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karahalloway · 9 months

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Thanksgiving - Part 4

Fandom: TRR - (Un)Common Attraction universe

Pairing: Drake Walker x F!OC (Harper Gale)

Series: Thanksgiving

Synopsis: Harper and Drake fly to Bozeman, MT to spend their first Thanksgiving together with Harper’s family.

Word count: 5,400

Warnings: E (swearing, fluff, religion, references to smut, aggro, violence no human casulaties)

A/N1: So, this installment was supposed to wrap up Thanksgiving night at the Gales', but (as per usual), it ended up running away from me, so there will be at least one more part (I know I said that last time as well, but I don't control these characters)

A/N2: Once again, apologies in advance for any errors or misinterpretations in relation to the American football. I sliced and diced the Broncos vs. Cowboys game together based on real life comments I transcribed from my husband over the course of a few games we watched together, so pretty much all of the reactions in the fic are genuine yes, hubby is a very opinionated spectator 😆

A/N3: This is also my second submission for @choicesholidays' 2023 Winter Holidays Prompt Event, and the prompt that this installment fits with is Week 1: I’m thankful for you and Week 3: This is definitely going to land me/you/us on the naughty list!

"Oh, look who decided to show up..." grouses Tyler as Drake and I descend the stairs.

"Sorry," I say, pulling my cardigan over my shoulders. "We—"

"Used up all the hot water?" my brother offers dryly. "And then some?"

Justin gives him a shove.

"What?" Tyler objects offendedly. "They were in there for almost two hours!"

"I pulled 36 rose thorns outta her," Drake tells him.

Tyler visibly blanches. "Shit."

"You okay, Harp?" asks Brody, stepping up to me.

"Yeah, I'm fine," I assure him with a wan smile. "Just —"

"Oh, honey!" cries Mom, flying out of the kitchen with outstretched arms. "That's terrible! Do you—?"

"Ouch!" I hiss as her concerned arms fly around me... pressing inevitably into my wounds.

"Oh! Sorry, sweetie!" she exclaims, yanking her hands back. "I didn't mean to hurt you! I just wanted to give you a hug!"

"Yeah, those are going to have to wait a while..." I mutter sourly, rubbing a particularly tender spot on my shoulder.

"Such rotten luck..." she bemoans with a sigh. "Especially on Thanksgiving!"

"Trust me, I know..." I assure her, glancing wryly at Drake. "It was definitely not part of the plan!"

He shakes his head with a smirk as he helps himself to the twelve-pack of Busch that Brody had already opened up.

"Do you need anything?" my mom presses. "Ice pack? Hot water bottle? Painkillers?"

"Something stronger?" quips Nana as she puts the finishing touches on the apple pies.

"I'm fine," I tell her. "Drake already loaded me up with Advil upstairs. They should be kicking in any minute."

"Let's get you fed, then," declares Dad, hoisting the steaming turkey out of the oven. "Everything should still be hot."

"Sorry for making you wait," I say as we all make our way to the dining table. "Anything we can do to help?"

"Nothing — apart from digging in!" he replies, placing the oversized bird into the middle of the table.

"Not before we say grace!" Nana reminds us imperiously, arriving as well after having loaded the pies into the oven.

Groans rise up from my brothers.

"Can't we just eat?" asks Tyler. "We'll miss the start of the game!"

Nana whips him with her kitchen towel. "Not on your life, buster! You may not go to church like you should on Sundays, but you can still take two minutes out of your day to think about something other than yourself! Especially on Thanksgiving!"

"I think about stuff!" Tyler objects, rubbing his arm.

"Like that pistol at the gun range?" smirks Brody. "Who's more likely to shoot you than date you?"

"No..." snips Tyler, looking studiously away.

"Suuuure," grins Justin, elbowing his brother meaningfully.

Tyler reddens further.

