Wreck the Halls

“And here I thought I was exuding serious daddy energy.”

“Oh, don’t worry, you’ve got that, too.” They stopped at the edge of the park, watching their friends rush to the denser banks of white to begin shaping snowballs. “The question is, will it prevent you from getting crushed in this snowball fight?” Melody snorted. “Doubt it.”

That startled a cough out of Beat. “Are you trash-talking me, Gallard?”

“It’s your fault for coaching me to my first bocce victory,” she said, squeezing his hand. “Now I’ve got an ugly competitive streak.”

“Serious jock energy?”

Her laugh sounded incredible, like a warm bite of sound absorbed by the falling snow. “As soon as spring hits, I’ll be challenging little kids to races in this park. Tripping them before the finish line. I’m going to be out of control.”

“I’ll stage the intervention.”

“See?” Slowly, she let their fingers disconnect, walking backward into the park. “You’re such a Fixer Daddy.” To his amusement, she shot at him with finger guns. “And you’re going down, baby.”

Beat followed Melody, trying not to let it show how much he enjoyed her calling him baby. “What are the stakes of this snowball fight? Is there a prize?”

“Yes. If you win, I’ll have a T-shirt made that says serious jock energy and wear it to dinner at your mother’s house. And if I win—”

“Let me guess. I wear a serious daddy energy shirt to dinner?”

Her smile spread in response. She knelt down and started crafting snow into balls.

Beat was pretty sure he was smiling, too—like a lovestruck teenager. There was nothing he could do to wipe the expression off his face, though. He was enjoying himself too much. A snowball fight with Melody? He didn’t care who won. The fact that they were together was enough. Together with plans to see each other again in the future at his mother’s house for Italian. Or French. What the hell else could he ask for?

All of her, that’s what.

That meant being honest, though. That would mean total trust.

“Okay!” Vance piped up, trudging through the ankle-deep snow to a space in between the two groups. “We need an impartial judge to declare the winner. And as I was on the debate team in high school, I think that qualifies me to sit back and determine the champion.”

“Are you serious?” Beat shouted. “You organize this snowball fight and then sit out? No way. Not happening. Melody should be the judge.”

“You just don’t want her getting hit with snowballs,” Vance accused.

“Correct.”

There was a loud chorus of sighs from all the women present.

A snowball unexpectedly clocked Beat in the side of the head.

To his utter disbelief, it was Melody who’d thrown it.

“What’s wrong, Dawkins?” She pursed her lips. “You scared of me?”

It was an image Beat would remember vividly decades from now. Melody with snow melting in her hair, cheeks rosy from the cold, the streetlamp making her eyes luminous, expression taunting and tipsy and playful. He hated spending money on frivolous luxuries, but he would be commissioning a painting of Melody in that moment. Needing to capture it somehow in the meantime, he took out his phone and snapped a quick picture.

“I’ll be the judge!” someone volunteered behind him, their steps crunching in the snow as they got out of harm’s way.

“Great.” Vance clapped his hands, made eye contact with everyone. “We now commence the first annual Prospect Park Rumble: Nerds versus Preppies. A few rules before we begin—”

Beat caught Vance in the neck with a line drive. “No rules,” Beat called, shooting Melody a wink. “No mercy.”

Melody threw up her fists. “To the death!”

Utter chaos ensued.

Everyone scrambled at once, some of them too drunk to remember where they’d put their premade snowballs. Participants were falling without even being hit, getting stuck in the deeper drifts of snow. Others treated it like a proper war, mainly Melody’s coworkers. They formed a V, spearheaded by Savelina, squatting to collect snow in their palms and hurling the balls like major-league pitchers.

“No fair,” Vance screeched, after taking a snowball to the throat and staggering backward. “They have home field advantage.”

Behind Vance, someone pinwheeled and ass-planted after getting hit in the knee.

Beat shook his head. “You guys are embarrassing me.”

“Fan out!” Melody’s boss shouted. “Their defenses are weakening. It’s time to press our advantage.”

Melody jogged out from behind Savelina with—no joke—an armful of snowballs. One by one, she launched them at Beat, striking him repeatedly in the chest. Meanwhile, he had one single snowball in his hand. Up until now, Melody had been in the rear of the V formation, so Beat’s targets had mainly been her coworkers. Now that she was out in the open—and apparently trying to kill him—he couldn’t bring himself to throw an object at her. Even if that object was soft and slushy.

“Stop taking it easy on me!” she yelled, laughing and pelting him harder than before.

“I’m not!” he fibbed smoothly. “I can’t get a clear shot.”

Melody gasped. “You liar.”

Having no choice, Beat lobbed the snowball at Melody. Underhand. She watched it arc upward and soar gently downward where it landed softly on her shoulder.

She leveled him with a look of disgust. “Really?”

He cleared his throat hard. “That was a valid shot.”

Melody pointed to the girl standing twenty yards away. “Judge?”

The girl presented a definitive and dramatic thumbs-down.

“I will not stand for this insult,” Melody said, staggering back when Vance hit her in the stomach with a brutal throw.

“Hey!” Beat growled at his friend. “Watch it.”

Vance gulped.

Beat strongly considered turning on his friend, but Melody demanded his attention when she shouted, “I’m coming for you, Dawkins.” Once again, she produced an artillery of snowballs seemingly out of thin air, cradling them in her arm as she ran toward him, firing as she came closer. They’d already established that Beat couldn’t bring himself to throw anything at Melody, giving him no choice but to jog backward, deflecting the balls being launched at him. One by one, white burst in the air as the snowballs connected with his palms. When there was finally a cease-fire and Beat realized she’d run out of ammunition, he watched in disbelief as she barreled toward him, launched herself through the air, and tackled him backward into a snowdrift.

Melody, who just about reached his shoulder, had brought him down. And pure joy almost fractured his chest muscles. Tendons stretched to allow the feeling to expand and it didn’t merely spread, it ran wild, rocketing a laugh upward from the deepest recesses of his stomach, busting down a sky-high barrier—a barrier against feeling this much happiness all at once—he’d put in place without even realizing it. There was no keeping her out, though. She kicked it down and hurled herself over the debris and he could barely breathe over the rush of . . . everything. All at once.

Relief. Shock. Gratitude.