Football singularity-Chapter 491 Christmas Eve

Please vote to show me your support for the story. The higher we climb in the rankings, the more motivated I will feel. Mass releases will be rewarded for each 10 rankings we manage to climb.

#More than 10 chapters ahead on my Patreon: patreon.com/TrikoRex

{!!!Please leave a review, it helps me a lot and lets me know how many people are invested in the future of this novel!!!}

~~~

[Location: Rose Isle, Orlando, Florida | Date: 24/12/2019 | Time: 10:30 AM EST]

[Lisa’s POV]

Florida sunlight poured through the floor‑to‑ceiling windows of our lakefront living room, turning the polished oak floors into a mirror of warm bronze. Outside the sliding doors, Lake Sue winked beneath a December sky so blue it looked photoshopped. If you squinted, you could almost convince yourself it was a calm Christmas Eve morning, almost.

"Ben, the garlands go on the bannister, not in a tangled heap beside it!" My voice ricocheted off the vaulted ceiling. Eight metres up, plastic storage tubs labelled X‑MAS sat like colourful landmines on the mezzanine, still untouched. We were hours behind schedule, and the airport run clock was ticking.

Ben, in his six‑foot‑four of half‑buttoned linen shirt and stubborn German efficiency, straightened from the staircase and offered his most innocent smile. Turquoise‑green eyes, the same shade as our daughter’s, sparkled with mischief. "You said decorate with feeling, Liebchen. I’m simply finding the feeling."

"The only feeling I have right now is panic," I shot back, pushing a strand of blond hair behind my ear. Thick ribbons and an entire roll of fairy lights dangled around my neck like eccentric jewellery. "Rakim and May land in four hours. This place needs to scream ’Merry Christmas’ before they walk through the door, not ’seasonal mid‑renovation’."

Ben’s reply was cut short by the thud‑thud‑thud of socked feet on hardwood. Emma burst from the hallway in black yoga pants, a designer reindeer sweater, and an attitude her older brother would have applauded. "Mum, the outside projector’s kaput." She brandished a fried extension cord like evidence at a trial. "I don’t even know why we try so much each year, Florida just doesn’t fit the Christmas feel."

I pinched the bridge of my nose. "Fine. Plan B—use the spare LED net; drape it over the palm trees. They’ll look like glowing candy canes. Ben, finish the staircase, then grab the airport signs and head out. Emma and I have the rest."

He raised an eyebrow. "And miss my wife’s annual tinsel meltdown?"

"Ben!"

"All right, all right." He grabbed the last coil of garland and started wrapping it—correctly this time—around the bannister, muscles flexing under rolled‑up sleeves. For a fleeting heartbeat, I remembered stringing popcorn with him in a Chelsea bedsit our first Christmas together, when I took him back to meet my family.

Most men would head for the woods if the woman they were dating took them to spend Christmas with her family after the second date, but not my Ben. In fact, he fit in so well with my family that by day two, they were treating him like their son and me like the girl they were vetting. It was infuriating, sure, but seeing the man I had assumed to be the typical generational wealth spawn upon our first meeting be so natural and open with my family made it all the more special.

"Thanks, love," I murmured.

He winked. "Anything for Santa’s chief operating elf."

[30 minutes later]

The entry hall smelled of fresh pine and peppermint diffuser oil. Snow‑white stockings—one for each of us, with May’s very own emerald‑green pair embroidered with her name hanging beside there’s. All the girls had their very own stockings at each other’s houses since elementary school, adding 3 daughters to each family.

Ben checked his watch. "Leaving now gives me a cushion for I‑4 traffic. Text me if you need us to grab anything, stores close at one today, so double check and we can pick it up on our way back. He kissed my forehead, then planted a noisier smack on Emma’s cheek. "Try not to electrocute anything else."

"Ha‑ha." Emma shoved him playfully toward the door. "Bring my brother home in one piece. I need him to cure Zeus’s loneliness." When the front door clicked shut, a hush settled over the house, broken only by distant lawnmowers and the lazy lap of water at the dock. I exhaled, squeezing the ribbon spool in my hand.