"I quite like the tradition," interjects Mom with a smile. "Helps remind us of all our little blessings in life. Like the fact that we have food on the table... A roof over our heads..." She reaches out to clasp my hand under the table. "Things to celebrate..."

I return her smile as I give her fingers a squeeze.

"Okay, fine," accedes Tyler. "But can we skip the hand-holding? I'd like to keep my fingers— Ow! The hell was that—!"

"Language!" warns Dad.

"We're doing this properly," decrees Nana, snapping the kitchen towel back onto her shoulder. "Without any goofing around!"

She offers her hands with a decisive note of finality.

Tyler stares at it for a long moment before taking it with a beleaguered sigh.

"Now your brother," she prompts.

Tyler holds his hand out grumpily.

Justin takes it with an equally crabby expression.

I hold my free hand out to Drake, who laces his fingers through mine with a warm smile as the rest of my family link up as well.

"Right," declares Nana. "Who wants to do the honours?"

Awkward silence descends on the table.

I heave a breath. Guess I'll just—

"I'll do it."

My head snaps to my left. "Really?"

Drake responds to my surprised outburst with a shrug. "Someone's gotta. Plus, like your mom said — we got things to celebrate."

My heart swells with emotion as I feel him run his thumb over the engagement ring sitting on my finger.

He meets my gaze with that molten mocha look that always gives me butterflies before turning back to the rest of the table.

My family's eyes swivel onto him expectantly.

Drake clears his throat. "I'd like to say thanks. To everyone at this table. Not just for inviting me to share Thanksgiving with y'all, but for welcoming me into your family. I know we didn't exactly meet under the best circumstances — the first, the second, or hell... even the third time!"

Chuckles rise up from around the table.

Tyler leans into Justin accusatorially. "How come he gets a free pass for cussing?"

Brody punts him under the table.

"So, I'm grateful for the trust you placed in me — continue to place in me — when it comes to your daughter... your sister... your granddaughter," Drake continues, meeting everyone's eyes in turn. "It goes without saying that she's smart, beautiful, got more grit than a gravel road, and obviously banged her head at some point—"

More chuckles float into the air.

"—because I still have no clue what the hell she's doing with me," he adds with a wry smirk, glancing over at me. "But I know that I love her, and will go to the ends of the Earth for her, come hell or high water. And I know we're not quite married yet, but I truly am grateful for every day, every minute, every second I get to spend with her, because life is too damn short, and I honestly don't deserve her."

I squeeze his hand as my vision becomes blurred with feeling.

"And I know that the past six months have been tough — for everyone at this table — but I don't regret the outcome. Because each hurdle, each hardship led to this little moment right here — all of us 'round this table, sharing a Thanksgiving meal together."

I feel my mouth curve into a small smile of agreement.

Drake takes a breath. "So thank you, Lord, for blessing us with this bounty — not just the food that we are about to eat, but the bonds of love and family that we get to share and strengthen each and every day. Amen."

There is more than one hoarse voice as my family reciprocates the traditional affirmation.

"Oh, Drake," croons Mom, wiping the heartfelt tears from her eyes. "That was beautiful!"

"Yeah, seriously," grunts Tyler 'round a sniffle. "What gives, man?"

"Are you actually crying?" asks Justin in bewilderment.

"No..." mutters Tyler, blinking rapidly. "Just... just got a stupid eyelash..."

"Uh-huh..." comments Brody... though Drake's speech must've touched him as well, because he sidelines his usual ribbing in order to reach up to flick a wayward drop of wetness out of the corner of his own eye.

"At least now you know how to do it for next year," declares Nana. Reaching across the table she adds, "That was lovely, dear. Thank you."

Drake accepts the gesture with a soft smile. "Just spoke from the heart, ma'am."

"As you should," she affirms wisely, settling back into her seat.

I lean into Drake with a wry smirk. "Now the rest of us will never measure up..."

"Not everything's a competition, Gale," he murmurs, lifting my hand to his lips to drop a kiss on my knuckles, his mocha eyes dancing.

