“But, Uncle Max, Lola is older than me, and she’s faster. And she hits. And trips. And bites.” Evan stared up at him, his blue eyes huge in his head.
Max curled an arm around his seven-year-old second cousin, once removed, although everyone under the age of eighteen was referred to as a nephew or niece, regardless of the official tree ranking. “You don’t want to let Uncle Brendon win again, do you? He wins every year. Isn’t it time to take him down?” He glanced over to where his older brother huddled with his own cadre of extended relatives, ages six to twelve, ready to draw blood.
Two of Max’s linemen had gone in to use the bathroom; only one had emerged. The five-year-old had found a frog and was busy terrorizing one of the toddlers. And his defensive end, nine-year-old Jenness, his secret weapon, lay on the ground staring at the sky, having already whined through the last huddle about her skinned knee.
Where was the fight in the Sharpe family line?
“I’m hungry,” Evan started.
“One touchdown, pal. We just need one. Then we’ll get lunch.”
This put a fire in his nephew’s eye, and as his meager team lined up, Max pointed at Brendon. “You’re going down.”
A moment later, he lay on his back, Lola and three of her cousins on top of him, Brendon laughing. The football Max had lost in the sack. He pushed up, grabbed Lola, and tickled her into the grass, reaching for Daniel and Evan, sandwiching them along with their sister as he gave them wet willies.
“Uncle Max, cut it out!” Jenness jumped on his back, apparently switching sides to protect her generation.
Max heard Brendon laughing behind him, no help at all.
Well, he could pin all his nephews and nieces with the joy swilling through him today. A perfect, blue-skied family picnic; the storm clouds had bumpered their way around the Sharpes’ Wisconsin homestead, hanging just over the horizon but holding back the deluge and allowing the extended family a jolly day of reunion .
He’d spent hours towing one relative after another behind the wakeboarding ski boat that he kept moored at his grandfather’s lake place, then took a turn on skis himself, letting Brendon pull him around Diamond Lake.
So he’d shown off, just a little. Max had victory sluicing through his veins after the last two months. Even though the Blue Ox hadn’t made it all the way to the Stanley Cup, he’d earned himself a slew of impressive stats as their right wing, and Hockey Today magazine planned on running a glossy centerfold feature including him in the “Hot Shots of the Season.” They’d even hinted at the cover.
He’d wrapped up the photo shoot in St. Paul yesterday before heading out to the family cabin, where he planned to spend three glorious days before he took off for his annual vacation.
“Max, get your nose out of the grass and fire up the grill. We’re starving,” Lizzy, Brendon’s wife, shouted from the deck, where she held court with Ava, their cute baby daughter, now almost a year old. Their first. And hopefully only.
Max could only take so much dread. They’d all held their breath during Lizzy’s pregnancy, waiting for Ava’s birth and the test results that would reveal her fate.
Brendon had gotten lucky. Or maybe God had decided Brendon had earned a pass. This time.
In Max’s estimation, their family should only push God’s providence so far. As for Max, his faith drew the line at putting people he loved in danger. Sure, he believed God could carry him—but he didn’t wish that journey on anyone else if he could help it.
He pushed himself off the grass and jogged toward the house, where the older relatives sat at the fire ring. Uncle Ed, who’d lost his wife young, and Aunt Rosie, widowed over twenty years, nursed sweaty lemonades. Rumor was she had a boyfriend, but she hadn’t brought him to the family reunion . Too much explaining to do, maybe.
He heard his mother’s laughter drifting over the deck above. Probably playing with the baby. And helping with Dad’s only remaining sister, Audrey, now confined to a wheelchair, her body gnarled, her brain drifting in and out of the past.
He’d helped his mom pick up Audrey at the nursing home, despite his better judgment. Why bring that reminder to the party? Although maybe that was part of the price of being a Sharpe—dealing with the ugly instead of ignoring it.
“Whatcha got on the menu tonight, son?” Norman, Dad’s brother, the only one who’d escaped the curse, gestured him over.
“Shish kebabs. Pork, chicken, and beef. Marinated them for a day in olive oil, fresh rosemary, oregano, and basil.” Max opened the cooler and pulled out sheets of wrapped kebabs, already skewered.