~~~

[Location: Atlantic airspace, 38,000 ft | Flight LH464 Düsseldorf → Orlando | Date: 24/12/2019 | Time: 10:40 AM EST – 20 min to landing]

[Rakim’s Pov]

I woke to the hiss of the cabin pressure valves and the faint jingle of a safety belt chime. The windows of our first‑class suite were dimmed to violet dusk, but a pencilled line of Florida sun cut under the shade, strobing across May’s cheeks. She was still curled against me beneath the Lufthansa duvet, one hand fisted in my T‑shirt, her blond hair tied in a messy bun.

On the screen in front of us, Kevin McCallister was frozen mid‑scream, the Home Alone credits quietly rolling. At some point in the night, we’d both knocked the remote off the bed and surrendered to the call of sleep.

A soft voice crackled over the PA—"Ladies and gentlemen, we’ve begun our initial descent into Orlando. The weather on the ground is a balmy twenty‑one degrees Celsius. Local time, ten‑forty."

I brushed a thumb across May’s temple, coaxing her awake. "Rise and shine—sunshine being literal this time," I whispered.

She stirred, lashes fluttering. " Mmm… tell the captain five more minutes."

"The captain’s already telling us tray tables up and seats upright. Twenty minutes and we’re on the ground."

May blinked at the window shade, then at the credits on the screen. "We didn’t even make it to the tarantula scene."

"I’ll queue it at the house—promise." I tapped the service button. A flight attendant appeared with that air‑host red‑lipstick smile, passing us two steaming towels and a pair of bottled waters.

"Mr Rex, Miss Parker—welcome home. Landing forms are in the side pocket."

"Danke," I said, wiping the last of sleep from my face. May dabbed at her cheeks, then tugged the blanket to one side and stretched, ankle joints popping.

"Please tell me my hair isn’t doing that question‑mark thing," she mumbled.

I laughed softly. "It’s more exclamation point. Hold still."

I smoothed a stray curl back into her bun, then reached for my carry‑on. Inside: a fresh white tee, travel‑sized cologne, and a red velvet box I’d guarded like prime Kante since Düsseldorf. Not right now, I reminded myself, not 35,000 feet in the sky in a plane filled with strangers.

Rakim tucked the red velvet box back beneath the spare T‑shirt, heart thudding louder than the hydraulic whine of the flaps. May slid over to her side of the cabin, lifting the privacy screen so she could get changed. Putting on a white tank top and a spare set of grey joggers, matching his pair of Grey Air Jordan High OG sneakers, switching out his Yeezy’s.

It was just in time as May had also finished smoothing her bun and then slid the privacy screen aside, so the two single pods merged again. She had also changed into a new set of White Fox tracksuit matching mine in colour, which she had picked out before the flight.

"Forms first, Food later," she teased, catching the tell‑tale snap of the compartment.

"Forms first, brunch later," he corrected, though a guilty smile crept in. "Dad’ll have Cuban sandwiches waiting—or he’ll claim Orlando isn’t ’true Florida’ anymore."

May rolled her eyes affectionately. "Your dad’s barometer for authenticity is whichever café stocks his favourite hot sauce."

They each bent over the tiny desks to fill in the blue immigration cards. To sum it up, it just asked for what reason he was travelling into the country, and since he already had American citizenship, it streamlined things.

I slid my American passport into the blue form’s fold, then tucked both into the sleeve behind the seat. The seatbelt sign chimed on. Outside the window, the Gulf spread out like hammered silver, the coastline curving north toward Cape Canaveral.

The captain’s voice came over the PA once more. "(Toon) Ladies, gentlemen, Cabin crew and any storeaway squirrels, if you look to the right side of your aeroplane, you will notice American Airways flight 198 challenging us to a race. I’ve turned the fasten seatbelt sign back on because shit is about to get real. (Toon)"

May’s eyes rounded. "Did the pilot just—"

"—Challenge a domestic flight to Mario Kart at 30,000 feet. Yup." I couldn’t help laughing; Lufthansa crews had a reputation for dry humour, but this guy was going full Top Gun.

A ripple of amused chatter rolled down the first‑class aisle. Somewhere behind us, someone whooped, "Smoke ’em, Captain!"

The cabin dipped ever so slightly as the flaps extended. Clouds parted, revealing a quilt of lakes and cul‑de‑sacs, the tidy geometry of central Florida spreading out like a Google Maps screenshot. Disney’s distant safari‑brown water tower poked above the tree line, and the green glass spine of downtown Orlando shimmered on the horizon.

.

.

.

.

To Be Continued...