I flick my foot against his as I stifle a snort.

"Yes, thank you, Drake," acknowledges Dad with a nod. "And now, for the main event."

Brody shunts the turkey closer to the edge of the table as Dad pushes himself up and reaches for the carving knife and meat fork.

"What piece do you want?" I ask Drake as my dad sets to work dissecting the steaming bird.

"Y'all take first dibs," he replies. "I'm easy."

"You sure?" I press. "There's usually a fight for the wings and the legs. So, if you want in on that, you'll need to jump on it."

"I'm good," he assures me. "You just pick what you want."

"Drake?" asks Dad, as if on cue. "Breast, wing, or leg?"

"Please don't say wing..." prays Tyler. "Please don't say wing..."

Brody elbows his brother in the side, eliciting an annoyed grunt.

"I'm good with anything," Drake replies.

"Nah, son," Dad insists. "You were kind enough to say grace, so you get first pick. So, what'll it be?"

Drake glances 'round the table like it's a high-stakes poker game.

My family eye him in turn, waiting for his decision.

Looking back up at my dad, he says, "Breast is good."

There is a collective exhale from my brothers.

"You sure?" Dad asks, repeating my own question from earlier. "There's plenty of—"

"I'm good," Drake confirms, holding his plate out.

"Okay," shrugs Dad, slicing a decent chunk of meat off. "Just don't be shy about seconds."

"Learnt my lesson yesterday," Drake assures him with a grin.

Knowing laughter bubbles up around the table.

"Harper?" asks Dad, turning to me.

"Hey!" objects Tyler. "Why is she next?"

"Because she's the only one of the four of you not living here anymore," Dad replies. "Which means she's a guest, and guests get first cut."

Tyler slumps back into his chair with a dejected huff. "Never gonna get any wings at this rate..."

"Leg for me, please, Dad," I say. "And a wing."

Tyler throws his hands up in the air. "See!"

Dad ignores him as he proceeds to dole out the request onto my plate.

"Thanks," I say, placing the food back in front of me.

"You're welcome, honey," Dad says with a smile before turning back to take orders from the rest of the table.

I reach for my fork and knife.

Drake leans in again. "Shouldn't we—?"

He goes mute as I dump half the turkey leg onto his plate. "Here."

His eyes snap up to mine. "Gale, I said I—"

"You can thank me later," I tell him, giving him the wing as well while nabbing some breast from him in exchange.

Drake stares at his plate for a moment before reaching over to give my knee a squeeze.

I pat his hand under the table.

I know he'd been trying to be polite, opting for his third choice instead of his first or second, so he wouldn't cause any upset. But I also know that he loves wings — I mean, who doesn't? — and the darker meat always tastes juicer than the white. So, I'm not going to let his Southern sensibilities cheat him out of genuinely being able to enjoy his Thanksgiving meal. Especially after everything he's done for us today — fixing the oven, prepping the food, and spending thirty minutes with a needle and tweezers plucking thorns out of me with infinite patience and precision.

"Help yourselves," Mom urges, shoving the mash towards us. "You know you don't have to stand on ceremony with us."

"Thanks, Mom," I say, taking the dish from her.

While the various sides and garnishes get passed around, Dad finishes carving up the turkey, and we settle into easy conversation in front of loaded plates.

"So, I hear you're flying down to Texas tomorrow?" Nana asks as she spears an asparagus.

"That's right, ma'am," nods Drake, swallowing down the bite he's just taken. "Need to make a quick detour for my Aunt Lee."

"She forgot something?" queries Nana.

"No," I correct 'round a mouthful of mash. "We need to get her."

"She's never flown before," Drake clarifies. "Or been out of the country. But my sister wants her to come to the wedding, so..."

"We're her VIP escort," I finish wryly.

"VIP or not," notes my Mom, "I'm sure she'll appreciate the company. Airports can be very bewildering!"

