” I say with all the confidence Griffin can’t seem to muster. But his words also make me think of what Cathy said the other night about our marriage. “Jack loves you. You survived one long night. I’m sure parts of it were fun, right?”

“The music was decent. Loud, but decent.”

“Next time, you can bring ear plugs. Ah, this is the one.” I walk up to a beauty of a tree. Lush, the right shade of green, full branches. They say when you know, you know. Usually, they’re talking about soulmates, something I don’t have experience with. But I do know Christmas trees.

“It’s a good one,” Griffin says, acknowledging my decision making prowess. Not all beauty pageants are bad.

Fifteen minutes later, we’re walking down Sourwood’s main street with the rope-tied monster between us. Griffin’s got the front end like it weighs nothing. I’ve got the back end, which is apparently where all the weight and vengeance of nature lives. I hold it like I’m a cameraman following a TV reporter.

The stump bears down on my shoulder, sticking out behind me. The tree sheds needles into my jacket. One branch keeps poking me in the chin like it’s personal.

“Grip higher,” Griffin says over his shoulder.

“I am gripping higher,” I say. “The tree keeps changing its mind.”

The street is packed. Holiday shoppers, kids with candy canes, couples holding hands, someone playing a trumpet version of “Jingle Bells.”

I adjust my grip, the trunk slipping just enough to make my arms burn.

“I feel it slipping,” Griffin says.

“I have it. Mostly.”