"You just need to follow the signs," I say.

"Hey," interjects Tyler, jabbing a forkful of turkey at Mom. "You're talking to the parent who got lost in Costco."

"They put the petunias in the wrong place!" objects Mom.

"You mean outside...?" deadpans Justin.

Mom huffs wearily in reply.

"Have you decided where the two of you want to get hitched?" asks Dad, strategically changing the subject.

"No," I admit. "We've been so involved with Savannah and Bertrand's wedding that we haven't really had time to think about ours..."

"Well, I know it's nothing fancy, but you're more than welcome to have it here," he offers. "The yard's plenty big enough.. Or there's the church down the road, if you were thinking something more traditional..."

"Thanks, Dad," I say graciously. "We'll definitely—"

"And I can make the cake!" adds Mom with gusto. "With those little sugar flowers, and—"

"Stop trying to plan their wedding!" chides Nana. "They might want to get married in Texas! Or New York! Or Hawaii!"

"Well, like I said," I interject diplomatically. "We haven't quite decided..."

"But if not," accedes Dad, "you know we're more than happy to chip in. In whatever way you need."

"Including helping you elope," winks Justin.

Mom throws her bread roll at him. "Don't you dare! If I find out my one and only daughter got married without me, I'll... I'll..."

"Well, there goes Plan A..." mutters Drake as my mom heaves a shuddering breath.

"Told ya..." I whisper back with a grin.

He leans in closer. "Fine. But I expect you to make it up to me on the honeymoon."

I smack his arm.

His hot gaze bores into me. "You think I'm joking..."

Despite our earlier escapades in the shower, I feel the heat flare between my legs in response to the intensity in his eyes.

Especially as he adds in a low voice, "We'll be doing nothing but each other for two weeks, baby."

"Okay, enough wedding talk!" declares Tyler. "It's game time!"

"No, it's not!" objects Justin. "I'm still eating!"

"Well, eat faster then!" urges Brody, wiping the gravy from his plate. "The kickoff waits for no man!"

"What about dessert?" asks Mom. "Don't you want to—?"

"I think the pie will have to wait," I note dryly as my brothers push their chairs back.

"Drake?" she asks hopefully. "Do you want—?"

"Thanks, but J was right," he replies, leaning back in his chair. "I'm stuffed fuller than the poor bird sitting on the table."

"There's always room for dessert!" Nana counters. "Especially when your missus made it!"

"It wasn't just me," I tell her. "You helped too!"

"It's yours in all the ways that matter, dear," she insists with a proud smile. "I just helped you put it together."

"Well, if it's anything like the pancakes, I'm sure it'll be worth the wait," Drake assures her.

"Ha! Your boy's got more silver on his tongue than I have teeth in my mouth!" exclaims Nana. But I can tell that she's pleased with Drake's response.

"What about some apple pie moonshine?" asks Dad conspiratorially. "Got any room for that?"

Drake considers the offer. "I can be tempted..."

"Good," approves Dad with a grin, slapping Drake on the shoulder as he gets up. "I'll grab the bottle."

"Yo! Texas!" calls Tyler from the living room. "You comin', or what?"

"Go," I tell him. "I'll help with the clean up."

"You sure?" he asks, running his gaze over me concernedly.

"Yes," I assure him. "It's not like I broke an arm or anything."

His mouth twitches. "Opinions may vary...."

I give him a shove. "Want to rethink that prognosis, Doctor?"

He leans in to drop a kiss on my cheek with a chuckle. "Fine. But you better holler if you need help."

"I'll be fine," I tell him, turning my head to peck him on the lips. "I need to work all this food down somehow first, anyway."

His breath tickles my mouth. "Well, if you want suggestions..."

"Oh, my God!" I cry in exasperation, snacking his chest. "Just go already!"

"You sure they're not married already?" asks Nana prosaically. "They act like they've been together fifteen years!"

"Oh, not you too!" deplores Mom, dropping her head into her hands.

"What?" objects Nana. "It was just an observation!"

"Well, don't give them ideas!" exhorts Mom. "I'll walk at least one of my children down the aisle, if it's the last thing I do!"

My head snaps 'round. "Isn't that Dad's—?"

"He can have the first dance," declares Mom with a dismissive wave of her hand.

I stare at her in bewilderment.

"What did I do now?" queries Dad, reappearing with the jar of moonshine.

"Nothing!" Mom assures him with an angelic smile. "Just wedding talk!"

"More like wedding sabotage," mutters Nana around the rim of her gin and tonic.

"Umm..." is all I can manage as Drake tries and fails not to choke on his own snort of laughter.

"They're kicking off!" hollers Justin from the living room.

"Better excuse yourself quick, son," advises Dad, grabbing a pair of glasses out. "Otherwise you'll be stuck at this table for the rest of the night, wondering what possessed you to propose in the first place!"

"Robert!" exclaims Mom in outrage.

"Go," I urge Drake as my dad disappears into the living room. "We'll join you in a minute."

"Okay," he accedes. Turning back to the table, he adds, "Thank you for dinner. Y'all really went all out."

"Oh, you're welcome, sweetie," Mom tells him with a beaming smile. "But are you sure you had enough?"

"I'm sure," he assures her, patting his belly. "But I'll be back for some of that pie at halftime!"

"We'll keep it warm for you," Nana assures him.

"Appreciate it," Drake grins in reply.

"Oh, that reminds me!" Mom exclaims as Drake turns to follow my dad. "I should get the ice cream out of the freezer — let it warm up a little."

"I can do it," I offer, pushing my chair back. "Seeing as I did nothing earlier."

"Don't you want to watch as well?" asks Mom in surprise.

"With that much testosterone crammed into one room?" I quip. "I need some apple pie first!"

"Good thing we made two, then!" agrees Nana.

"I'll get some plates out," Mom declares, getting up as well.

Dispersing from the table, the three of us set about our designated tasks while the sounds of the game float through the house to the accompaniment of various exclamations coming from the sofa.

"Boom!" yells Drake. "That's how you sack!"

"What the shit, ref!" erupts Brody at the same time. "He was over first down!"

"Yeah, right!" scoffs Drake. "He was—"

"Shut up, Texas!" shouts Tyler. "Your opinion doesn't count!"

"Actually, he's right," steps in Justin. "He got pushed off before—"

"Whose side are you on?!" Brody and Tyler yell back.

"Sounds like an exciting game," observes Nana as she pulls the pies out of the oven.

"A little too exciting," I reply dryly, grabbing a spoon out for the ice cream.

"Oh, they're just having fun," Mom assures me, popping a bottle of caramel Bailey's open. "You know how boys get when they're together..."

"Yeah," I mutter. "That's what I'm worried about..."

The last thing I need right now, on top of everything else that's gone sideways today, is Drake and my brothers falling out over a stupid game when they've been getting along so well with each other. Especially when there is actually money — and pride — on the line.

Maybe this had been a bad idea...

Peeking 'round the corner, I catch sight of the guys on the sofa, eyes glued to the TV.

"Stop him!" urges Drake as the Broncos receiver makes a dash down the field. "Flatten the bastard!"

"Keep going, Patrick!" counters Brody.

"Sweet fuckin' Jesus!" groans Drake as the Cowboys defence finally manage to push the Denver player out of bounds. "How many of y'all do you need to stop a runner!"

"The whole team," laughs Dad from the other side of the room.

"Seriously?" objects Tyler. "You're not gonna call him out on the f-word?"

"Oh, just let it go, T!" groans Brody.

"Maybe if you learn to drink 'shine like a man, Dad'll give you a free pass too!" Justin tells his younger brother.

"I make no promises," comes the deadpan response.

I feel a smile quirk at my lips. Okay. Maybe it's not so bad.

Picking my plate and glass up, I make my way over to the sofa as well...

...and nearly spill everything onto the carpet as Drake erupts into a fit of rage just as I'm about to sit down next to him.

"What the hell, Diggs!" he bellows, throwing his hand out at the TV. "How could you let that go!"

Brody jumps up from the couch with a celebratory fist-pump as the Broncos’ offence snaps the ball out of the air and tumbles across the line. "Ha! In your face, Texas!"

"One job! One fuckin' job..." growls Drake under his breath as he stares daggers at the screen.

The Broncos quickly line up for their field goal, adding a one-point conversion to their score.

"How's the game going?" asks Mom, coming over with Nana to join us.

"Depends who you ask," I tell her dryly, spooning up a forkful of pie while Drake continues to fume next to me.

"Broncos are winning," Brody declares proudly.

"Not for long," Drake mutters as the Cowboys line up for their first snap.

Dak Prescott gets the ball and launches it down the field.

"Catch it, Lamb, catch it...!" urges Drake.

Yellow flags fly into the field as the ref's whistle blows.

"What the fuck?" comes the outraged exclamation from next to me. "There was nothing—!"

"Personal foul," advises Justin. "Cowboys offence."

Sure enough, one of the Dallas linemen gets called out for holding.

"Oh, fuck you, ref!" objects Drake as the slow-mo replay is shown. "That's a bullshit call!"

"Not really," counters Justin. "That Cowboy all but ripped Browning's jersey off!"

"It didn't interfere with the damn play!" insists Drake heatedly. "We're owed that yardage!"

"Not according to the refs," shrugs Brody.

"Putain de bordel de merde..." cusses Drake under his breath.

"Jesus!" exclaims Mom as the teams reset. "Things must really be bad if we're swearing in Spanish now!"

"It's French," I correct wearily.

The ball is snapped again and the Cowboys manage to gain some ground, despite stiff opposition from the Broncos’ defence.

"The fuck, Darby! That was an easy pass!" exclaims Drake as the Cowboys fumble the ball.

"Cowboys are choking!" sniggers Tyler gleefully. "It's what they do best!"

"Shut up!" snaps Drake in response.

I lay a comforting hand on his knee, but he's too engrossed in the game to notice...

...especially when the Broncos take advantage of the turnover to score another touchdown.

"That's why you don't tackle like that!" yells Drake, springing to his feet in a fit of rage as the ball crosses the end zone.

"Ha!" gloats Brody victoriously as the Broncos convert the down. "16-0 against the number one offence in the league! We'll have you beat by the third quarter, easy!"

"Fuck you, man..." Drake grits, downing the remainder of his moonshine angrily.

"Top up?" offers Dad.

"I'm not sure that's—"

But my feeble protest gets very viscerally overruled as Drake thrusts his glass out in front of me.

I sink back into the sofa. This is going to be a long game...

The rest of the first half ticks down, with Dallas managing to squeeze a touchdown in just before the whistle blows.

"Fucking finally...!" grumbles Drake as the game cuts to ads.

"Someone suck the juice out of Cowboys?" asks Nana. "They're all over the place tonight!"

"I thought they were supposed to be one of the top teams in the league," adds Mom, chewing thoughtfully on a bite of pie.

"Just... Just don't..." says Drake with a shake of his head as he flops back onto the couch.

"Who wants pie!" I ask, trying to lighten the mood a bit — and change the subject — before Drake has a total meltdown.

"I'm good," says Brody, reaching for another can of Busch instead.

Tyler and Justin shake their heads as well.

"Drake?" I ask hopefully.

He tips the remainder of his drink back by way of reply.

"All the more for me, then!" I declare with excessive chirpiness as I tramp back into the kitchen.

But if Drake picks up on my heavy dose of sarcasm, he doesn't react to it.

Arriving at the centre island, I reach for the serving spoon.

I know he got like this sometimes — way too engrossed and overtly involved. Especially when his team failed to live up to expectations and he was left watching helplessly from the sidelines.

Which grates on him all the more, given that he played for a college team during his first two years at the University of North Texas, and knows first-hand the difference between a good play and a bad one.

So, I can empathise with his outbursts. Even if I don't agree with them. Because, at the end of the day, it's just a stupid game played by a bunch of belligerent jocks who get paid way too much money to run up and down a field for a couple of hours.

And that's part of the reason why I never really caught the football bug despite growing up in a house with four brothers and a dad who live and breathe the game.

Dumping another serving of pie onto my plate, I dress it with a liberal dollop of ice cream before making my way back to the living room...

...but not before I grab a fresh glass from the cupboard as well.

Dropping my plate on the coffee table, I nab the bottle of moonshine and pour myself a couple of fingers. Because the way this game is going, Bailey’s isn’t really going to cut it.

"You're drinking too?" asks Tyler in bewilderment.

"You used to hate that stuff," adds Justin with wide eyes.

"Drake's a bad influence," I reply dryly, screwing the mason jar closed again.

"Has good taste, though!" quips Nana as she reaches for the amber-coloured liquor as well. "You really outdid yourself with this batch, Rob!"

Dad raises his own glass cordially in reply as the TSN commentators wrap up their predictions for the second half and the game resumes.

Downing my drink in one, grimace-inducing swig (Nana's right — it is good... just very strong), I take my seat again with some trepidation as the Broncos kick the ball across the field to the Cowboys.

As regardless of the outcome, beer cans and f-bombs are guaranteed to go flying as soon as the final whistle blows. It's just a question of who will be the perpetrator — Drake, or Brody.

"Run it! Run it! You're wide op—!" Drake emits a pained groan. "Oh, got the love of—!"

Brody claps his hands together in victory as the Bronco's defence tackles the Cowboys runner to the ground. "Suck it, Texas!"

"We still got possession," Drake reminds him as the Cowboys line up for a snap.

I continue to chip away at my pie in tense silence as Dak Prescott gets his hands on the ball and looks for a receiver.

"Throw it, dammit!" urges Drake. "You're gonna get—"

Prescott launches the ball at the last second before he gets sacked, but it goes wide, hitting the ground even though Lamb makes a desperate run for it.

"27 yards, man!" groans Drake. "How the fuck did you miss?"

"Broncos gonna win!" sing-songs Justin as he does a little shimmy on the couch. "Broncos gonna win!"

"Shut up!" snaps Drake.

Ten tense minutes later, Drake's mood only fouls further.

"What?!" he berates the screen as the ref denies the Cowboys some much-needed points. "What the hell do you mean 'he wasn't in control'! That was a goddamn touchdown!"

"Sucks to be you, Texas!" Brody chimes in gleefully as Dallas is forced to rerun the play.

Drake shoots daggers across the room even as the Cowboys fullback manages to throw himself over the top of the double line of blockers and land the ball in the end zone.

But the touchdown, and the subsequent field goal, seems to galvanise the Cowboys, especially since they know they're quickly running out of time to make up for all the points they conceded to the Broncos in the first half.

Possession switches to Denver, but the defensive coordinator must have been screaming at the linesmen while they had been sat on the bench, because the Broncos have to fight tooth and nail to make any headway down the field.

"58-yard field goal...?" asks Justin in disbelief as the Broncos’ kicker is brought on.

"He'll need more than a prayer to pull that off," agrees Tyler.

"He'll make it," Brody assures himself, hands clasped in front of his face in apparent prayer. "He'll make it."

Even McManus looks like he's seeking divine assistance as he prepares himself for the kick on the field.

The kicker's foot pulls back, and the ball goes sailing through the air. The Cowboys scramble to catch it...

...but the football sails decisively through the bars of the goal.

"Fuck yes!" screams Brody, shooting up from the couch with his arms in the air.

"I can't believe he made it..." gasps Mom.

"Boy's got some thighs on him," affirms Nana.

Tyler and Justin are staring at the screen in awe.

Even Drake looks moderately impressed.

The rest of the third quarter winds down, and after yet another ad break, the final fifteen minutes of game time rolls around.

"Now or nothing, guys," murmurs Drake fervently as the last quarter kicks off.

I finished my second helping of pie ages ago, so I have nothing left to keep me distracted from the almost choking anticipation in the room.

The teams battle it out on the screen as the clock ticks slowly down.

"Run it, run it!" yells Drake as the Broncos close off Prescott's options.

"He's behiiiiind you!" mocks Tyler 'round a pre-celebratory slice of apple pie.

"Oh, for the love of—!"

My eyes suddenly widen as I see the Dallas QB pull his arm back. "He's going for a Hail Mary!"

Drake rounds on me. "To who? There's no one fuck—!"

Prescott must've sensed the Broncos' linebacker bearing down on him because he launches the ball into the air at the last possible second. The football hurtles through the air as players scramble on both sides...

...and Cooper manages to snatch it from the air!

"Where the hell was that during the first half!" deplores Drake as Cooper lands on his feet and pegs it down the field, leaving the Broncos' defence to dust.

"Run, you piece of crap!" yells Brody at his team. "Run!"

But it's too little, too late, and Cooper somersaults the ball into the Denver end zone with a massive grin on his face as the crowd in the stadium goes ballistic.

"Fucking finally!" gripes Drake, slumping back into the couch in relief as the Cowboys gain their hard-fought six points.

"Not gonna help you, Texas," Justin reminds him. "You're 22 points down with two minutes to go."

"Two minutes is a long time, man," Drake counters as the Cowboys line up to attempt a two-point conversion.

And I don't blame them — they desperately need the points, even though it's a risky play.

"Not if we sack you first!" exults Brody as the Broncos take their revenge and the Cowboys' gamble backfires.

"Asshole!" cries Drake, shooting to his feet in anger. "Why the fuck did y—!"

Tyler's laughing on the floor. "Should've taken the kick, Texas!"

Something inside of Drake snaps. "Fils de pute!" he roars aiming a kick at the coffee table and sending it flying...

...right into the TV stand.

The 50’’ flatscreen teeters precariously, as if trying to decide its fate, before opting to crash unceremoniously to the floor.

Silence drops on the room as everyone stares at the carnage, the garbled sound of the TSN commentators' voices crackling feebly out of the busted speakers.

Even Nana is speechless.

Dad is the first to recover his faculties. "Well," he observes prosaically. "That's a new one..."

I finally manage to tear my gaze away from the scene of destruction to look up at Drake...

...only to find a blank space beside me.

"Dra—?"

Pissed-off footsteps echo down the foyer before the front door slams shut with a loud bang.

I heave a breath. "Great."

Thanksgiving continues in Part 5 - Coming Soon!

A/N: Before anyone asks, yes, I HC that Drake had a Christian — specifically Catholic — upbringing. Both his parents hail from areas where church attendance, Sunday school, baptisms, etc. would’ve been prevalent when they were growing up (Texas for Jackson and rural Cordonia for Bianca — if you recall, I switched their nationalities around for my rewrites), so it would make sense for the Walkers to have continued this tradition with their kids, especially when they were younger. I know a lot of people write Drake as an atheist (or even downright aversive to the concept of God and organised religion), and I can understand why people make this choice, but this is not the route that my Drake decided to take. And while in my fics he is not ‘actively’ religious (he doesn’t go to church, he’s not particularly insistent on having a church wedding, etc.), that religious upbringing is still part of his character (readers may have noticed this in some of the expressions and turns of phrase that he uses; the concept of prayer is also something that I’m planning to explore towards the end of (Less Than) Noble Intentions), so he would know, and not balk at the thought of, saying grace at the dinner table.

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